While he waited for Newman, Murphy strolled over to the vehicle covered by a polyfiber, UV resistant car cover. He stroked a loving hand over the front fender of his pride and joy, his completely restored, black-and-gray, 2020 Cadillac with real, honest-to-God white leather seats. Installing its new internal combustion engine, with all the permits required, cost more than the car was worth, but it was a labor of love. “Mm, baby,” he crooned. “Maybe we’ll go for a cruise when this asshole gets elected. What do you say we head down to Miami and see if we can score something short, dark, and Cuban?”
He shifted the package to his other arm and started to pace in the lot. He checked his watch. “Okay, Newman, where are you?” Before he could activate the secure communication device, a pair of headlights turned the corner at the far end of the street and headed his way. Even at this distance, he could tell it was one of the three black SUVs detailed to security for Stiles. He grinned again. “Let’s get this show on the road.”
***
From the passenger seat of her car, half a block away, Special Agent Sara Goode watched Murphy trot down the stairs of his apartment building and into the parking lot. He was visible in her standard binoculars. As he paced in the ambient light from overhead, she picked out the small, olive drab package under his arm.
A few minutes later, Newman arrived in one of their team’s black SUVs and Murphy climbed into the passenger seat. When the pair turned out of the parking lot and drove away, Sara jumped from her car and sprinted to Murphy’s ride. As she ran, she gripped the spare key she’d made last month when she broke into his apartment and found the C-4.
She’d known they would do something when she called with the bombshell. Stiles and Brown couldn’t allow the information to get out. She tugged the cover off the Cadillac and stuffed it into the back. Then, she climbed into the driver’s seat, and wrinkling her nose at the smell of petrochemicals and leather, turned the pirated key in the ignition lock, rolling the engine to life. The car felt heavy as a barge and handled comparably. Moving it from its space toward the lot exit, she blew out a breath at the prospect of navigating the thing through traffic.
The SUV containing Newman and Murphy was accelerating away, toward the corner. She hesitated, wondering if Murphy would pick out the Caddy’s headlights behind them, but there was nothing for it now but to go. She needed the anonymity the older car afforded if they decided to ping hers.
The SUV turned the corner. On the street, she pressed on the accelerator and the big diesel shoved her into the seat. The car gained momentum effortlessly. Sara moved her foot from the accelerator to the brake, equally surprised by the stopping power. The tank slowed like she’d thrown an anchor out the window.
“Wow,” she said out loud. “This could be fun on an open stretch of road.”
She turned the corner and blinked. The SUV was gone.
“Damn.” She punched it again, eyes darting side to side, hoping to catch a glimpse of the truck. She jerked her personal iLink PCOD from her pocket and placed the receiver in her ear. “Establish connection. Doctor Zachary Marshall.” She waited.
“That party is not currently accepting incoming calls. Retry?”
“Yes.”
“That party is not currently accepting incoming calls. Retry?”
She growled in frustration. “No. Leave a message.”
“Battery too low for video message. Send text?”
The calm mechanical voice did nothing to sooth her frayed nerves. “Yes. Text. Doctor Zachary Marshall. Begin text. Don’t go home. Dash. Goode. End text. Send.”
“Message sent to text inbox.”
She scanned the dash. No port to charge her PCOD. “Damn,” she spat in frustration, and patted her jacket pocket. In her hurry, she’d left her charger in her car. “Damn, damn,” she said. There wasn’t time to go back and get it. Their first destination was likely Dr. Marshall’s house. He would still be at his lab. She had a guess as to Murphy’s plan for the explosive.
“iLink. Establish connection. Dr. Lazlo Thomas.” She scanned the road again, but to no avail.
“Battery too low for video transmission. Send text message?”
“Yes, goddamn it. Yes. Text. Dr. Lazlo Thomas. Begin text. Don’t go home. Dash. If you are at home, leave now and await instructions. Life in danger. Dash. Goode. End text. Send.”
“Message sent to text inbox. Battery too low to allow additional transmissions,” the unit said.
“Damn,” she said, and replaced the earpiece with the one from the secure comm.
Sara scowled at the line of traffic at the next intersection. If Murphy and Newman got too far ahead, she might never catch them. They might go to Dr. Thomas’s house first. He was probably out somewhere for the next three or four hours. His file had been three times the size of Marshall’s. Murphy would have more time to plant a charge at Thomas’s than Marshall’s. His house lay to the left. Marshall’s was to the right. Her head dropped to the steering wheel and she bit her lip in indecision. “Pick one.”
She spun the wheel to the right and shoved her foot onto the accelerator.
CHAPTER 3
The lab’s front door opened. “Hi, Mr. Willis,” Zach said to the security guard as he stepped into the work area, right on schedule. “Ms. Willis doing better?”
The retired cop-turned-security guard grinned at Zach. “Yes sir, Dr. Marshall. She’s doin’ much better since you got her that gym membership and the physical therapy sessions.” He shook his head. “Bustin’ a hip’s a bitch, sir, but she sends her thanks. She’s gettin’ stronger every day.”
He returned the guard’s smile. “GenTest did that, Mr. Willis, not me.”
The older man regarded Zach over his glasses. The eyes were sharp and bright. “I’m too old to let folks blow smoke up my skirt. You’re the only staff person from GenTest I’ve ever really spoken to.” He extended his hand to Zach.
Zach took his offered hand. “Just make sure you get your turkey before Wednesday, Cratchit. Can’t have Tiny Tim hungry at Thanksgiving.”
The man laughed. “That’s Christmas, not Thanksgiving.” He scowled. “Not that I don’t appreciate it, but soy turkeys? Who’d a thought it?”
He shared the man’s laugh. “I know. What next? Good night, Mr. Willis.”
The older man nodded to Zach. “Good night to you, too, sir. Drive careful.”
Zach logged out of the building using the voice scan and fingerprint reader, and walked into the balmy west central Florida night. A cloudless night sky, blue-gray in the full moon’s light, greeted him. He smiled as he approached his Mitsu Open Road, tri-wheel electric hybrid. Low and sleek, it was the first new car he’d ever bought and he loved it. He let his fingertips glide over the glass-smooth, black, gel coat. The building’s overhead LEDs sparkled in the deep, metal flake paint. He was glad Laz had talked him into it as he lifted the driver’s side door up and forward.
He dropped into the driver’s seat and rubbed his eyes. “Auto-drive,” he said, to power up the autopilot. A slim, green strip the length of the dashboard lit up as the car’s systems woke from standby.
“Destination, please,” the navigation computer requested, in its soft, gender-neutral voice.
“Home.” He leaned against the seat and stretched his arms behind his head as the car backed out of his parking space. As it wheeled onto the street in front of the lab, he opened the sun-roof. “Hope it turns cold soon,” he said. “We could use a break from the heat.”
As the Mitsu rolled through the quiet night, he contemplated. It had been hot and sticky as syrup a year ago last August when Kathy moved in. He’d taken the afternoon off. They stood in the yard and rinsed off with the garden hose, laughing like idiots. Inside, they stripped off their wet clothes and had sex on the living room floor, rolling and laughing together. He tugged the gold band from under his shirt and examined it. Six months ago, he’d skipped out at lunch, again. He’d come home with the ring as a surprise. Butterflies the size of sparrows
had been circling his stomach as he’d opened the door, only to find a note taped to the big-screen monitor in the living room. Maybe Laz was right, and he needed to get out and date.
Zach shook himself out of the memory and sat up, “Check messages.” The subject lines from his account appeared, the holographic heads-up display superimposed on the windshield, while his car took him through the evening. “Trash that.” He deleted a message offering to share the secret to increasing the size of his masculinity, another with a plan to make a fortune online, and one selling real gold Rolex watches. Four more bogus messages disappeared from his inbox in rapid succession. He paused. “Wonder if that guy in Guyana ever found someone to loan him the thousand dollars to get his five hundred thousand out of escrow?” He laughed.
The last one on the list was from a number he didn’t recognize. The subject line was, “Don’t go home.” Not only spam, but most likely an advertisement for a licensed companion service. “Trash message,” he told the car.
Out of habit, he switched to the screen containing his contact list. He scrolled to Kathy’s new number. He stared at the image for a long moment, considering it. He drew a deep breath, “Delete entry,” and watched Kathy’s information distort and funnel to a point at the bottom of the screen. He blew out a breath. “Music menu,” he said and chose a favorite album. Music poured from the car’s speakers.
A grumble from his stomach brought him back to the present. He hadn’t eaten all day. There was no hurry to get home. It was time to do something spontaneous. “Carol’s,” he said, and straightened in his seat. His stomach growled its approval.
“Auto-drive.”
“Yes,” the car’s auto navigation program responded.
“Change destination.”
“Holding for destination change.”
“Carol’s Deli.” A grin spread across his face.
“Destination in favorites file?”
“Yes,” he said.
“Calculating new destination. Destination calculated. Changing course.” The car flashed the turn signal three times and changed lanes. A quick right turn, followed by another, and Zach was headed south on Sixteenth Street, toward his favorite take-out spot.
He relaxed into his seat again and let his thoughts turn idly to the Secret Service agent. A grin crept onto his lips as he considered those gold-flecked eyes again. She was everything Kathy wasn’t. Tall and blond, smart and wry, the air practically crackled last week when she brought in the DNA sample for testing. Each time since, he’d resisted the impulse to make a stupid, adolescent crack about her name. She’d stared at him as if expecting the inevitable dumb comment, and her eyes had softened a bit more each time in its absence. It had taken every gram of self-control he possessed to keep his face a deadpan, but her reaction had been worth the effort.
He slid the card she’d given him today out of his pocket. Her name, Sara E. Goode, walked across the stiff, white stock in bold, black letters. Beneath her name, ‘Special Agent, United States Secret Service’ and a contact number trailed along underneath in smaller lettering, with small square of QR code in one corner. Before slipping the card back in his pocket, Zach absently flipped it over, and his heart jumped into his chest. The back held a different iLink number, hand-written in blue ink.
“Oh, yes, yes.” Zach fumbled for his headset and slipped it into his ear. “New number,” he said past his Sahara-dry lips. He spoke the number, disappointed when he heard the ‘not currently available’ message. “Damn,” he said, disconnecting. “Try again later,” he whispered to himself and plugged the earpiece back into the dash to charge.
“Do you wish to schedule another attempt?” the car asked.
“No,” he said. “I’ll try later when I decide—later.” He rolled his eyes and mumbled under his breath. “Technology.”
Disappointment gave way to hope as his thoughts drifted back to his conversation with Laz. “Last laugh, Laz, old buddy.” He stared at the number again. “I don’t care if I need rehab. It’ll be worth it.” He brought the card to his nose, and picked up a faint vanilla scent.
His smile widened into a grin as he slid the card into his shirt pocket for safe keeping.
***
Zach’s Mitsu pulled into Carol’s Deli’s well-lit parking lot. He switched the car to manual. After a few minutes’ searching, he wheeled into a space vacated by a blue Honda. He stepped out of his car and made his way through the crowded lot to the front door. He squeezed through the door and into the queue before scanning the packed interior. The scents of fried chicken, baking onions, roasted garlic, pasta, and cheeses all mingled and hovered in the air. As he let the aromas slowly fill his lungs while around him, the bizarre diversity of the clientele enticed him almost as much as the food. The other patrons who milled about or stood at the curved glass display case were everything he’d come to expect.
In front of him, a beefy, middle-aged city utilities worker stood in line in dark green work trousers and stained white shirt. His yellow hard hat was pushed back onto his crown of close-cropped, salt and pepper hair as he studied the selections.
Next to the utilities worker was a waif-thin girl of twenty. Silver studs outlining her ears sparkled in the light as she moved. A pair of faded, baggy blue jeans provided the only color offsetting her otherwise black-as-ink clothes. Her shoulder-length hair was gelled and spiked. Scuffed, thick-soled work boots similar to the utilities worker’s covered her feet.
Behind her, two businessmen in dark suits and solid, primary-colored ties stood next to three mechanics in blue coveralls. The whole group waited respectfully behind a short, stout woman in a long, shapeless black dress and shawl, asking for the third time which was the kosher meat. To the stout woman’s right, a middle-aged bleached blond woman held her fisted hands at the hips of skin-tight white jeans stretched to the breaking point over her generous bottom. The blond studied the hand-lettered selections and prices on shiny, white boards where they hung a few inches from the back wall, suspended from the ceiling by small wires.
On Zach’s right, filling the remainder of the crowded room, a dozen unmatched tables held a similar, eclectic mixture of customers. He soaked up the sights and smells and the warm, pleasant crush of humanity filling the confined space. Plates clattered, echoing off the walls, answered by pots and pans banging in the kitchen.
In the midst of the cacophony, an old scarecrow of a man in a threadbare, gray suit three sizes too large stood alone in a bubble of silence, eyeing the display case. Large bowls of various salads and side dishes, platters of cold cuts, metal baking pans of lasagna and fettuccini, and a large serving tray of fried chicken beckoned.
As Zach watched, transfixed, the man’s gaze moved slowly from dish to tray, accompanied by an occasional swipe of a hand over his lips. The old man’s brown-spotted hands trembled faintly, grasping a crumpled five dollar bill, which he folded and unfolded. His sparse, white hair was as thin as his suit jacket and two days’ gray stubble graced his care-worn chin when he turned his head to the side.
Six and a half feet tall and blocky as a door, Big Tommy, the deli’s owner, stood with his arms stretched out, palms resting on the deli counter like a force of nature. He addressed the man from the other side of the counter. His voice carried a quiet gentleness as he moved to a position in front of the old man. “What’ll it be, fella?” Big Tommy asked.
The emaciated customer leaned in close and in a whisper barely louder than the random sounds of plates and silverware, said, “Chicken and mashed potatoes, please.” He held up the five like it was a winning lottery ticket.
From behind the counter, Big Tommy nodded and winked at the man. “Fix ya right up.” He grabbed a container and filled it as the man shuffled toward the cash register.
Zach slid into the vacated space at the display case. His nose wrinkled from the faint smell of stale sweat that lingered. He let the old guy shuffle toward the register before he spoke. “Tommy,” Zach whispered, catching the other man’s eye.<
br />
Big Tommy came by the nickname honestly. He stood a good six foot four and probably weighed in at a hair over two-thirty. His bald head shined in the store’s lights, his gold ear rings contrasting with his smooth, coffee-colored skin. A toothy grin spread over Big Tommy’s round face, showing off the whiteness of his teeth. “Zach. How ya been? Ain’t seen ya in like, forever.”
Zach crooked a finger and gestured Tommy close. When Tommy’s white deli apron brushed the top of the display case, Zach whispered into his ear. “What do ya say you slip the old man a medium-sized container of green salad,” Zach pointed to the spring mix in the display. He shifted his head. “Maybe a slice of bread.” He nodded at the fresh loaf. “Some gravy for the potatoes, and put it on my bill?” He winked at Big Tommy.
Tommy leaned his head back and stared at him. “You never change, do ya?” He chuckled in a low rumble from deep in his chest. “Yeah, I can do that. Tell ’em it’s day old and on the house.”
“I knew you’d fix it.” He took the ticket Big Tommy handed him.
Big Tommy returned Zach’s wink and filled the containers as Zach stepped away from the counter, trying to fade into the background. Big Tommy handed the old man in the gray suit the containers, plus a thick slice of whole wheat bread, in a paper sack. The old man responded to the bag’s extra bulk with a surprised stare, like he’d received someone else’s order by mistake.
From his vantage point by the rear wall, Zach watched while Big Tommy leaned toward the man and explained. The old man blinked a few times in disbelief, then headed for the door, clutching the food close, like it was the most precious thing in his universe. A few feet from the entrance, he turned around and dragged the back of a hand over his cheek. In a hoarse voice, thick with emotion, he said, “Happy Thanksgiving, and God bless this place and everyone in it.” Without another word, he turned and disappeared into the warm night.
Zach stepped from the rear wall toward the deli case as patrons were served. The stout woman in black caught Zach’s eye as the cashier rang her order. When he smiled at her, she motioned him closer to where she stood, and said, in a low voice, “I saw what you did for that old man.” She stared at him with eyes sharp and black as a raven’s.
Indigo Man Page 3
