But as he looked around, he felt out of place there, too, a poseur.
He reminded himself that he’d worked hard to get this far. At the invitation of a family friend, he’d taken a bus to Atlanta with only a hundred dollars in his pocket and a battered suitcase full of clothes. He’d landed an entry-level job as a burglar alarm service technician at a large security company and worked his way up the ranks while going to college at night, eventually earning his MBA and launching his own business with his partner. For over a decade, sixty- and seventy-hour weeks had been de rigueur; vacations infrequent and short. No family connections had opened doors; no trust fund had provided cushioning. He’d earned what he had by the sweat of his brow and the occasional assistance of people kind enough to lend a helping hand.
In spite of all those things, that nagging feeling of being out of place lingered.
He booted up his notebook computer. The machine was linked via a wireless connection to the company network. As it proceeded through the start-up cycle, he methodically cracked his knuckles one finger at a time, a nervous habit of his that drove Simone nuts.
Although a full e-mail in-box surely awaited his attention, the first thing he did was open a Web browser. By default, the browser automatically accessed the Gates-Webb Security home page. He pulled up Google instead.
In the search field, he typed: Leon Sharpe.
He was honest enough with himself to know why he was feeling as if his life were out of joint. His encounter with Leon had freed troubling memories, recollections that made his current life seem like a farce, and he had to know what Leon had been doing since he’d last seen him. He desperately hoped to find nothing at all, or if anything, then something good, such as Leon having done something heroic and selfless like saving an infant from a burning apartment. He knew it was unlikely that he would find such a thing-but for some reason, it was important to him to look, to discover something that might somehow validate the path of his own life.
Google returned several dozen hits. He was expecting to find news stories that would describe how Leon had been convicted of numerous felonies over the years, how he had perhaps served time in a penitentiary or two. That was the Leon he knew. That was the Leon he expected to learn about.
He was not, however, expecting the top search result.
Heart thumping, he clicked on the link.
A page materialized.
“Oh, shit,” he whispered.
FBI TEN MOST WANTED FUGITIVE
UNLAWFUL FLIGHT TO AVOID PROSECUTION-FIRST DEGREE MURDER, ARMED ROBBERY
LEON SHARPE
Aliases: Leo Smith, Leonard Sharpe, Len Starks
DESCRIPTION
D.O.B.s Used: July 23, 1971; January 23, 1971Place of Birth: MichiganHeight:6’0”Weight:160 to 170 poundsBuild: SlenderOccupation: HousepainterHair: BlackEyes: BrownComplexion: DarkSex: MaleRace: BlackNationality: American
Scars and Marks: Prominent gap between front teeth. Several tattoos on forearms.
Remarks: Sharpe is an avid professional sports fan, and enjoys playground basketball. He has been known to frequent sports bars and is a heavy smoker. He has been known to alter his appearance through the use of disguises and has demonstrated a facility for faking a Jamaican accent.
Sharpe has ties to Michigan, Illinois, Ohio, Missouri, Wisconsin, and Indiana. In the past, he has traveled to California and Georgia. Additionally, he may be in the possession of a Glock 9 mm handgun.
CAUTION
LEON SHARPE IS WANTED FOR MURDER AND
ARMED ROBBERY IN DETROIT, MICHIGAN.
DURING MAY OF 2005, SHARPE ALLEGEDLY
SHOT AND KILLED TWO ARMORED TRUCK
GUARDS OUTSIDE A MOVIE THEATER AND
THEN FLED WITH THE MONEY.
CONSIDERED ARMED AND EXTREMELY DANGEROUS
IF YOU HAVE ANY INFORMATION CONCERNING
THIS PERSON, PLEASE CONTACT YOUR LOCAL FBI
OFFICE OR THE NEAREST U.S. EMBASSY OR
CONSULATE.
REWARD
The FBI is offering a reward of up to $100,000 for information leading directly to the arrest of Leon Sharpe.
5
Corey stared at the screen, cold sweat beading on his forehead.
There was no question that it was the Leon he knew. The profile included a black-and-white head shot that presumably had been taken a few years ago. In it, Leon was clean-shaven, with a short fade haircut. His features were pinched in a kiss-my-ass glower.
Allegedly shot and killed two armored truck guards. .
Although shock had struck Corey like a hammer, he knew he shouldn’t have been surprised to learn about this. He understood as well as anyone what Leon was capable of doing. Leon’s elevation to the FBI’s Ten Most Wanted status seemed, perversely, like the inevitable culmination of the path Leon had traveled since he was a kid: the crowning achievement of a life of crime.
And he’d managed to evade the cops for three years. Three whole years on the run. Wouldn’t he have been featured on that show, too, America’s Most Wanted? Face flashing on tubes all across the country? Flyers plastered in post offices nationwide?
To stay free for so long, Leon had to be either a genius, or incredibly lucky. Corey suspected a bit of both.
He cracked his knuckles. Think, damn it. He had to think.
At the bottom of the profile was a link to contact a local FBI field office. Corey clicked the link, entered his zip code, and received the address and phone number of the FBI’s Atlanta branch.
He glanced at the telephone on his desk. Cracked his knuckles again.
Think.
He couldn’t call the FBI. Not yet. He had to think about this further, mull over the consequences of getting involved. This wasn’t as simple as making a phone call and reporting a sighting of a fugitive.
This could, for reasons he was loathe to admit, get complicated.
The memory of that cigarette lighter pulsed like a malignant tumor in his mind’s eye. He was convinced that Leon had shown it to him that morning because he’d known what Corey would do later. He’d anticipated that Corey would go online to look him up.
And he’d delivered to Corey a clear warning. Keep your mouth shut. Or else.
A knock came at the door.
Corey bolted upright in his chair. But it was only Todd outside, waving at Corey through the glass sidelight.
I don’t want to talk to him right now. I don’t want to talk to anyone. I need time to think through this.
But he closed the Web browser and beckoned Todd inside.
“Morning, buddy,” Todd said. “How’re things going?”
He shrugged. “It’s going. Just got in from Jada’s appointment.”
Todd slid into the wing chair in front of Corey’s desk and crossed his long legs. He looked, as he normally did, as if he were en route to a photo shoot for a men’s clothing catalog. In his late thirties, he was tall, fit, and tanned, with a finely chiseled, Greek god face and thick black hair that was never out of place. He wore a monogrammed white silk shirt, diamond-studded cufflinks, paisley tie, tailored charcoal slacks, and Italian loafers. A platinum Rolex glittered on his wrist; he wore a gold signet ring inscribed with his family crest on the little finger of his left hand that he claimed brought him good luck.
Todd was one of the first friends Corey had made when he’d moved to Atlanta. At Corey’s job as a service technician, Todd had been his supervisor. He’d been less like a boss and more like a peer, and they became fast friends, grabbing beers after work, trading DVDs of their favorite action films, and competing in a weekly poker game with some of their other coworkers.
Ten years later-Todd had been promoted to vice president of sales by then, and Corey was regional director of operations-they decided to launch their own security services firm. Todd, who hailed from a wealthy family, had a trust fund that they used as collateral to swing a bank loan. Corey took out a second mortgage on his house to supply the rest of the start-up capital they required.<
br />
After five years in business, their little engine that could was operating totally in the black, with increasing revenues and recognition each year. Corey had a knack for the nuts-and-bolts of managing a business; Todd had a flair for sales. Working together as a team, they figured to retire wealthy in fifteen or twenty years, with a legacy to pass on to their heirs.
“The doctor give you the green light for Jada’s ear implant thingy?” Todd asked.
“She’s perfect.”
“Cool.” Todd fingered a nonexistent mustache on his upper lip, and leaned forward. “Hey, I got off the phone with Douglas Homes a couple minutes ago. We’ve got a verbal commitment. Thirty-eight residential properties. Major coin. We took a gamble with our bid and it paid off, big time.”
“Sounds good,” Corey said, glancing at the computer screen. He wanted to pull up the profile again, wanted to have some time alone to think.
“Sounds good?” Todd reared back in the chair. “That’s better than good-that’s awesome! Douglas Homes is building in the Florida panhandle, remember? That’s a whole new market for us, new territory to conquer. This’ll lead to even bigger things, partner.”
Todd’s blue eyes danced. He lived for the major deal, the big gamble, the bold risk. More often than not, his maneuvers panned out in their favor, a significant reason why Gates-Webb was earning money hand over fist.
“You’re right, it’s awesome,” Corey said, trying to put some enthusiasm in his voice. “We’ll buy some champagne for the team when the contract comes in.”
“You okay?” Todd frowned. “Seems like you’re not here. Mentally, I mean.”
“Can I pose a hypothetical question? Not work related?”
Todd shrugged. “Shoot.”
“If you knew I had committed a crime and was wanted for it by the police, what would you do? Would you turn me in?”
“You mean would I snitch?”
“Yeah.”
Todd shook his head. “Don’t know. What kind of crime are we talking about?”
“Let’s say I killed someone.”
“Killed someone?” Todd’s Adam’s apple bobbed. “Killed them why? In self-defense? Because you were going through road rage? Because they did something to your family?”
“Let’s say I was robbing this person, and then when I was making my getaway I killed him, because I had to in order to escape.”
“Like a stickup?”
“Sort of like that,” Corey said. He added: “Purely hypothetical situation.”
“Purely hypothetical?” Todd grinned. “I don’t think I’d snitch, but I’d probably try to talk you into turning yourself in peacefully.”
Corey frowned. “Why would you do that? I mean, try to talk me into turning myself in, instead of snitching?”
“I couldn’t snitch on a friend. I’m too loyal.”
“You’d put loyalty over obeying the law?”
“Wouldn’t you do the same thing for me?”
Corey bit his lip. “I don’t know.”
“Thanks a lot.” Todd rolled his eyes. “Christ, I know who not to call if I commit a hit and run.”
“Sorry, it’s not personal. I just don’t know.”
“Okay, if you want to talk about an actual situation, we could’ve been busted for playing poker way back when. That’s against the law in Georgia.”
“True.”
“You know I play in some pretty high stakes games these days, matter of fact.” Todd tented his long, manicured fingers and gave Corey a measured look.
Corey was well aware of Todd’s gambling habit. He hit Las Vegas or Atlantic City at least once a month, and he sure as hell didn’t go to play the slots. Last summer, he had returned from a Nevada trip driving a spanking new Mercedes-Benz coupe, and had hinted that he’d won the pink slip for the car in an especially high-stakes, underground poker game.
Personally, Corey had little interest in gambling. Years ago, when he’d played poker with Todd and some of their friends from work, it had been a social thing, something to pass the time: drink beer with your buddies, munch on a few pizzas, and if you were lucky, you’d walk out the door with an extra twenty bucks, or at least break even.
But Todd had soon grown bored with their “pissant pots” as he’d called them, and ratcheted up to much bigger games, where someone had to vouch for you before you were allowed to buy in and the pots rose into a stratosphere far beyond the resources of the average gambler. He traveled to the country’s gambling meccas for many of those games, but some of them took place right there in metro Atlanta, and there was rarely a weekend when Todd didn’t play cards somewhere. The guy was probably long overdue for a twelve-step program at Gamblers Anonymous. . but let he who is without sin cast the first stone.
“Listen, you’re a grown man,” Corey said. “At the end of the day, what you do with your money is your business.”
“But you haven’t snitched on me, even though you could.”
“That’s because I’m not a snitch.”
“Exactly.” Todd snapped his fingers and rose from the chair, but his eyes dwindled to fine points. “What’s this all about anyway, Corey? Have you done something?”
“No, it was only a hypothetical question.”
“Hypothetical, sure.” Todd chuckled. “Seriously, if you need to talk, you can trust me. I ever tell you about my Uncle Jim?”
“I don’t think you’ve ever mentioned him.”
“No? Okay, so the story goes like this. About thirty-some odd years ago, my Uncle Jim got in a bar fight one night, back when he was a truck driver running routes through east Texas. He choked some guy to death in the parking lot, then got in his rig, and drove off. Just drove off. He never turned himself in, and the cops never came after him. Our family knows about it, but do you think we’ve ever reported anything to the cops?”
Todd winked, and then he left, closing the door behind him. Corey sat there, hands knotted in his lap, pondering his friend’s words.
He pulled up Leon’s FBI profile again.
But he didn’t pick up the phone.
And loyalty had nothing to do with it.
6
Around one-thirty in the afternoon, Simone wrapped up an appointment and stepped out of the office for a quick lunch.
She ran her individual psychotherapy and relationship therapy practice out of one-half of a modest, one-story brick building on Roswell Road in Sandy Springs; a family physician leased the other half of the property. She’d opened her doors for business two years ago, and her calendar was consistently so booked that new clients had to wait three or four weeks for a session. If things continued along the present course, she’d soon have to look into bringing in another therapist to share the workload.
But she loved her job, and didn’t mind occasionally working late or on weekends. Counseling individuals, couples, and families through life’s crisis situations was not only a career to her-it was a calling. In addition to her office practice, one day a week she provided counseling at a community center in southwest Atlanta, working mostly with atrisk teenage girls and single mothers (they were often one and the same, unfortunately), and she offered her services to them gratis, happy merely to make a meaningful difference in someone’s life-just as someone had once made a difference in hers.
When she was fourteen, her parents had divorced. Struggling to make ends meet on her own, her mom had uprooted her and her older brother, Eugene, from their home in Mobile, Alabama, and brought them to Atlanta, where her mother had a close girlfriend who hooked her up with a job. Although it had happened twenty years ago, it remained the most painful transition period of Simone’s life. She’d vacillated between blaming her mother for the divorce, to blaming herself. She struggled to make friends in the new school; her class work suffered; she gained weight. And her mom had been too caught up in her own adjustment issues to deal with her.
A high school counselor, Mrs. Fletcher, had been the first one to listen to Simone with empathy, an
d without judgment. The genteel, soft-spoken woman had made such a profound impact on Simone that she’d decided by her senior year of high school that she wanted to become a psychologist herself. The day she graduated from Georgia State University with her PhD, with Mrs. Fletcher watching on in the commencement audience, was one of the shining moments of her life.
Waving good-bye to her office manager, Simone slid on her sunglasses and strolled to her silver BMW X5 parked in the corner of the small, elm-shaded parking lot. The hazy air was a stew, a smog alert in full effect. Although she was dressed for the weather in a white, single-breasted notch-collar pantsuit, a black cable-knit shirt, and black pumps, after only ten short strides she had a dew of perspiration on her brow.
As she opened the driver’s door, she had the distinct sense that someone was watching her, a sensation like fingers pressing on the nape of her neck. She looked over her shoulder.
There was nothing but lunchtime traffic shuttling back and forth on busy Roswell Road. She was the only person standing in the parking lot; a blue Ford pickup, a Honda, and a compact Kia were the only other vehicles parked nearby.
Must’ve been her imagination. She climbed behind the wheel.
She drove to a Chipotle Mexican Grill down the street, a favorite lunchtime spot of hers. The chain restaurant specialized in gourmet burritos and tacos served in a fast-casual environment.
When the stocky Latino gentleman working behind the counter saw her in line, he started preparing a burrito bowl, her favorite. She gave him a thumbs-up and smiled.
He grinned and indicated his cheek. “Muy hermosa, senorita.”
He was talking about her dimples, which men often complimented. Men with tact, anyway. Those lacking tact reserved their crude praise for other parts of her anatomy. Over the years, she’d grown so accustomed to hearing certain catcalls-“Can I get fries with that shake?” “Damn, your onion’s got me wantin’ to cry,” “Shake that money-maker for a playa, mami”-that she’d learned to tune them out like so much white noise.
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