“Time to go home,” Hal said.
She nodded. She called the dispatcher, telling her they were heading back to the fire station, where another crew would take over the ambulance. Then her cell phone rang.
It was her captain at the fire station. “Have you called Detective Brady yet? I’m getting some heat here. Apparently there’s some kind of mystery about your patient.”
“We’ve been busy, but I’ll do it right now,” she said.
She ended the call.
“What is it?” Hal asked.
“That hit-and-run yesterday. The police want to talk to me.”
“Why not me?” he asked.
“I guess because I was first on the scene.”
She thought about telling him about the letter, then she remembered Cable’s frantic words. No police. There had been such desperation in the victim’s voice. Swear it. The letter was now back at the station, in her purse, in her locker.
It was fish or cut bait time.
It was not her business. Tell him.
It wasn’t as if she was breaking the law, she told herself. She’d been given the envelope, presented with a task—a dying request—that she’d agreed, albeit reluctantly, to fulfill.
She knew it was foolish. A stupid heroine syndrome, a Don Quixote quest.
Kirke dialed the number she’d been given. It must have been a direct line, because a male voice answered almost immediately. “Brady,” he said gruffly.
“This is Kirke Palmer. My captain said you wanted to talk to me.”
“Yep. The hit-and-run victim yesterday. You found his wallet.”
“Yes.”
“You’re sure it’s his.”
“I found it on the floor of the ambulance. We’d cleaned the interior just before we picked him up. Why?” she couldn’t help but ask.
“It’s a criminal case, and some witnesses swear the car swerved to hit the victim. We tried to find a relative. No one at the address on the driver’s license ever heard of him, and they had lived in the residence fifteen years. We checked the license bureau, and there is no such license. The credit card is billed to a mailbox service. No one there knew him.”
He stopped, and the words registered in her mind. Tell him, her mind demanded. Tell him about the letter.
“We took his fingerprints, and nothing came up. No match. He’s not in any files. Not only that, the doctor says he had plastic surgery. This afternoon someone turned up at the hospital and said he was a brother, then disappeared.”
“I don’t know how I can help you,” she said.
“Did he say anything to you?”
“Nothing about who he is,” she replied. It was the truth, but certainly not the whole truth. “I asked him his name, but he was too badly injured to make sense.”
She knew then that she was committed to fishing.
“If you remember anything, call me,” he said. “You have the number.”
“Yes,” she replied.
The detective hung up, and the words echoed in her head. A fake driver’s license. A credit card with a private mailbox address. A relative who appeared and disappeared.
The ambulance arrived at the fire station. It would take them another thirty minutes to clean the vehicle, restock supplies, and finish the paperwork.
She would be off for three days then. If she hadn’t found this Mitch Edwards by then, she would surrender the letter and accept whatever punishment she had coming.
Jake would have liked to stake out the hospital for the ambulance that had appeared at the accident scene. He wasn’t lucky enough to find it parked there when he’d left, and after his disappearing act, he didn’t think it wise to hang around.
But yesterday he’d noted the number printed on the ambulance. After some difficulty, he found a public phone booth and phone book. Public phones, unfortunately, were a disappearing convenience now that nearly everyone seemed to have cell phones.
He had a cell phone, a prepaid one, but the number would still be available to the answering entity. If the number got in the wrong hands, his movements could be tracked. It was a risk he wasn’t willing to take, and a pay phone was cheaper than another disposable cell.
Using a map he’d purchased, he located fire stations in the immediate area. Then he started calling, asking if the ambulance had come from that station. He said he’d found a necklace where an ambulance had been parked and wanted to return it.
He struck out at the first one, but at the second station the person answering the phone hesitated, then said, “It might belong to Kirke. She’s out now, but I’ll ask her when she comes in. I’ll need your number.”
“She’s on duty today?”
“Yeah.”
“When does she get off?”
A pause.
“Look, I just want to get it to whoever owns it. It looks valuable. And I’ll be away from the phone all day. I don’t mind running over there. I appreciate what you people do.”
“Seven,” the person said reluctantly.
“Thanks.” He hung up before he could ask for a name.
He had until seven. She should be safe enough until then. She had a partner and would be mostly in public. Like the military, fire and police personnel took care of their own.
Jake then went to an Internet café. He had one lead to Adams, and that was the car the former CIA agent had driven off in. He’d jotted down the plate number. He would bet his last dollar that the car involved in the hit-and-run was a stolen vehicle, but the one carrying Adams was a different matter. He wouldn’t risk being stopped by police.
If Adams was here for a brief stay, he probably got the car at a rental agency. If so, it was a very upscale rental, and Jake started with limousine services. It was a long shot, and he knew it, but he had little else to go on. He went online for limousine rentals, made a list of five, and returned to the public telephone. He started at the top of the list.
“Someone driving one of your cars hit mine and drove off,” he charged in an irate voice. “I got the license number, and I expect you people to pay for it.”
He struck out with the first three companies. Then at the fourth, when he gave the license number, he was immediately transferred to someone else with a confident voice. “Have the police been notified?”
“I was late for a meeting. I didn’t have time to wait, but I’m calling them next unless I get satisfaction.”
“What is the number?”
He read off the license number.
There was a silence, then the man returned. “I’ll need your name and number—”
“I want the name of the driver—”
“That is quite impossible, but if you leave—”
Jake hung up.
He wasn’t going to get more.
But perhaps he’d directed Gene Adams’s attention from the paramedic to himself. The manager no doubt was on the phone to him now.
He looked at his watch. Nearly six o’clock.
Kirke. Must be her last name. When he reached the station, he was relieved to find a fast-food restaurant across the street. He went inside, ordered a hamburger and fries, and chose a seat with a view of the station. It was five thirty, and her shift ended at seven p.m.
The cell phone rang, and he tensed.
He answered it.
“Your parole officer has been sniffing around, wanted to know where you were,” David Ramsey said.
“What did you tell him?”
“That you’d gone fishing before starting the job. He wants you to call him.”
“How long can you stall him?”
“Not long.” The caller was the father of a Special Forces friend of his, one who had contacted him in prison to say that he’d heard about the charges and didn’t believe them. Jake had rebuffed Cole Ramsey then. He hadn’t wanted to taint anyone else with his problems. But release was contingent on a job, and no one wanted to hire a convicted thief. Cole’s father, also ex-army, stepped in and offered him a construction job that
was to start next week.
Now David Ramsey was risking his own freedom to help Jake. Assisting a felon in evading supervision could well be considered aiding and abetting.
Jake knew he hadn’t been fitted with an ankle monitor because the feds thought he would go after the missing diamonds, and they hoped to recover at least some of them. He’d taken great pains to evade them on this trip without looking as if he was evading them.
But that plan depended on a quick return.
Jake swore under his breath. He’d hoped for another day or so.
This meant he had to head home tonight. It also meant the feds might be looking for him at an airport. He would have to drive a rental back.
Hopefully, he would see the woman in an hour, try to talk her out of whatever Del Cox had given her, and warn her about Adams. Then he could return to Chicago before his parole supervisor knew he’d left.
He thought about this Ms. Kirke. He had, in those few moments at the scene, memorized everything about her. He’d had the impression of energy and efficiency and purpose. She hadn’t been a beauty, but her face was pleasant enough.
He took his time eating as the restaurant filled up. He ordered another Coke and a small pie and reached his seat just as an ambulance arrived. He watched as the station door opened, and the vehicle disappeared inside.
He dropped the cup and napkins into the trash and went outside. He got into his car and waited.
When the woman left, he would follow.
Ames Williamson left the library. Using a library computer, he’d discovered the name and address of the paramedic.
What had Cox given to her? Said to her?
Would she reveal what he feared most? Would the CIA learn that he hadn’t died seven years ago? And, if so, could they find him? He’d established a new identity in Brazil. Miguel Samara. Seller of U.S. secrets and arms. He’d made many millions these past seven years.
Gene Adams had been buried in a faraway jungle.
Now he needed to stay buried.
He’d seen the number of the ambulance. It hadn’t taken him long to hack into the fire department computer system. He’d always been good at computers, had a natural knack, and now his business—and his safety—depended on that knowledge. He transferred funds throughout the world, and he sure as hell didn’t trust anyone else to do it for him.
Still, hacking hadn’t been nearly as easy as he’d thought. Privacy laws and heightened security had made it more difficult, but he’d anticipated that. He’d used the library’s computer. He hadn’t wanted to bring attention to his own laptop.
Ames prided himself on not making mistakes, but he’d made a mistake that day in trusting Cox. He hadn’t counted on the man liking the team leader. Hell, Cox never liked anybody.
But Cox was on life support now. As good as dead. He’d discovered that early this morning by pretending to be a police officer over the phone. Say you’re a cop, and you get anything you want. He knew the language.
“What about personal belongings?” he’d asked the patient’s representative. “We’re trying to find next of kin.”
“His brother showed up but left,” she said. “A Detective Brady is trying to find him now.”
“That’s the department for you,” he said. “Left hand doesn’t know what the right hand’s doing.”
“Sounds familiar,” she said, responding to the charm he’d put in his voice.
He took a risk. “An onlooker said he thought he saw an envelope at the accident scene, but we couldn’t find it. Thought it might have been on him. I’m not sure Brady knows about it.”
A pause, then, “There was only a wallet.”
“Thanks,” he said. “Probably nothing,” he said offhandedly. “Just thought I would take a shot at it. Thanks a lot.”
He hung up before there were any more questions. For some reason, the paramedic had not handed the letter in.
Cox was no longer a threat, but the paramedic was. And he wanted whatever Cox had given her.
Maybe he would pay a visit to her house, wait for her there.
CHAPTER 6
Jake watched as a woman driving an elderly blue sedan pulled out of the parking area behind the fire station. He recognized her dark, curly hair.
Jake pulled out behind her. He had to be careful. He couldn’t lose her, but he didn’t want to scare her off, either. He wished to hell he had a GPS unit somewhere on her car, but that was wishful thinking. He would just have to stay on her tail and hope like hell he didn’t lose her.
At least she didn’t get on the interstate. He would have had more than a little difficulty keeping up with her then. Instead, she wound through secondary roads. He tried to keep a car between them but finally had to move up directly behind.
He followed her past a large park on his left, then she took a right onto a residential street. He followed, then passed her as she drove into a driveway and parked. He went around the block, then returned to her street. Parking spots were scarce, and he supposed that residents and guests from a corner apartment building usually parked on this street. He finally found a slot six houses from the driveway she’d entered.
He looked up and down the street. Nothing suspicious. Maybe he was a step ahead of Gene Adams.
He looked down at his watch. Eight. The day was fading, and the sun was low, spreading a cascade of brilliant colors across the sky. He’d missed those colors in prison.
No time to think about that. He had to start for the airport within an hour. He had to risk approaching her.
As she drove up to the duplex, Kirke couldn’t forget the words the detective had uttered.
We took his fingerprints, and nothing came up. No match. He’s not in any files. And the doctor says he had plastic surgery. This afternoon someone turned up at the hospital and said he was a brother, then disappeared.
Not unusual that there were no prints. If Mark Cable hadn’t served in the armed forces or been arrested, his fingerprints wouldn’t be on file. But the fact that a relative showed up then disappeared set off an alarm in her head.
Along with that mysterious request. No police. Swear it.
After she arrived home she went to Sam’s side to pick up Merlin and Spade.
“Late,” crowed Merlin. Then “Cops coming … cops coming.” He imitated the wail of a police siren. It pierced the interior of the duplex. She figured that the drug dealers had taught Merlin that warning. He had excellent hearing and could be shriller than an alarm system.
African Greys—Merlin’s breed of parrot—were remarkably intelligent. When she’d adopted Merlin, she’d conducted an Internet study of parrots. Known as the best parrot at mimicry, African Greys actually understood and used the human language. They not only parroted words and phrases and sounds, but they also associated them with events. But often Merlin was simply an alarmist.
“No one’s there,” she assured Merlin.
He gave her his evil bird look, fastening his little beady eyes on her. “Cops coming,” he insisted.
She very much hoped not. She did not want to see or hear from Detective Brady again. She took the envelope from her purse and slid it between newspaper pages on the bottom of the cage. “Time to go home. For treats,” she added.
“Treats?” he echoed with approval.
“Only for good birds.”
“Merlin is a good bird,” Merlin asserted, then repeated the police car siren.
It was remarkably accurate. She’d had visits from neighbors more than once.
Then she heard a sound next door. In her supposedly empty home. She stilled.
Had Merlin been trying to tell her someone was in her duplex?
Kirke left Merlin and Spade inside Sam’s apartment. She went outside and crossed over to her own door. She tried the doorknob. It was still locked, and it didn’t look tampered with.
It was the only way in and out. There was no back door. One room led to another to another. Since it shared a side with another unit, the design allowed a
minimal number of windows. There were several in the front room facing the street, one in the kitchen, and two in the bedroom in back.
The noise had probably been no more than her imagination.
“Help!” Merlin screeched again in a woman’s voice from inside Sam’s apartment.
Kirke hadn’t heard Merlin repeat that particular word before. She wondered whether he had picked up on the sudden apprehension that had seized her. She hoped he’d learned it from the television set and not some victim of his previous owners.
She ignored him and listened at her door for a moment. Nothing. Apparently it was just one of Merlin’s spontaneous fancies.
“Ma’am?”
She whirled around. A tall, loose-limbed man rapidly approached her porch. He had an interesting face. Strong features. Dark, piercing eyes. The slight cleft in his chin softened the angular cheekbones. A small scar was visible just above his right eye. His hair was dark, cut short and tinged with gray.
He reached the porch door and stood there. “I heard a cry for help. I thought it came from here,” he added as he looked around.
“A Good Samaritan?” she asked, amused that Merlin’s cry had brought such good-looking assistance.
He shrugged with a self-conscious smile. It was stiff, as if the expression didn’t come easily.
“Help!” screeched Merlin again. He sounded even more human than before.
“That was Merlin,” she said, enjoying the puzzlement on his face.
“Merlin?” he echoed from his side of the screen door.
She left the screen door and went into Sam’s apartment, returning with the parrot.
“Help!” Merlin said in a woman’s voice, “Cops coming” in another voice, then he broke into a perfect rendition of a siren. He was obviously showing off.
“He’s my guard bird,” she said, not quite containing a grin. “He also bites.”
He shook his head. “I thought I heard a siren but …”
“Everything is …” She started to say fine, but there was still that nagging feeling that she’d heard something in her apartment.
She looked at the stranger. There was a hardness to his features, a wariness to his eyes that reminded her of the cops she knew.
Catch a Shadow Page 5
