Sam sighed. ‘Craig, it’s me.’
‘I know who the hell it is. Airport security is much tighter now, and that includes flight data. We don’t give it out unless it’s for a legitimate investigation.’
Sam knew better than to offer money. Craig Gordon would have had him arrested.
‘This is a legitimate investigation.’
‘Not unless you’ve joined LAPD. It’s late here, Sam, I’m going back to bed.’
‘Craig, no. Wait.’ He needed this; the chase was going to get stuck without it. ‘I’m on the trail of Lisa Costello, I know you’ve heard what happened here.’
‘Yeah,’ Craig admitted. ‘Not just heard of her. We’re on this case.’
Sam blinked. ‘The FBI?’ This was a murder committed on Thai soil. It would be way out of Craig’s jurisdiction.
‘The Thai police are going crazy. She kills her husband, it’s all over the news, then she’s on the run. They want her caught. They asked us for assistance, the vic being an American. We agreed. It’s a real high-profile case, she’s America’s Most Wanted right now. What you got on her?’
‘You need to do a deal with me.’
‘No deals. I’m FBI.’ And you’re not, he didn’t have to say.
‘Well, if you want to be the one that catches her, you need to deal with me. I know what she did to get out of the hotel complex and I need a search on a name. You give me the search and you guarantee this information will stay out of the media for forty-eight hours.’
Hesitation. ‘I don’t know, Sam.’
‘Yeah, well, you do know me and who I am, and you may not like it, Craig, but you also know I’m good at this shit. What I have for you is a solid lead. And I’ve been to the crime scene and the Thai police don’t have the first idea. Plus, they’re open to bribery, and you know that means the whole place will be crawling with journalists in about another hour and the evidence will be hopelessly compromised.’
His ex-friend had not hung up, at least. That was something.
‘I’ll find her and I’ll tip you off.’
‘And what’s in it for you?’
‘Money.’
‘Of course. I should have guessed.’
‘There’s nothing un-American about money,’ Sam replied, and hated how defensive he sounded. ‘Look, this is going to be my last job. And I will help you catch her. Which makes it legitimate.’
‘If I like what you got to say, I’ll co-operate,’ Craig Gordon said.
‘She took two passports. Her own and a guest’s. They blocked her passport but she didn’t use it. I think she’s using the name Janet Parks. My guess is she rode straight to the airport.’
‘Not totally dumb, then.’
‘Don’t believe everything you read.’
A grunt. ‘You should know.’ He heard a rustle; Craig was getting out of bed. There was a sound of footsteps. He was going downstairs, to the computer.
‘Got any more, Detective?’
‘I got plenty more. But you give me that data. If Janet Parks took a flight out of Phuket this morning after eight a.m. local. British national.’
‘I can see your cell number. I’ll call you back.’
Sam hung up and moved over to the Starbucks counter. He ordered a large black coffee and a Danish, the closest he was going to come to real American food. He felt a moment’s stupid homesickness, thinking about the cheerful little diner at the foot of the Hollywood Hills, with the giant plastic Coke bottle outside. They made a fantastic cheese and bacon omelette, which you could have with coffee strong enough to stand a spoon in, and find your hangover would be half-done when you’d finished.
But coffee and a pastry would do. He swirled his little stick in his paper cup and thought about Lisa Costello. She’d managed the first, most important thing, and most people didn’t. She’d been able to get away.
Away from the body, away from the crime scene. Away from the cops. He hoped, for her sake, she had got on a plane. Anyplace was better than here.
He turned around, enjoying the caffeine and sugar, and studied the large arrivals and departures board. He knew in a heartbeat where she had gone.
His phone rang; he picked it up instantly.
‘Hong Kong, right?’
‘Right. I thought you didn’t know where she was.’
‘I worked it out.’
English-speaking, short-haul flight, big city, good place to get lost in. Cheap food, cheap clothes. Connecting flights to lots of places, boats too.
‘You’re a regular psychic.’
‘I was right, though, wasn’t I?’ Sam snapped back, then passed a hand across his forehead. He had no wish to attack somebody like Craig. It was just tiresome being reminded of his own inadequacies. He didn’t really need help in that department.
‘You were. Look, Sam, we’d like to catch this girl. Lots of media interest, but you know that.’
‘Sure.’
‘Good for the Bureau. Good for me.’
‘I’ll help. I’ll give you what I’ve got, Craig, only it has to be later than I get it. If you guys scoop her up first, I might not get this bonus, and I need it.’
‘You got bookie trouble again?’
‘No.’ He wondered why he was telling Craig Gordon all this, like Craig was his rabbi or something. ‘It’s enough cash for me to quit the stupid celebrity stuff and start over. A new life somewhere else. I know I messed up. I’d like enough money to be able to figure out something else to do. Maybe get a family like you, or something.’
Craig laughed, surprised. ‘Get married? You? I don’t think so.’
‘People change.’
‘Not in my experience, pal, no they don’t. If they get sober, that’s a win. Other than that, folks stay the same. Almost all.’
‘Well, I’m gonna be in the “almost” part. When did she fly to Kowloon?’
‘On the nine a.m. flight. And she disembarked, no trouble. She’s still there, unless she left by boat. I already blocked the passport.’
‘Then I’m going to go and find her.’
‘Give me your leads.’
‘Soon as I’m done with them. Talk later, Craig.’
He hung up and put his phone on silent, in case Craig called back. Then he went over to the British Airways stand and booked himself a business-class seat on the company’s credit card on the next flight out.
‘Champagne, sir?’
The stewardess bending over him was very pretty, if you liked that tight, manicured look. He smiled back at her.
‘Sure. Thanks.’
There was no point being abstemious about this. He’d get a good hotel in Hong Kong, not the priciest, like the Peninsula or the Mandarin, but somewhere good and tucked away; the Hotel Jen, he thought, in the heart of the old city, with clean, modern rooms and a nice rooftop pool. The only place in Hong Kong you felt calm was swimming against the sky. He was not going to find Lisa Costello tonight. He was certain of that much. She wouldn’t be using the passport again. If she had planned on a second flight, she might just as well have flown direct from Phuket to Europe. She’d picked short haul so that she could land before they stopped the passport.
Probably she was still in the city. His job was to go there and sleep, and then figure out what a smart Limey girl on the lam would have done next. He should be capable. She didn’t have credit cards, at least not her own nor Josh’s, and he’d tracked her this far. He wanted to buy some new clothes and an overnight bag, a toothbrush and a razor. Oh yeah, and swimming trunks.
One thing he did do for himself was exercise. Other than gambling and sex, it was the only activity in which you could lose yourself totally. And when your life consisted of flying and driving and hanging out in nightclubs, you could either work out or give up. Sam had zero intention of turning into some fat, drink-sodden old newspaperman like his boss. He wasn’t doing a man’s job, but he made damn sure he had a man’s body. Wherever he went, he packed a pair of trainers and some jog pants; you could do push-up
s and tricep dips in your bedroom, using whatever was there. Fitness was available wherever there was a road.
His body ached to be used. And he wanted to do it. If you were trying to catch a person, you had to clear your thoughts of fog. Working out and sleep were the best two ways to do that.
He wondered how Lisa Costello had spent this flight. Not up front, being offered a flute of champagne and her meals on a china tray. That would be conspicuous, and he thought she was working from cash. She would have been very frightened. Caught at this stage, and she could face the death penalty.
She’d have been hungover, so thirsty at the very least. He doubted she would have wanted to eat. He sipped absently at the chilled drink, allowing the bubbles to burst against his tongue and the softness of the alcohol to blunt the edges of his day.
None of this told him facts, not like the passport thing. But it helped him to crawl inside Lisa Costello’s head. And that was going to be very necessary. Whoever wrote ‘London is an anthill’ had never seen Hong Kong. It was some of the most crowded real estate on Planet Earth, a place where somebody with survival skills could stay, perhaps for ever.
Only he did not think Lisa Costello would want to stay. Their brief conversation he replayed, over and over again. She had seemed then, to him, to be straining against the leash, like a dog desperate to be let out in a field for a walk, pulling against the tether so hard it might strangle itself. She was fighting against the couture Chanel suits, the glossy blond hair, the expertly plucked California eyebrows, and the million-dollar wedding where the bride had no real friends.
It was why he’d liked her; why he’d been so surprised by her, at last, in the flesh.
She was like him. Claustrophobic. Prepared to give it all up rather than be married alive. A free spirit in a world where you thought they no longer existed.
And now here he was, hunting her down. Only, unlike the bumbling police and the imagination-free security agencies, he really would find her, and then they’d try her, and they’d kill her.
He found the thought depressing. Which was ridiculous. She’d stabbed some poor schmuck to death. He’d be a fool to start mooning over a chick with a drinking problem and a mental block that made her give up a life of luxury in favour of the electric chair, or whatever they used out in Thailand.
Lisa Costello was not his problem. And he wasn’t about to give up a million dollars by going soft.
The hotel had a vacancy, which did not surprise him. Even the cheaper places were finding it hard to fill their slots these days, with the recession biting deep all over the world. Funny thing was, trash like his sold perfectly well even in times like these. When they were down, people loved to read about the troubles of those richer, sexier, privileged stars who seemed like they had everything.
They were glad to take his money, and offered a discount when he demanded it. In fact, when he produced his press credentials, the smiling woman at the front desk smiled just a little wider, and her supervisor appeared as if from nowhere and upgraded him to a junior suite.
It was tough out there. They needed all the good reviews they could get.
Sam knew Hong Kong well enough. He was out of the hotel, room key in hand, before he even went upstairs, and eight minutes’ walk brought him to a tourist shopping area. There were plenty of stores that sold clothes and sports goods. He hated shopping, loathed it with a passion, and as such had learned to recognise his size on the peg. He bought fast, selecting some Nike Airs, because as far as he was concerned they had never been beaten, some cheap socks and workout shirts, swim trunks and a towel; then toiletries, which he was without often enough to know exactly what basics he needed; and finally a plain wardrobe: fresh underwear, suit socks, two blue shirts, two ties, and two pairs of trousers; some jeans, T-shirts and a good, thick coat. It was ludicrously hot and muggy here, but he didn’t know where he was going.
All that done, he headed back to the hotel, past the receptionist, who by now was staring a little, and finally went to his room. It was luxurious, but he resisted the temptation to flop on the bed. Once you did that, you were finished. He poured a glass of tap water, drank it, and changed into his new gear. Then he went upstairs to the gym, where he ran hard for half an hour on the treadmill, then forced himself to get on the machines and lift the weights. Finally he changed into the swim trunks and did fifty laps.
God, but it felt good. Every stroke in the water felt like he was washing the blood he’d seen this morning from himself. He loved the fitness area in this hotel; the machines were right up against the window, and you could see the harbour while you worked them. Sam wanted to run, to run from Rich Frank, to run from the dead body of Josh Steen, to run from his crappy life, somewhere else, anywhere else, and pounding the treadmill till his heart thudded and his breath was ragged helped, just a little bit, to get him through.
He let the aerobic exertion blank out his mind. It was better than meditation; hard to concentrate on anything bad when you were working on keeping going. He towelled off and slipped on his T-shirt and sweatpants, and then returned to his room where he luxuriated under a blissfully hot shower.
He was ravenously hungry. He dressed in his jeans and a sweatshirt and ordered room service: a burger and fries, with mineral water, a side salad and half a bottle of red. They brought it to him fast. He tipped the guy generously with Rich Frank’s money, then sat down and started to eat, trying to stop himself wolfing the meal. It was piping hot, and too good. He needed salt and he needed protein.
He drained a tumbler full of fizzy mineral water choked with ice, and then poured himself a large glass of red. The food and the alcohol relaxed him, his blood was singing from the workout; he felt momentarily great. At last he allowed his thoughts to return to Lisa. He took out the free writing paper and the biro they’d left in the drawer of his bedside cabinet, and started to make some notes.
Would she try to travel again on that passport? No. Coming here meant she was going to ditch it. Would she stay in Hong Kong? Hmm. More difficult - he might have hung out here for a while, but you’d have to figure they’d catch the passport trick eventually and know where she was. And China would have no problems extraditing her back to Thailand.
No, if he were Lisa he would want to get out. And he knew the mentality. Once you started to run, you did not stop, not until you could, or you had to. What did that mean, then? A fake passport? Nothing in her background said she knew the seedy underworld, or would have the first idea how to go about it.
Her background . . .
He reached over to the bed and picked up his phone, pulling the email off it that Kevin had sent. There were his notes, his file on Lisa, her past, her schooldays. She hadn’t been to college, but her little private school was known for taking pupils in from all over the world.
Lisa Costello wasn’t a good correspondent. She was essentially a loner, he thought. She did not keep up with people.
But when you were desperate, where would you go?
He was exhausted. Nothing was going to happen tonight. Besides, he thought, maybe part of him wanted the girl to run. Wanted her to get to Europe, someplace at least where they wouldn’t kill her.
He was going soft in his old age. No, more likely it was because he actually needed her to get away. The thought suggested itself, and Sam relaxed a touch. Yeah. He needed Lisa to keep running, at least at first. If they caught her right now, there was no story. Well, there was the trial story, but he’d have nothing to do with that and did not get paid on death-watch cases.
That million dollars was conditional. He needed the chase to be just the right length. Too short and he’d only get the fee for his current stories. Which was nice, sure, but no cigar, no new life.
So let the girl run. Tomorrow would be soon enough to see who she was talking to.
He moved back to the phone and opened an email, typing up another article. Rich would get his twenty-five grand’s worth and then some, from the reporter who had the FBI tracking down Ja
net Parks’s passport.
‘We are now on our final approach to Rome Ciampiano airport,’ said the soothing mechanised voice. ‘Please fasten your seat belts, and return your seats to the upright position . . .’
Lisa did as she was told. She was drained, almost numb from the dizzying length of the flight. She had been forced to get up and walk around the cabin; you could die of blood clots, or something, if you didn’t do that. But at least she had slept. Blessedly, the ordeal had left her more drained than she cared to remember, and she had fallen asleep pretty easily, without the need for drink or drugs, and stayed that way for at least seven hours.
And now they were here. In Rome. She desperately wanted to get off the plane. Rome was Europe, where nobody got executed. She wished to God she knew the law. What was the deal if they stopped her at immigration? Wasn’t she still on Italian soil? She would claim asylum, claim anything, ask for a lawyer. It was a Catholic country, they wouldn’t send her back to Thailand to be hanged, surely . . .
Only the worst was, she wanted more. Now she was here, she wanted to survive, be free, keep out of jail. She hadn’t killed Josh - she hoped; that meant she ought not to spend the rest of her life in a sunless room.
It felt like a joke. But it was not a joke. It was real, and it was happening to her.
In the end, there was no problem getting through immigration. Lisa raised up her head and laughed, supremely relaxed - it was easy, she was so tired - and the guy let her through. She was now standing by the baggage carousels, wondering whether to run and deciding not to.
Her money was dwindling. She couldn’t go around just buying everything afresh. Her backpack would be here soon, and it had all the basic things she needed. Besides, they weren’t coming for her, at least not yet.
The carousel started and spluttered, and suddenly Lisa was watching a horde of suitcases tumble down, and she was actually ready to pick up her backpack and move, get out of here, to freedom . . .
There it was; she moved to get it, and slung it on to her shoulders and walked through customs. Nobody stopped her, and nobody stopped anyone else. She was in Italy. A country that had banned the death penalty. She was safe, and she thanked God. Only a few steps outside and she’d be free . . .
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