others. Yes, he thought with a sigh, things had gotten very complicated indeed. Right before they were taking off to God knew where. It wasn't like they could go to a church or even a justice of the peace and get married.
That's right Father, were the fugitive couple. Could you please hurry it up?
Lee rolled his eyes and slapped his forehead. Marriage! Good God, was he nuts? Maybe that was how he felt, but what about Faith? Maybe she was into one-night stands, although everything he had observed about the woman argued against such a conclusion. Did she love him? Maybe she was infatuated, caught up in his role as her protector. Last night could be explained away by alcohol, the intoxication of the danger swirling around them or perhaps just simple lust. And he wasn't going to ask her how she felt. She had enough going on.
He focused on the immediate future. Was traveling cross-country on the Honda to San Diego the best plan? Mexico and then South America? He felt a pang of guilt when he thought of the family he would be leaving behind. Then he thought about something else: his reputation, what his family would think. If he ran, he would be admitting guilt of sorts.
And if they did get caught while running, who would believe them?
He slumped back in his chair and suddenly pondered a very different strategy. A few minutes before, flight seemed the wisest choice.
Faith, understandably, didn't want to go back and help send Buchanan to prison. Lee really didn't have much interest in doing that either, not after hearing why the man had been bribing the politicians. In truth, Danny Buchanan probably should be sainted instead. That's when an idea started to form in his head.
Lee went back inside and picked up his cell phone from the coffee table. He had one of those mega-minute deals with no long distance or roaming charges, so that he rarely even used his hard-line phone anymore. It had voice mail, text mail, caller ID. It even had a news banner where you could check Out late-breaking stories, or how your stocks were doing, not that he had any.
When he had first started out as a private investigator, Lee had used an IBM typewriter; touch-tone phones were cutting edge; and fax machines spit out curly thermal paper and were the domain of only the largest companies. That was less than fifteen years ago. Now he was holding a global communications command center in the palm of his hand.
Change that fast just couldn't be healthy. But still, who could live without these damn things now?
He plopped down on the couch and stared at the slowly revolving ceiling fan's rattan blades, contemplating the pros and cons of what he was thinking about doing. Then he made up his mind, and slipped his wallet out of his back pocket. The piece of paper was in there with the number his client, who he knew now was Danny Buchanan, had originally given him. The one he had been unable to trace. Then doubt seized him. What if he was wrong about Buchanan's not being involved in the attempt on Faith's life? He stood and paced. When he looked out the window at the blue sky, he saw only possible disaster looming in the approaching storm clouds. Still, Buchanan had hired him. He was technically working for the man. Maybe it was time to report in. He said a silent prayer, picked up his cell phone and punched in the numbers from the piece of paper.
CHAPTER 38
CONNIE DID NOT LOOK HAPPY as Paul Fisher leaned Howard and addressed him in a conspiratorial tone.
"We have every reason to believe that she's in on it, Connie. Despite what you've told us."
Connie glared at the man. He hated everything about Fisher, from his perfect hair and rocky-ledge chin down to his ramrod-straight posture and wrinkle-free shirts. He had been sitting in here for half an hour.
He had told Fisher and Massey his side of the story, and they had told him theirs. They were not going to find any middle ground.
"That's bullshit with a capital B, Paul."
Fisher sat back and looked at Massey. "You heard the facts. How can you sit there and defend her?"
"Because I know she's innocent, how about that?"
"Do you have any facts to back that up, Connie?" Massey wanted to know.
"I've been sitting here telling you the facts, Fred. We had a hot lead at Agriculture on another case. Brooke didn't even want Ken to go with Lockhart that night. She wanted to go."
"Or so she told you," Massey replied.
"Look, I've got twenty-five years' worth of experience that says Brooke Reynolds is as clean as they come."
"She investigated Ken Newman's finances without telling anyone."
"Come on, it's not the first time an agent's gone off the manual. She gets a hot one and wants to follow it up. But she doesn't want to bury Ken's reputation along with the body. Not until she's sure."
"And the hundred thousand dollars in her kids' accounts?"
"Planted."
"By whom?"
"That's what we have to figure out."
Fisher shook his head in frustration. "We're going to have her followed. Every minute until we break this."
Connie leaned forward and did his best to keep his big hands from flying to Fisher's neck. "What you should be doing, Paul, is following up the leads from Ken's murder. And trying to track down Faith Lockhart."
"If you don't mind, Connie, we'll run the investigation."
Connie looked over at Fred Massey. "You want a tail on Reynolds, I'm your guy."
"You! No way!" Fisher protested.
"Hear me out, Fred," Connie said, his gaze locked on Massey. "I admit, things look bad for Brooke. But I also know there's not a finer agent in the Bureau. And I don't want to see a good agent's career go down the toilet because somebody made the wrong call. I've been down that road myself. Right, Fred?"
Massey looked intensely troubled at this last statement. He seemed to shrink in his chair under Connie's withering gaze.
"Fred," Fisher said, "we need an independent source-"
Connie interrupted, "I can be independent. If I'm wrong, then Brooke goes down, and I'll be the first one to break the news to her. But I'm betting she's going to come back and pick up her badge and gun. In fact, in ten years I see her running this whole damn place."
"I don't know, Connie," Massey began.
"I think somebody owes me that opportunity, Fred," Connie said very quietly. "What do you think?"
There was a long moment of silence while Fisher looked back and forth between the two men.
"All right, Connie, you follow her," Massey said. "And you report back to me at regular intervals. Exactly what you see. No more. No less.
I'm counting on you. For old times' sake."
Connie rose from the table and flicked a victorious glance at Fisher.
"Thanks for the vote of confidence, gentlemen. I won't disappoint."
Fisher followed Connie out into the hallway.
"I don't know what you just pulled in there, but remember this: Your career already has one black mark against it, Connie. It can't afford another. And anything you report to Massey, I want to know about."
Connie crowded the much taller Fisher back against the wall.
"Listen up, Paul." He paused, ostensibly to pick a piece of lint off Fisher's shirt. "I understand that, technically, you're my superior here. Don't confuse that, though, with reality."
"You're treading a dangerous line, Connie."
"I like danger, Paul, that's why I joined the Bureau. That's why I carry a gun. I've killed somebody with mine. How about you?"
"You're not making sense. You're throwing your career away." Fisher felt the wall behind him; his face was growing red as Connie continued to lean into him like a listing oak against a picket fence.
"Is that right? Well, let me make some sense of this for you. Somebody is setting Brooke up. Now, who could that be? It's got to be the leak here at the Bureau. Somebody wants to discredit her, bring her down.
And if you ask me, Paul, you're trying awfully hard to do just that."
"Me? You're accusing me of being the leak?"
"I'm not accusing anybody of anything. I'm just reminding you that until w
e do find that leak, nobody, and I mean nobody, from the director down to the guys who clean the johns here, is above suspicion in my book."
Connie moved away from Fisher. "Have a nice day, Paul. I'm off to catch some bad guys."
Fisher stared after him, slowly shaking his head, something close to fear in his eyes.
CHAPTER 39
THE PHONE NUMBER LEE CALLED WAS LINKED TO A PAGER, so that Buchanan would know the instant the number was called. When the pager went off, Buchanan was at home packing his briefcase for a meeting at a downtown law firm that was doing pro bono work for one of Buchanan's clients. He had given up hope of the damn beeper ever sounding. When it did, he thought he would suffer a stroke.
Now Buchanan's dilemma was apparent. How to check the message and call back without Thornhill knowing about it. Then he thought of a plan. He called his driver. It was Thornhill's man, of course. It always was.
They drove downtown to the law firm.
"I'll be a couple of hours. I'll phone when I'm done," he told the driver.
Buchanan went into the building. He had been here before, knew the layout well. He didn't go to the elevator bank, but instead went through the main lobby and passed through a door in the back that also served as a rear entrance to the parking garage. He took the elevator down two levels and stepped off. He went through the underground lobby area and out into the parking level. Right next to the door leading out from the lobby was a pay phone. He put in his coins and dialed the number that would allow him to check the message. His reasoning was clear: If Thornhill could intercept a random hard-line call under a thousand tons of concrete, he was the devil himself and Buchanan had no chance of beating him anyway.
On the message Lee's voice was tight, his words few. And the impact on Buchanan was enormous. He had left a number. Buchanan dialed it. A man answered the phone immediately.
"Mr. Buchanan?" Lee asked.
"Is Faith all right?"
Lee gave a sigh of relief. He was hoping that would be the man's first question. That told him a lot. But still, he had to be cautious.
"Just to verify it's really you: You sent me a package of information.
How did you send it, and what was in it? And let me have the answers fast."
"Personal courier. I use Dash Services. The packet had a photo of Faith, five pages of background information on her and my firm, the contact phone number, a summary of my concerns and what I wanted you to do. It also had five thousand dollars in cash in denominations of fifties and twenties. I also called you three days ago at your office and left a message on your machine. Now please tell me that Faith is all right."
"She's fine, for now. But we have some problems."
"Yes, we do. For starters, how do I know you're Adams?"
Lee thought quickly. "I have a great Yellow Pages ad with a corny magnifying glass and everything. I have three brothers. The youngest works at a motorcycle shop in south Alexandria. He goes by Scotty, but his nickname in college was Scooter because he played football and could run so damn fast. If you want you can call him, check it out and call me back."