“Hold the excuses, Simmons. Excuses just make a man look like he’s not up to the job.”
Hutton saw Simmons’ head snap back as if he’d taken a blow under the chin; but he also saw the defiance in the agent’s eyes. He liked that.
He stretched out his hand toward the chair. Simmons sat and the director leaned forward on his desk with clasped hands.
“So where’s this investigation at?”
“We have a developing situation, sir. Someone who we thought could maybe help us link Greene or, perhaps, Maitland to William Mahler’s killing has himself been killed.”
The director pursed his lips, but said nothing.
“He was Canadian. The head of a regulatory panel looking into whether Syron Lake Resources, a company owned by Magrelma, should keep its license to manage a former uranium mine site. The last time Mahler and Greene were in contact, they argued about this. Greene wanted to keep the license, but Mahler wanted to give it up.
“We’ve discovered the deceased had a secret bank account in Belize, into which he received a suspiciously large payment from a company linked to Magrelma, only a few months ago.”
“So he was taking a bribe?”
“Looks very much like it.”
“But why would he be killed if he was key to Greene getting his way with the regulators?”
“We have no information as to who killed the official or why.”
“So where does that leave you, Simmons? Right back to zero? Is that what you’ve come into my office to report to me?”
Simmons tugged at his tie.
“There’s what seems to be a pattern here,” he said. “People associated with Syron Lake are dropping dead or disappearing.
“There’s also the case of the site maintenance worker who was responsible for the area where the tailings dam broke, late last year, causing the spill.”
“What spill? What does this have to do with your murder in Monaco?”
“This spill gave Magrelma’s Canadian subsidiary the pretext for asking that they not give up their license to the site, contrary to Mahler’s plans. That worker, who by all accounts was an experienced fisherman, suddenly turned up dead. Drowned while drinking excessively alone in his boat, something no serious fisherman would do.
“We wanted to speak with his nephew, whom he supposedly told his employers he visited the night the dam broke. But that nephew has dropped out of college and, apparently, off the planet. Nobody has any clue as to his whereabouts.”
“So, like I said, you’re telling me you have nothing.”
“Not quite, sir.” Simmons eased forward and sat at the edge of the chair.
“That Canadian regulator who was killed had gone down to the Caribbean for a rendezvous with someone from the town of Syron Lake. Someone who had appeared before his panel; a girl he was having an affair with. An operative who had been following the official said the girl was there when he was shot. It’s possible she saw the killers.”
“And?”
“She’s on the run. The operative says she’s spooked. He tracked her down at the airport in Trinidad and tried to approach her, but she fled like a scared rabbit.”
“So this girl slipped out of our hands, just like that?”
“We believe she’s headed for Miami or Ft Lauderdale, but have no clue what route she’s taking to get there or when she’ll arrive. We had information that she was supposed to have gone through Jamaica, but our later checks revealed she didn’t board any Jamaica-bound flights.”
Simmons fell silent, then cleared his throat. “We’ll need a fair amount of resources to be on the lookout at both airports if we are to pick up her tracks again.”
The director took in a deep breath. It momentarily eased that lingering sensation in his chest. He thought about the impertinent senator from that morning, chiding him for running a Bureau with no focus that had lost its way.
He knew deep down that this whole investigation was personal, more than anything.
Yes, William Mahler had been an important, even if undisclosed, conduit for promoting US policy abroad, something he, Hutton, had had some hand in engineering during his days as ambassador to Cairo. And, yes, at the time of his death, Mahler had been an American businessman heading a powerful mining company with operations across the globe. Both of those facts would have been justification to pay attention to his untimely death.
But Hutton knew those reasons had never been part of his consideration of the matter.
This had always been about him and Angela Woodward.
Twenty-five years earlier, he had walked into his New York law office and had heard a woman’s laugh outside his door. It had sent a curious, warm sensation right through his body. He’d rested down his briefcase and gone in search of her. He’d heard the laugh again, and when he’d turned a corner, he’d come face to face with her at the photocopying machine, that ethereal creature with sparkling, blue eyes, who, at that moment, had unknowingly taken over possession of some deep, secret corner of his being.
He wasn’t a poet, or an artist, or a philosopher. He didn’t examine or analyze the thing. All he knew was that he was drawn to this sprite whose eyes were animated by what he came to recognize as an ever upward-moving force within her.
She was an articling student assigned to a rather senior partner, which meant their interactions were minimal. As a new partner who was buried in work and trying to prove his worth to the firm, he could only watch her from a distance. He and Valerie had already had their two boys and were approaching their seventh anniversary. There had been every reason for whatever sentiment that had lodged itself in his being to have dissolved into nothing. And, besides, before she even finished her time at the firm, Angela Woodward had become Angela Roseau.
And yet something had lingered there for all these years, despite his efforts to ignore it, or to tell himself, later in life, that a man in his line of business had no space for such whimsical nonsense.
When he had first got wind of the developments in Monaco, his first impulse had been to get all the facts so that he’d be the one to break the news to her. He’d been possessed by the notion that the blow would have been somehow softened for her if word of Mahler’s death came from his lips.
And then he’d begun to relish the deepening connection with her that the case had finally brought him. But to what end? Angela hadn’t changed and he was still hanging on to unfulfilled desires that stretched back decades.
If Valerie were to learn any of this, she would say he was being just an old, sentimental fool. A fool who’d regressed to the antics and emotions of a lovesick high school teenager.
Maybe he had regressed. What was the saying? Once a man and twice a child? Generations before him had recognized the march that signaled the coming final exit, he thought.
The shortness of breath and the new aches and pains he’d begun to experience since the last summer gave him a chilling reminder of his own mortality. And that made unfulfilled desires take on an importance and urgency that he could not brush aside.
Hutton felt the rookie senator’s finger wagging at him.
He looked at Simmons staring at him, waiting for a response.
To hell with it, Hutton thought. He would not let a guy who was in diapers when he was off shaping his country’s image abroad browbeat him into submission.
“Simmons,” he said, “deploy as many agents as you need. Find that girl, find out what she knows, wrap up this case, and let’s look as if we know how to do our damned jobs.”
Chapter 88
My flight arrived fifteen minutes early. I jostled my way through a rowdy clutch of teenagers who had been on the plane with me and were now h
anging around, waiting for their friends to also disembark.
Parker was just outside the arrivals area. He was easy to spot as his well-toned form stood head and shoulders above almost everyone else. His eyes scanned the scores of people who streamed out the doors.
I walked within inches of him and passed him completely. Then I circled back and tugged on his sleeve.
He spun sharply and his eyes fell first on my pants — hideous golf checks in canary yellow, overlaid with fire-engine red, forest green, and turquoise. Then his gaze moved up to my oversized turquoise blazer with an embroidered, navy blue anchor on the breast pocket. And, finally, he scrutinized the turquoise cap, which also bore the anchor logo and was pulled low on my brow.
“Detective, it’s me,” I whispered.
“Stella?”
“Yes, still in one piece.”
He ran a hand through his hair and laughed. “Where did you find that get-up? Those pants are so ugly, it’s scary.”
“It did the trick didn’t it?” I pushed the cap up a little so we could see each other better. “I walked right in front of you and you had no clue.”
“None whatsoever.”
“If anyone followed me…”
“Don’t worry.” He clasped my shoulders and I felt as if electricity shot through my body. “You’re with me now. You’re safe.”
The jolt took me by surprise and made me suddenly confused. Or more confused than I already was.
“I sure hope you’re right.”
“Besides,” Parker said, looking around at the throngs of passengers and those awaiting them, “this is a busy, public place. Nobody would be crazy enough to try anything here.”
I shook my head. “Detective, we were in a Carnival party when they shot Ben. You can’t get more crowded and public than that. Maybe the people we’re dealing with are crazy.”
He nodded.
“So, you got the box?” I said.
“Yes.”
“And the pen with the recording?”
“Yes.”
I exhaled in relief. “So where do we find this kid?”
“A trailer park. It’ll take two or three hours to get there, according to the traffic. I’ve rented a car.”
“Well, let’s get going, then.” With my head still bent, I headed in the direction of the exit.
“We need to make a couple of stops,” Parker said. “I need to pick up something downtown.”
“Can’t we just go straight to the trailer park?”
“This is important, Stella.”
I pursed my lips.
“It’ll only be quick stops, I promise.”
I shrugged.
“The first thing I need to get is some summer threads,” Parker said. “I’d die outside in these winter clothes.” He glanced at my outfit. “And we need to get you into something decent.”
His tone of good-natured mockery made me smile. It was the first time I’d experienced anything approaching mirth in what felt like ages.
The smile was short-lived, though.
First, I heard a great deal of commotion — male voices shouting out names and the command “Catch!” and female voices screaming “No.”
Then I felt a powerful blow to my back. It knocked the wind out of me and sent me catapulting to the floor.
My cap flew off my head and my hair came cascading down. The world went black and the next thing I knew was that two muscular teenagers were piled on top of me and I was kissing a tan-colored, leather football.
Parker yanked the teens off me and shoved them aside.
“Idiots,” he shouted.
“Sorry.” Three other teens came and huddled over me. “We were just foolin’ around. You alright?”
Parker picked up the football and slammed it into the chest of one of the teens. “Get out of here,” he shouted. They wasted no time obeying.
Parker helped me to my feet.
“You okay?”
I nodded, although I felt groggy from the impact.
As I bent over to retrieve the cap, I had a sensation of being watched. Looking up, I noticed two men in suits staring directly at me.
Probably just curious about the commotion, I told myself. Then I saw them walking briskly toward me.
“Detective, I think I might have a tail.”
“Where?”
I pulled the cap down on my head and turned my back to the men.
“Directly behind me. Two suits headed this way.”
“Recognize any of them?”
“Never seen them before. They’re dressed neater than the men who shot Ben.”
“So you’re thinking they’re with some kind of service, then?”
I nodded. “Sent by Peabody. Are they still coming this way?”
I didn’t have to wait for an answer. Parker grabbed me by the arm and started toward the exit.
We picked up the pace and I looked behind; I caught the men matching our trot.
“They’re catching up to us,” I said.
Parker curled his arm around my waist.
“Okay, run,” he said.
We elbowed through the crowds, knocking over luggage and hearing more than a few curses hurled our way. Backward glances told me the suits were gaining on us.
Once we hit outside, the air felt as if an oven blast after the air conditioned airport. Parker grabbed my hand.
“This way.”
We darted across the road, bringing a taxi to a screeching, honking halt.
We had barely crossed to the pavement on the other side when the men came out the door after us.
I held on to Parker’s hand for dear life and ran as fast as I could. My lungs felt as if they were ready to fall out, and I had to give it my all to keep up with his long, powerful legs.
We hurtled past acres of cars with the suits bearing down on us.
Just when I felt my legs would give out, Parker let go of my hand.
“Get in,” he shouted as we neared a white sedan.
The doors unlocked with a click and the lights blinked as Parker pressed the remote.
I tugged at the handle and flung myself into the seat, slamming the door shut.
Within a second, Parker was in the driver’s seat. He turned the key in the ignition.
Nothing.
I saw the men just a few cars away, racing toward us.
Parker pounded his fist on the steering wheel.
“Come on!” he shouted.
He turned the ignition again. The engine, whimpered, then rumbled. Parker slammed down on the gas pedal and the engine roared as we screeched off, just as the men in suits arrived. They could only thump their fists on the trunk of the car as Parker and I sped away.
Chapter 89
We stopped at a small tourist shop that was chock-full of trinkets which had the word “Florida” emblazoned on them, but carried labels in fine print that read “Made in China.” Parker led the way to the back, where there were t-shirts and bikinis and the sort of brightly-colored clothes that only tourists who were giddy with the heat and the excitement of being on holiday could possibly deem fit to adorn their bodies.
He emerged from the changing room in jeans and a flaming orange short-sleeved shirt festooned with blue palm fronds.
I’d ditched the corporate swag and appeared in khaki shorts and a white, long-sleeved, muslin bodice.
Parker’s eyes started from my ankles and slowly worked their way up, until they met my eyes.
He smiled and nodded approvingly. I bristled at the inspection.
“Get a couple of changes of clothes,” he said. “Hopefully we can find the kid tonight and we won’t have to be here longer than a day. But you never know.”
He paid and we were on our way.
“How much do I owe you?” I said as I buckled up.
“Don’t even think about that.”
“No, really. I’ll pay you back for the clothes.”
“Forget about it. It’s nothing.”
As he checked his mirrors and turned on the indicator, I realized he didn’t give it a second thought.
I had not a cent in my fanny pack, but I still had my credit card. He didn’t have to pay for my new clothes. It was a nice gesture. But no man had ever bought me clothes apart from my father and grandfather, and even they hadn’t done so after I’d hit my teens. So the cop’s gesture left me feeling a little uneasy.
I wanted to be able to simply accept his kindness. But I was still on edge and a little voice in my head warned me not to be too easily won over and be lulled into what could possibly be a false sense of security.
That niggling concern remained that if Parker was tied in with Demetriou, and if the mayor was hooked up with the mining company responsible for the spill, then I would have only jumped out of the frying pan and right into the fire.
Everything he’d done so far made me feel I should trust this cop. And I hoped that I, and not the suspicious little voice in my head, was right.
“Can I ask you something?” I said after a while.
“Sure.”
“Why are you here?”
“Come again?”
“Why are you doing this?”
He turned his head and eyed me for a while, then focused on the road again. “Well, I was minding my own business, enjoying my sleep when, in the wee hours of the morning, I got a call asking me to get involved. Anything about this sound vaguely familiar?”
“I know I asked for your help. But why did you respond?”
Run, Girl, Run: A Thriller Page 35