This was becoming an interesting case. Much more so than he had originally thought.
He continued to work the possibilities around in his head while he drove to the police substation that handled the hotel’s call. Once there, he parked behind the three-story brick building in the public parking lot.
The station was busy, about the normal for a workday in the Bay Area. He’d been here before, but he didn’t know anyone well enough to be on a first name basis.
A desk sergeant, on the downslope from fifty, looked up from a monitor. “What can I do for you?”
John noticed his nametag read Morris.
“I’m looking for a detective Romax. He was the reporting detective on my client’s case.” John expanded with a brief description of the events at the Pacific Rim.
“You have identification?” the sergeant asked.
John passed him a business card. The sergeant read it then studied him carefully.
“So, Mr. Black, what kind of security work do you do?”
“Whatever is needed.”
John’s mother used to say he had an honest face, but somewhere along the way, he had grown out of it.
Morris passed the card back and shook his head. “Sorry buddy, we don’t have a detective Romax here. If you can wait a while, I can get you in to see the Captain. He could find out if Romax works in another precinct.”
John eyed the few vacant chairs and took in the atmosphere. The foyer had the population and sounds of a Cairo bazaar. It only lacked smoke and the smell of camel dung.
“Sorry, I still have a life. Can’t you find out for me?”
“We can’t give out information on officers without the Captain’s permission.”
“I don’t need information on him. I just need to know if there is a Detective Romax in the San Francisco Police Department.”
Morris frowned, then turned to his computer, and typed in a query. A few seconds later, he shook his head. “Looks like you must have gotten the name wrong. There’s no one in the computer named Romax.”
John nodded. “Okay, thanks anyway, Sergeant Morris.”
“Yeah, just doing my job.”
John made his way back past the dregs of San Francisco’s West Side and back out into the bright morning sunshine. It was nearly noon. He squinted at the sky, slipped on his sunglasses, and pulled the brim of his hat down on his forehead. He was hungry and far from his regular haunts.
There was a sign for a Chinese restaurant just down the street. John decided to leave his car where it was and grab a bite.
The restaurant wasn’t packed, but there were only a few booths left vacant. While waiting for the maitre’ de, John scanned the menu mounted on the wall by the front door. The maitre’ de arrived, and John asked for and was taken to a booth at the back of the room. He sat facing the door. The maitre’ de disappeared, and a waiter arrived a moment later and asked if he wanted the buffet. John “no thanked” him and ordered black tea, fried rice, and General Pao chicken.
The waiter gave a slight bow and vanished into the kitchen.
The tea came in a small porcelain pot with an even smaller handle-less cup. John poured a small amount into the cup and raised it to his lips. It was hot, astringent, and excellent.
As he refilled the cup, the front door opened, and two suits walked in. John felt his gut tighten. They could have been twins. One had her hair pulled back in a tight knot while the other’s hair was cropped close around her ears in a style that had been very popular a decade or so ago. Their suits were dark blue, with vertical pin stripes, cut loose to conceal the bulges at the right sides of their belts.
More people with guns, this was getting a little too interesting.
As they swept the restaurant with their gaze, John knew they were going to be introducing themselves to him very shortly.
The one with the knot spotted him, and her twin turned to him immediately as if there was some mental link between them.
He tried to stay relaxed as they drew near. These suits had the unpleasant aroma of the federal government following them like a cloud. His first instinct was to leave by the back door, but that wouldn’t help Caitlin.
John sipped his tea and waited.
They stopped just out of reach, a nice safe distance when confronting an unknown element.
“Black?” The hair knot asked.
John gazed up into her mirrored sunglasses and smiled. “I prefer African-American.”
“What?” She didn’t return the smile.
“Humor. You know. You ask a question. I make a snappy reply. We all laugh.”
The tightening of her lips did nothing for his attitude.
“Are you Mr. John Black?” she demanded.
“Perhaps. Depends on who’s asking.”
They both reached into inside coat pockets, and he remained calm. Their weapons were on their hips. Like animatronics, they pulled out holograph ID cards. They held them out like tiny shields against his question, and then simultaneously returned them to their sanctuaries.
“Is your name Mr. John Black, alias Mr. John Blalock, of the Blalock Security Services Agency?” the Knot asked in more detail.
He put down his tea and stared into her mirrored glasses. He had taken a good look at their ID before the holograph images disappeared back into their pockets. He’d seen the National Counterintelligence Executive, the NCIX, emblem on holographs before. He’d pegged these two as Feds the instant they started toward him. No matter which way fashion trends drifted, Feds always wore the same neatly tailored suits. Unless, of course, they were undercover, but these two could hardly be in disguise.
“Yeah, that’s me.” John motioned toward the opposite side of the booth. The knot sat down, her partner pulled a chair up and reversed it and sat just far enough to the side to force John to turn his head to look at her.
“What can I do for the Executive?” John asked.
“I’m Agent Bailey, this is Agent Wesson. We’re looking for a client of yours. A Ms. Caitlin Maxwell,” Knot said.
Unknown killers, the Japanese, and now the Feds, San Francisco was starting to feel crowded.
“Any particular reason?” John asked and sipped his tea.
“Nothing too serious. There are some questions we want to ask her,” Bailey said.
“Anything you can expand on?” he asked.
She shook her head. “Not at the moment. Can you tell us where to find her?”
“No, not at the moment anyway. I told her to hide and call me later today.”
Wesson cleared her throat noisily.
He ignored her.
Bailey twisted her head toward her partner for a pair of seconds and then looked back at him.
“Very well, Mr. Blalock ... I can call you Mr. Blalock, can’t I?”
He shrugged. “It’s still a free country. Call me whatever you want.”
“Thank you. Do you think you could bring her into the Executive’s San Francisco office later?”
“I’d rather she stay hidden until I can find out why someone’s trying to kill her.”
Bailey’s forehead developed the smallest of betraying wrinkles. “What makes you think someone’s trying to kill her?”
“I don’t know, it’s just always been my assumption that when people start shooting at you, they aren’t trying to become friends.”
“You have proof someone’s trying to kill her?”
“You know a Fed with a broken nose?” John asked.
That got more of a response out of her. She started lying. “No ... I can’t say that I do.”
“Which?” John asked.
“Which what?”
“Which is it? Do you not know one or just can’t say that you know one?”
A hand fell on his shoulder. He didn’t take his eyes off Bailey.
“Listen, Blalock,” Wesson said. “If you’re going to turn into a smart ass we’re going to have to look into your background.”
“I do not know any agents that cu
rrently have a broken nose,” Bailey offered. “If you’re worried about Ms. Maxwell safety, we can guarantee it while she’s being questioned.”
“But I’d have to get her down there and then back to a safe location again. It’d be simpler to have her call you.”
“Christ!” Wesson exclaimed.
John finally turned his head slightly so he could see her.
“This clown’s just trying to hinder our investigation. We ought to take him down to the office. Maybe he’ll be more cooperative there.”
John had heard that line before. Hindering investigations was the phrase all authoritative types used when they couldn’t get their way. It could be a real nuisance to anyone trying to do his job.
“I don’t think that’s necessary just yet. Perhaps you could bring Ms. Maxwell down to the office tomorrow morning. What do you say?”
He looked back toward Bailey and shrugged. “I guess that could be arranged. Any particular time?”
“How about nine?”
“That’s a little early. I have my beauty sleep to worry about. How ‘bout eleven?”
Wesson growled something under her breath, but he ignored her.
“Eleven will be fine,” Bailey agreed. Her right hand dipped into a pocket and came out with a card. “Here, the address and room number is on the card. Show this to the receptionist, and he’ll page me.”
John took the card and gave it a polite read. He knew the federal building and NCIX’s office, but that was before, and these two agents hadn’t been assigned to the northern California office then or at least he hadn’t run across them before.
He slipped the card into his own pocket and nodded as Bailey stood.
“Always happy to be able to help the Executive,” he lied.
Wesson grunted something again. It sounded like an insult, but he couldn’t be sure.
“Thanks, citizen,” Bailey said. “We’ll be expecting you.”
As Bailey started to walk away, Wesson leaned down next to him and softly rumbled, “You’d better not be late. You wouldn’t want us to have to come find you.”
“It’s been a pleasure. Come back anytime,” John answered and smiled as her frown deepened.
Without another word, she turned and marched after her partner.
***
Alain Dewatre sat in a late model utility van and watched John Blalock leave the restaurant and make his way back to the vintage car.
As Blalock pulled out of the public parking lot, the color monitor between the van’s front seats gave Dewatre a bird’s eye view of the car. In the corner of the screen, a digital readout posted the location, direction, and distance of the car from his van’s position. A similar readout across the bottom of the screen gave remaining fuel and estimated flight time for the small RPV that currently flew in a tight circle a thousand feet above Dewatre’s van.
Blalock’s car turned west, and the RPV followed, maintaining its position. The RPV was programmed to track the small spot of infrared dye Dewatre had squirted onto the car while it was in the Pacific Rim parking garage. Unless Blalock left town on one of the high-speed freeways, the little RPV could track him for another hour before Dewatre would have to launch its backup from the cradle in the back of his van.
CHAPTER 14
It was nearing noon when John pulled onto highway one and drove south along the rocky coastal crags toward Half Moon Bay.
He’d been on Caitlin’s case for less than twelve hours, and he already wished she’d dropped it on someone else. It wasn’t that he didn’t enjoy a difficult assignment, in fact, he lived for it. Ever since the canyon, he’d developed a basic craving, almost an addiction, for the adrenaline rush that came with risky business. However, it was one thing to put yourself in the line of fire for the joy of living, but it was an entirely different feeling when you were there to protect someone else, someone you cared for. While he hadn’t been able to admit to Caitlin that he still had feelings for her, he doubted if he’d ever feel that way about anyone else.
His ‘Cuda was old, but it took to the curves of highway one like an adolescent male to a cheerleader. He could have taken one oh one down to Palo Alto and then cut across the peninsula to Half Moon Bay, but more than his car enjoyed the curves which snaked above the crashing surf of the cold Pacific.
For a while, he was trapped behind slow-moving tourists in a rental who spent too much time pointing at the surf, but then they reached an open area and John accelerated past them.
In the clear, his thoughts turned back to the case. There were now at least three parties involved besides Caitlin. There was whoever had attacked her at the hotel, the Japanese businessmen, and now the NCIX. The advent of the NCIX added a threat that he particularly didn’t like. He’d done business with them before, anyone involved in information security came across them sooner or later, and it always left a bad taste in his mouth, sort of like the feeling you have when you wake at three A.M. with a full bladder and a beer hangover. These guys didn’t leap into simple cases, and they normally leapt toward throwing someone into prison. That didn’t bode well for Caitlin, and unless he cooperated, there was a small room somewhere with his name on it.
To top it off, the NCIX muscle showed up immediately after he visited the police station. They wouldn’t sit outside the station hoping Caitlin would come by, but they might leave a tag in the computer. They had addressed him by the alias he had given the desk sergeant. In this case, it would mean the name of the bogus detective Romax was tagged. It also meant that they were interested in whatever this thing was that everyone else sought. Their involvement came long after the first assault on Caitlin, or they would have visited her at the hotel last night. Caitlin had mentioned seeing two women at Alliotto’s in a federal car. Could it have been the same two? How many Amazonian pairs operated in the Bay Area?
Too much was happening too fast. Too many opponents were coming out of the woodwork. He needed more information from Caitlin. There had to be more she could tell him. Caitlin or Scott had done something out of the ordinary, and it must have been recent, perhaps as late as yesterday, but certainly not longer than a week ago. Otherwise, these fast-break artists would have shown up sooner.
He reached the hotel just after one. It was the offseason, as tourists go, but the streets were already packed. The hotel’s parking lot was nearly empty. It was after checkout, and before check-in, the only cars in the lot would most likely belong to tourists spending the day walking around town.
He parked in front of Caitlin’s room and got out. There was no one around who looked suspicious, a rolling cart of dirty laundry waited outside an open door a few rooms away, and the sound of Latin music came from the open door.
His knock on Caitlin’s door wasn’t answered. He waited a full minute and knocked again, louder. Still no answer. He took out his key, unlocked the door, and pushed it open. The lights were off, but the curtains overlooking the bay were open. There was plenty of light to see that no one was home.
He went inside and made a quick inspection. There wasn’t much to find. The toiletries were still in the bathroom, but otherwise, there was nothing to show that Caitlin Maxwell had ever been in here.
Where had she gone? He was almost certain no one could have found her here, but that would mean she left on her own after he specifically told her to lay low and not even leave the room.
Could someone have found her? No, it just wasn’t possible. As much as he didn’t want to believe it, she had run out on him, again.
No, scratch that. She hadn’t run out on him before. She had simply remained with the man she loved. He couldn’t fault her for that. It was the right thing for her to do.
Then why was his gut clenching?
He told himself he was overreacting. There were plenty of reasons she could have left. Maybe she got claustrophobic and went for a walk. Maybe it was that time of the month for her, and she’d needed things that he hadn’t thought to include in his overnight toiletries. Maybe she’d had a cr
aving for ice cream and went looking for a Baskin-Robins. He wouldn’t know until he found her.
He wrote a quick note on the hotel’s stationery, telling her to stay put when she got back. He stuck it on the phone and went outside.
He suddenly realized he’d gotten careless and his first clue was the gun in his ribs.
A husky male voice spoke softly at his ear. “Don’t close it. We are going back inside.”
The voice had a faint accent; French was his first guess, perhaps Belgium, or one of the other Low Countries.
“Whatever you say, pal,” John responded and pushed the door fully open. John guessed he wanted him inside before anyone came along and saw him holding a gun on John. The Frenchman was right behind him when he crossed the threshold.
When the door closed, he spoke again, “Where is she?”
“Who?”
The gun dug deeper into his ribs. “Maxwell of course. Don’t play with me. I know you have her.”
“Au contere mon ami,” John answered. “As you can plainly see I do not have her or anyone else for that matter. What makes you think I do?”
“Never mind that, walk toward the back.”
He obviously wanted to check the bathroom. It was what John would’ve done. When he saw she wasn’t there, he would be confused, making him vulnerable. That’s when John would have his best chance.
“Wait,” he ordered halfway across the room.
He’d seen something.
What?
Damn. The note he’d left. So much for convincing him, he had the wrong guy.
John considered jumping him when he tried to read the note. The pressure of the gun eased and he could see him reaching for the note out of the corner of his eye. No, this was too soon; he didn’t know who the man was or what his involvement was. He needed to learn more from him, and as long as he had the gun, he’d be more apt to give something away.
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