Edge Page 5

  Joanne said, "We'll go to the safe house. But she goes somewhere else. It's the only way I'll agree."

  Then Ryan said to his wife, "You and Amanda go."

  "No," she said adamantly. "I'm staying with you."

  "But--"

  "I'm staying." She took his hand.

  I stepped to the window once more and looked out. Joanne noted this, the same way her husband had earlier, and she was uneasy with my apparent concern. I turned back. "I don't mind in theory but I don't have enough people to put your daughter in a separate safe house. Can you send her away somewhere? As long as the place she goes to has no connection to you or your family at all and her name isn't on travel records or credit-card purchases."

  Loving and other expert lifters managed liberal access to data-mined information.

  "Bill," Joanne said suddenly.

  "Who?"

  Ryan said, "William Carter. He's a family friend. He was in the department with me. Retired about ten years ago. She could stay with him."

  I wondered if Loving could track him down because of his past association with Ryan. "Was he your partner, were you ever assigned together? Is he Amanda's godfather?"

  "No. Just a friend. We were never on the same detail. He's got this place on a lake in Loudoun County, near White's Ferry. They could go there. Amanda likes him. He's sort of her uncle." He reiterated, "And he's a former cop."

  "You're absolutely sure nobody could place you two together? You don't own anything together, a fishing boat, a car? Ever loaned each other money that was part of a public filing, bought property from each other?"

  "No. Nothing."

  "Can he be here in ten minutes?"

  "Five. He lives a neighborhood away. He was going to the game this afternoon but he'll change his plans on a dime for something like this."

  I opened my bag and withdrew my laptop. I booted it up and began typing commands into a new window. I examined the information scrolling past on our organization's secure database. Nothing about William Carter or his career or life circumstances gave me any concern. My next search was about the girl. Amanda Kessler was a typical teenager, active on Facebook, MySpace and blogs but the personal information was minimal. I was relieved at that. Social networking sites have made our jobs as shepherds nightmares, given all the personal details people threw out into the ozone. I noted too that Amanda had never posted anything about William Carter or his vacation house or Loudoun County.

  I was satisfied that it would be virtually impossible for Loving to find any connection. "Call him." I handed Ryan a mobile, a flip phone, black, a little larger than your standard Nokia or Samsung.

  "What's this?"

  "A cold phone. Encrypted and routed through proxies. From now on, until I tell you otherwise, use only this phone." I collected theirs and took out the batteries.

  Ryan examined the unit--Joanne stared at it like it was a poisonous snake--then he made the call and had a conversation with Carter.

  He disconnected. "He's on his way." Then the detective paused for a moment, framing what he was going to say, and turned toward the doorway, calling, "Amanda? Come on down here, honey. We want to talk to you."

  A moment later a shadow appeared in the doorway and their daughter entered the kitchen. The girl was wearing red-framed glasses, her dark hair long and moppy. She had her father's physique: narrow hips and broad shoulders. A basketball player.

  Her eyes were quick, and though she'd probably heard something about what the agents were doing outside she seemed unafraid. She looked me over carefully.

  Her stepmother said, "Amanda, this is Agent Corte. He works with the government. Like the FBI."

  "Hi, Amanda," I said easily.

  "Hello." She seemed more interested in my impressive laptop than me personally.

  Telling children they're in danger is an art (girls, I'd found, do better with the bad news than boys). I'm skilled at having the discussion but I generally prefer to let the parents talk to them first. Ryan took over. "Mandy, we've got a little problem."

  The girl nodded, eyes growing sharper yet.

  "Looks like somebody's not too happy about a case of mine and some of the boys at the department and the FBI are going to arrest him. But until they do, we're going to get out of the house for a while."

  "Somebody you busted?" Amanda asked matter-of-factly.

  "We're not sure."

  "You said you weren't working many cases lately."

  Ryan paused before saying, "It could be from the past. We don't know yet."

  I told the girl, "We aren't sure what he's up to but we know he's dangerous."

  "Your mom and I are going with Agent Corte to talk about the case. Try to help them figure out who's behind it."

  "A lockdown?"

  Ryan smiled. I wondered what TV show she had gotten the term from.

  "Not quite, but it's better if we leave the house. While we're helping out the feds you're going to spend a few days with Uncle Bill at the lake house."

  "Dad, come on," she whined. Her pretty, round face, dusted with a bit of mild acne, screwed up in disappointment, which seemed exaggerated to me. "I can't miss school." She recited the reasons: the first quiz of the term in her biology class, basketball practice, her assignment at a student counseling center hotline, a homecoming parade committee. She shot them out fast, hoping one would stick. "I mean, I just can't."

  Children . . . invulnerable, immortal. And, by their own reckoning, the center of the universe.

  "You'll be out of school for a few days, tops. Like a vacation."

  "Vacation? Aw, Jo, come on."

  "Go pack some things. Now."

  "Now?"

  I gave her a cold phone too and collected hers. She was reluctant to part with it. I added to the girl, "And until I say it's all right, I'm afraid you can't go online."

  "What?" To a teenager, the worst deprivation possible.

  "It won't be for very long. But this man probably knows how to trace your computer."

  "That, like, sucks."

  "Amanda," her father said sternly.

  "Sorry. But I have to go online. I mean, Facebook and Twitter, at least. And I write my blog every day. I've never missed--"

  Joanne said, "Not until Agent Corte says it's okay. You can rough it at Uncle Bill's. Watch TV, read, play games. You can go fishing. You like to fish."

  "Oh, that totally . . ." The teen's face crinkled into well-honed exasperation.

  "You'll have fun. Now go pack. Bill'll be here any minute."

  "Fun," she muttered sarcastically. As the daughter left, I asked the Kesslers, "Any other close relatives in the area?"

  Joanne blinked in surprise. "Oh, my God. My sister. I forgot about Maree." It was an odd name, Marr-ee. "She's been staying here for the past month. She'll have to come with us."

  "Is she out?" I asked. I'd seen no other signs of life in the house.

  "No, she's still asleep."

  "My sister-in-law's a night owl," Ryan explained.

  "Wake her up," I said. "We have to leave. . . . Oh, and don't let her use her mobile."

  Joanne blinked at the urgent instructions. She nodded to a tray on the island. "That's her phone there." I shut it off, removed the battery and slipped it into my bag. Joanne stepped into the hall and I heard her footfalls on the stairs.

  Ryan went into the den and began filling a large briefcase and a shoulder bag with paperwork. The Metropolitan Police logo was on many of the documents. I continued my inquiry about other relatives who could be used as an edge. Ryan's parents had passed away. His brother was in Washington state. Joanne's father and his second wife--he was a widower--lived in the area but they were on vacation in Europe. Maree was her only sibling. Joanne had never been married before.

  "Does Joanne have children?" I asked.

  He hesitated for a weighty second. "No."

  The Kesslers would have friends, of course, but lifters usually had little success using people who weren't blood kin for edges.
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  Another glance outside, across the backyard. Two doors down a man coiled up a green garden hose, wrapping it leisurely under his elbow and between finger and thumb. Another neighbor was taking down screens. One house nearby was quiet, though a window shade moved slightly.

  "That house behind you, kitty-corner, to the left? Are the residents home today, as far as you know?"

  Ryan looked where I pointed. "Yeah, I saw Teddy this morning on his way to Starbucks." Then he glanced at the doorway to see if his wife was out of earshot. "You know, Corte, this world . . . what you and I do? Joanne can't handle it well. Things freak her out, things we don't even think about. Sometimes she even leaves the room when the news comes on. I'd appreciate it if you'd keep that in mind."

  "Sorry. I'll make sure of it."

  "Thanks." Ryan smiled and went upstairs to pack.

  In fact, I'd been much more blunt with sensitive Joanne than I needed to be--so that Ryan would do what he just had: asked for that very favor, which I'd agreed to. Solely for the purpose of getting him more on my side.

  My phone buzzed and my audible caller ID said through my earbud, "Fredericks."

  I hit ANSWER. "Freddy."

  "I'm pulling in the driveway, Corte. Don't shoot me."

  Chapter 5

  I NEVER UNDERSTOOD the FBI agent's compulsive joking. Perhaps it was to protect himself, the way not joking is some kind of shield for me. I found it irritating but I didn't have to live with him, the way his wife and five children did, so I tried not to let it bother me.

  I told him, "Come in the front," and disconnected.

  At the door I greeted the tall, white-haired agent. Claire duBois, whose quirky mind had a habit of prodding her to make odd but accurate observations, once said of Freddy, "Did you ever notice that the best FBI agents look like TV Mafia dons and the best Mafia dons look like TV agents?" I hadn't but it was true. Solid and columnar, ever in low gear, the fifty-five-year-old Paul Anthony Xavier Fredericks was a long-timer in the Bureau; he'd worked nowhere else after his graduation from college. He stepped into the house, accompanied by a younger agent. Both followed me into the kitchen.

  Special Agent Rudy Garcia was in his late twenties. Scrubbed and reserved, he'd clearly been military before the Bureau. Quick eyes, unsmiling and married, he wasn't, I judged, the sort to have a good time going out for a beer with. But, then, I've heard the same about me.

  "The Kesslers're packing. Any word from West Virginia?"

  A shrug said it all. I hadn't expected much. An unidentified vehicle, an unknown route. Loving was invisible.

  "What do you think, Freddy, about his ETA?"

  "At least two hours plus till he gets to Fairfax, at the earliest," the agent said, reading the framed news story about Ryan the hero. "I remember that. Sure."

  Garcia was walking around the ground floor, glancing out the windows. He was good, careful not to give anything away to anybody outside.

  And not presenting any target himself.

  Joanne and Ryan came down the stairs, two suitcases in the cop's beefy hands. They stopped in the hallway and he set them down. They joined us in the kitchen and I introduced them to the agents.

  "Messing up your weekend," Freddy said. "Sorry about that."

  I asked, "Is Maree up? We have to go."

  "She'll be down in a minute."

  I suggested, "Amanda might feel more comfortable if her aunt goes with her to your friend's place in Loudoun."

  For some reason Ryan replied, after a hesitation, "Probably not." Joanne agreed.

  Freddy's radio clattered. "SUV approaching. Registered to William Carter."

  I told him, "The friend. The Kesslers' daughter's staying with him."

  A moment later Bill Carter was at the door. He entered without knocking and joined us, hugging Joanne hard, then he shook Ryan's hand warmly. The white-haired man was in his early sixties, tanned and fit, six-two or so. His face grave and gray eyes sharp, he looked me over through large, clear aviator glasses as he gripped my hand. He greeted Freddy and Garcia too, carefully examining all the IDs. I caught the crown of a holster and shiny butt of a pistol under his jacket.

  "This is for real, then," he muttered.

  "It's terrible, Bill," Joanne said. "One day everything's fine and then . . . this."

  I handed Carter another of the cold phones and explained it to him.

  "Who's after you?" he asked Ryan.

  "The devil incarnate" was the dry response.

  I replied to Carter's very nonrhetorical question--the former cop would want details: "His name's Henry Loving. He's white, midforties, about two hundred pounds, dark hair. Had a scar, his temple. Probably doesn't anymore." I typed on the computer. "Here's an old picture. He's good at changing appearances but it'll give you a rough idea." My principals and Carter had fallen silent, looking at the benign face of Henry Loving. Put a white band of collar on him and he could have been a minister. A navy blue suit, an accountant or salesman at Macy's. His face was as placid as mine, merely a little fuller. He didn't look like a killer, torturer and kidnapper. Which worked to his advantage.

  I said to Carter, "I think we're on top of things and he doesn't know about you. But be alert. You have wireless in your house in Loudoun?"

  "Yessir."

  "Can you disable it?"

  "Sure."

  I added, "And make sure Amanda doesn't configure your computer for dial-up."

  "She'd know how to do that?"

  "She's a teenager," I said. "She could build a computer out of kitchen appliances."

  "Suppose you're right about that." He looked at the Kesslers. "How much did you tell her?"

  Ryan said, "Pretty much everything. But I didn't overdo it."

  "She's got some grit, your daughter. It'd take a lot to get her rattled. But I'll keep her distracted."

  "Thanks, Bill."

  "And when you leave," I told him, "keep her down. Have her look for something you lost under the front seat. Just for a block or two."

  Maybe Carter thought this was excessive but he agreed.

  Amanda bounded down the stairs, clutching a pillow in a red-and-white gingham case. It seemed teenagers couldn't travel without pillows, girls at least. Security blankets maybe.

  "Uncle Bill, hi!" She hugged the man and sized up Freddy and Garcia, the new arrivals.

  "Hey, this's some weird adventure, honey," Carter said.

  "Yeah."

  "We better hit the road," the former cop said.

  I was amused; the solidly built teenage athlete had around her shoulder a purse in the shape of a plush bear, with a goofy smile and a zipper down its back.

  Joanne grabbed the girl and hugged hard, to her stepdaughter's embarrassment.

  Then her father did the same. He too was treated to a stiff return embrace. "Come on, humor your old man," Ryan said affectionately.

  "Dad . . . okay." She stepped back, though her father kept his hands on her shoulders.

  "You call us anytime. About anything."

  "Yeah, okay."

  "It's going to be fine, honey." Then the bulky detective released his grip, apparently worried that his coddling might give his daughter more cause to worry. He smiled.

  "Like, bye." Lugging her pillow, backpack and bear purse, Amanda ran to Carter's SUV.

  Again the former cop hugged Joanne and then gripped Ryan's hand with both of his. "I'll take really good care of her. Don't worry. God bless."

  Then he was gone.

  Ryan returned to the den and came out with his briefcase and another backpack. It was heavy and I assumed it contained ammunition and possibly another weapon.

  Freddy called his men outside on the radio. We heard one of them respond, "Carter's gone. Nobody following. The girl wasn't visible."

  Then I heard footsteps on the stairs, and a woman, quite attractive, appeared in the kitchen doorway. She was blinking, as if she'd just awakened, though she was dressed in a nice outfit and her face was made up. She bore a faint resemblanc
e to Joanne and was six, eight years younger. She was taller but willowy, not as solid.

  "This is Maree," Joanne said.

  "Well, lookit this," she said. It seemed that she hadn't quite believed what her sister had been telling her. Sure enough: "I thought you were kidding, Jo. I mean," looking at Freddy and Garcia, "didn't I see you in The Sopranos?" She poured some orange juice and added an herbal powdered concoction to it. She drank it down and made a face.

  The agents regarded her blankly.

  Maree had longer and straighter hair than her sister's and it was mostly but not completely, or authentically, blond. She wore a full suede skirt and a gossamer floral blouse of yellow and green. Silver jewelry. No wedding ring. I always look, not for availability, of course, but because marital status gives me information about a lifter's options in getting an edge on the principal.

  A fancy camera dangled over her shoulder, and I could see in the foyer her luggage. She had a large wheelie, a heavy backpack and a laptop case, as if she were going away for two weeks. Maree picked up a stack of mail on a table near the kitchen door. The pieces had been sent to her but the printed address--in the North West quadrant of the District--had been crossed out and the Kesslers' penned in, forwarded here. Maybe she'd lost her job and been forced to move in with her sister and brother-in-law.

  As she flipped through the mail, I noted the woman give a slight wince; she moved her left arm more gingerly than her right. I thought I saw a bandage near the elbow, beneath the thin cloth. She took a jacket from a coat rack, tugged it on and turned to her sister. "This looks like it's shaping up to be a great party but I'm out of here. I'm going to stay in the District tonight."

  "What?" Joanne asked. "You're coming with us."

  "I don't see a lot of fun in that option. I'm choosing door number three."

  "Mar, please . . . You've got to come. Where would you go?"

  "I called Andrew. I'm going to stay with him."

  "Called him?" I was concerned she had another mobile. "From the house phone?"

  "Yeah."

  This didn't trouble me; while monitoring and tracing mobiles was a piece of cake, tapping into a landline was very difficult, and even if an associate of Loving had done so, Maree couldn't have given away anything crucial to the job.

  She was looking around. "I couldn't find my cell. You know where it is?"

  "I've got it." I explained about the risks of tracing.