Текст книги "The End Game"

Автор книги: Catherine Coulter

Соавторы: J. T. Ellison
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Текущая страница: 8 (всего у книги 25 страниц)

26

KNIGHT TAKES E4

Nicholas’s Brownstone

East 69th Street

Upper East Side

Nicholas woke without an alarm at six. He felt good, rested, despite only a few hours of sleep. He turned on the TV as he stretched and listened to the local weather. It appeared the weather agreed with his mood, sunny and clear and warm, a perfect spring day shaping up outside. Quite different from his usual mornings in London—rain, rain, and more rain. He did miss London, but New York’s weather was hard to argue with. The city was growing on him.

His good mood swept him through a shower, shaving, dressing. His ruined clothes were nowhere to be seen, which meant Nigel had been in his rooms already this morning.

He took care selecting his clothes; he needed to look shipshape and in control since there would be cameras and press and meetings with other agencies. A gray three-button suit from Barneys, a white Turnbull & Asser shirt with a hint of cream stripe, his grandfather’s cuff links, polished wing tips. Yes, he would do. He started to put on a red tie, then opted for a muted purple. Zachery would be wearing red, no sense competing.

He went to the kitchen for his breakfast. Nigel was nowhere to be seen, but a surprise—he’d made oatmeal. It was much better than Cook Crumbe’s bitter excuse for oatmeal at home.

While he ate, he read the headlines on his iPad. The Bayway bombing was the lead, as expected, the photos from the scene in daylight even more devastating and graphic than he remembered. He glanced at his palms. The burns weren’t bad this morning, what with all the burn cream he’d used. He thought of Rex Cedarson, Bob Ventura, and Kenneth Chantler, the waste of it, and Mr. Hodges, a good man, now dead. No reason for any of it, a show of arrogance.

He drank two strong cups of Earl Grey—sent directly from Fortnum & Mason, thanks to his mum, Mitzie—had a second bowl of brown sugar–laden oatmeal while he checked his e-mail. Nothing from Adam Pearce yet, but it had been only a few hours. Give the boy a chance to make the appropriate inroads.

He got into his car, a sporty, very maneuverable BMW 335i. His new baby was sapphire black with a gray leather interior and dark burl walnut to announce the final touch of class. Though he missed his Jaguar, buying the BMW was cheaper than having the Jag shipped over from England. Well, almost. He loved the way the BMW drove. He’d named the car Freya after his first ancient Fiat from his parents when he was sixteen.

He checked traffic on his mobile, knew it would take him less than twenty minutes to get to Federal Plaza.

Mike called before he hit FDR Drive.

“Are you on your way?”

“I am. ETA ten minutes. What’s happened?”

“Nothing yet,” she said, “though I’ve only been here a few minutes. We’ll sit down at the threat table as soon as you get in. The video feeds are ready, and the families have been notified. Word is out we lost three men last night. This whole place is boiling mad. It’s not going to be a good day here. Ah, did you get everything worked out with our friend?”

“I did. He’s up and running. He’ll report in when he has entry. Is Zachery in his office?”

“I don’t know, but I bet he is, all ready to rock and roll. There’s a press conference scheduled for ten. No news yet on Larry Reeves—all the bodies have been recovered from Bayway, though they haven’t all been identified—he’s up and vanished, left his family without a word. There’s a chance he’s dead. Gray has something for you—important, he says, so hurry up.”

•   •   •

When Nicholas got to his desk on the twenty-third floor, he saw Mike first thing, hunched over her computer, face close to the screen, tracing something with her finger. She took off her glasses, rubbed the bridge of her nose, then leaned back and closed her eyes. He bent down to see what she’d been looking at and was distracted by that jasmine scent of hers—alas, overlaid with a bit of smoke smell this morning. He imagined he was still on the smoky side as well.

He straightened, touched her shoulder. “Nothing yet?”

She blinked up at him. He saw her face sported a colorful array of bruises, but she still looked sharp and ready to annihilate—quite a combination. He wished he had a bad guy to throw into her cage.

“Good morning to you, Michaela. You look better this morning, though that bruise is purple and looks like Rhode Island.” He lightly outlined the bruise with a fingertip. “Does it hurt?”

“Only a tiny bit.” She put on her glasses and looked him up and down. “You look like James Bond, super-macho in cool clothes. Wow, even French cuffs—you look ready to play high-stakes poker and take the table. Makes me think if you took over the Bond franchise, it’d explode.”

He had to laugh. “And I like that jumper. Black is your color. It sets off your hair.”

“Come on, Nicholas, stop trying to jolly me up. Hey, I’m proud of Rhode Island. How are your hands?”

He shrugged. “Not bad this morning.” He leaned back against the blue felt wall of Mike’s cube, his arms crossed. “I’ve been thinking. COE needed massive amounts of money to pull off the cyber-attacks last night. Gunther’s fee alone would be in the millions. Where is all this money coming from? That’s what we need to find out.”

Mike nodded. “Yes, of course you’re right. We’ve also got to be certain COE is behind this.”

“You know they are. Have you looked at any of the video footage yet?”

“Yes. Take a look at this, Nicholas.” Mike pointed to her screen. Nicholas saw blurred dark images, barely visible. Then he saw the edge of a jaw flashing white in the moonlight, and full lips, nothing else under the brim of a baseball cap.

“Brilliant, Agent Caine. Let’s find out who this woman is and track her down.”

27

BISHOP TAKES E7

Mike said, “I’ve got more. She shows up on all three videos. She never takes off the ball cap, so all I can capture is the jaw. We’ll need more for the facial recognition, since the feed itself isn’t so hot.” She paused for a moment. “In one of the shots she looks up toward the camera. It’s like she’s letting herself be seen, and what does that mean?

“There’s something about her that’s familiar to me, but unfortunately I can’t tell you what it is yet. I have this gut feeling she could be our key. Maybe when we find out who she is, all the pieces will fit into place.”

Nicholas shook his head. “I don’t think the database is going anywhere with these images, but who knows? I’ll start running the program immediately, see if I can’t adapt the parameters to work with the angle.”

Mike’s phone rang. It was Zachery’s secretary. “He wants both of you.”

Mike hung up and stood. “It’ll have to wait. It’s Zachery. Showtime.”

They walked down the hall to the conference room, heard Zachery call out, “Drummond, Caine, get in here.”

They stepped in, faced the threat matrix board that tracked all of the ongoing and recently thwarted operations their office was working on. A quick glance showed Nicholas that they stopped attacks in Atlanta, New Jersey, California, and New York in the past twenty-four hours.

Their team usually started their workday with the threat assessment, sitting around the threat table, as they called it, going through their analysis of the threat matrix, and every single morning, the actual volume of threats astounded him. But Bayway hadn’t been on the matrix as a possible action. There’d been no chatter, no threats. Nothing. How many more plots were being planned that they didn’t know about?

Nicholas saw COE had moved to the immediate threat column. No wonder, after last night and fifteen deaths. No, nineteen deaths. COE was small, he knew it in his gut, probably no more than ten members, all told. He also believed COE wasn’t affiliated with another group, which made them more unpredictable. They were lone wolves, and lone wolves scared him more than the large organized groups like ISIS and Al Qaeda. Groups like COE were hard to track, even with all the international cooperation.

Everyone in the room was talking: agents from the Joint Terrorism Task Force compared notes with Homeland Security agents, NSA tap-danced with the National Intelligence Agency. Nicholas didn’t recognize many of the agents, but he knew they represented an alphabet soup of agencies, all wanting to be part of this team, jockeying for who would be named lead agency and run the show.

An NSA agent raised his head, saw Nicholas and whistled, then clapped his hands. “Hey, Drummond, we already applauded Wharton, now it’s your turn. Well done.”

All the agents at the table clapped, but not that loudly, particularly those with other agencies. Nicholas grinned.

Zachery said, “Gray and Nicholas saved the oil companies’ bacon. In addition, let me add that both he and Mike were in the middle of the explosion at the Bayway Refinery last night. They saved lives.”

The claps were louder this time. This was something they all understood.

“A moment, people,” Zachery said, and waved Mike and Nicholas to the hall.

He took them to his office, only a few doors down the hall.

“I have a job for you. No, no briefing, it isn’t necessary. We may have another line on COE.” He handed them a file. “There was a fire last night in Brooklyn. A body was found inside the building once the place had cooled down enough to check. NYPD is assuming it’s the body of the owner; they’re running DNA and dental records to be sure. The ME called, said the dead man had been shot in the chest. Thing is, a witness has an interesting story to tell about some people she claims were staying there.

“I want you two to go to Brooklyn and talk to her, take a look around the place. See what you can turn over.”

He looked at their faces. “No, Mike, Nicholas, you’re not going to Bayway for evidence recovery. I’ve already sent Jernigan and a team out to work with the fire department and the bomb squad to determine the point of origin.”

“But the tapes, sir,” Mike said. “Really, it’s possible to do facial recognition on a partial face of a woman who appears in all three of them.”

Zachery held up his hand. “I’ve got a feeling about this fire and the murdered man in Brooklyn.” He waved toward the conference room. “I need you more in Brooklyn than in there. Go, find out what this all means.”

Mike knew Zachery hadn’t become the head of the Criminal Investigative Division in the New York Field Office because he was a good politician, which he was, a bonus. No, he was sharp, had been one of the most skilled field agents in the FBI. He knew his stuff. Mike had learned to trust his instincts.

Zachery saw Nicholas was about to argue and sighed.

“Listen, this isn’t a throwaway assignment. I’m not looking to get rid of you to cut down on the distraction because of what the two of you did last night. No, this is for real. I know in my gut this is something important.”

Nicholas nodded. “We’re on our way, sir. We’ll call in with anything we find.”

“Good. Now make yourselves scarce before people start asking questions. And Agent Caine, do try to keep Agent Drummond out of trouble.”

Mike went back to her desk, gathered her bag, unlocked her weapon. Nicholas was next to her, doing the same thing.

“A moment, Nicholas,” Mike said, and waved down Agent Ben Houston.

“Hey, Ben, I need you to run some film footage for me.”

“Sure, Mike. What do you need?”

“The video feed from the Bayway cameras shows a woman in a baseball cap. In one she’s looking at the camera. Can you upload her into the NGA database, see if we get a hit?”

“I’ll let you know the minute I’ve got something.”

“Thanks, Ben. We’ll be on the radio if you need us.”

In the elevator, Nicholas said, “What else is on the to-do list?”

“A big-time examination of the video feeds, the bomb analysis, and figuring out who killed our agents and Mr. Hodges.”

“Yet Zachery wants us in Brooklyn to interview a witness.”

Mike pulled her hair out of the ponytail holder, shook it out. It was giving her a headache. “If Zachery thinks there’s something here, I’ll bet my best biker boots there is.”

Ten minutes later they crossed the Brooklyn Bridge and Mike began winding the Crown Vic through the Brooklyn neighborhoods. When her GPS sang out, she stopped at the curb in front of a Laundromat sandwiched between a Chinese takeout and a small bodega.

Nicholas asked, “And the name of this tremendously critical witness is?”

“Mrs. Vida Antonio. She owns this Laundromat. Oh, yes, before I forget, you didn’t mention Adam Pearce’s assignment to Zachery, did you?”

Nicholas grinned at her. “When Adam finds a line into COE, we’ll take it to Zachery immediately. If he doesn’t, as you say, no harm, no foul.”

As they climbed out of the Crown Vic, Mike looked him up and down. “Nicholas, I think you should Brit it up for our laundress. That posh accent of yours plus your French cuffs might make Mrs. Antonio talk more.”

“If she has anything to say,” he said, without much hope.

“Have some faith,” Mike said, and punched his arm.

28

QUEEN TO B6

George Washington University Hospital

Washington, D.C.

Vanessa felt weightless, as if she were rising, rising into whiteness, soft, like clouds, barely touching them, passing through. She felt no pain, no discomfort at all. She was dying. Or she was already dead and this was her introduction to Heaven. Her brain turned on at the slow insistent beep beside her head. What was it? Why wouldn’t it stop? She suddenly felt her breath, in and out, in and out, copying the rhythm of the beep. But where was she? She felt a sudden lick of pain, then another, more like a tsunami this time, deep and hard. Her ribs were grinding with each breath.

No, this sure wasn’t Heaven, and since it wasn’t, then that meant Hell. No, not Hell, either. The pain meant she was alive and she was in the hospital, not sprawled on the asphalt while the building burned around her.

“Nessa, you’re awake? Yes, I see your eyelids moving. It’s about time. Listen, listen, you’re okay, you’re safe, sweetheart. Come on, Nessa, show me your beautiful eyes.”

The voice was familiar, though she couldn’t place it.

She forced her eyes open. The room was swimming, as though she were underwater, and wasn’t that strange? She managed to turn her head toward the voice. There was a man sitting next to her bed. Bald, for the most part, where he used to be blond. Blue eyes behind thick glasses. A funny-looking mustache. Slumped shoulders. Pale skin. Brown slacks, white shirt.

“Uncle Carl,” she whispered, and saying that one word nearly hurled her into so much pain she didn’t want to breathe anymore. He was holding her hand. Now he rose and bent over her.

“It’s going to be all right, Nessa, I’m here. You’re going to be okay, you’re going to be fine. You gave us quite a scare.”

“How did you find me?”

“Someone called in on your phone, several times in a row. We knew something was wrong immediately, sent a team into the GPS coordinates it broadcasted for an emergency extraction. Thank God in Heaven we did. You were shot in the chest, fell off the roof of a burning building, and thankfully survived the fall. We medevaced you to D.C. when you were stable. I didn’t want to leave you anywhere near the scene, for your safety. What happened? Clearly someone found the phone, but how?”

It was so hard to talk. She managed to whisper. “Long story. Matthew heard your text come in. He shot me. He shot Ian, too.”

Carl’s heart stopped. He’d gotten his only niece shot, nearly gotten her killed. “Here, take a little water, it might help.”

She tried to suck on the straw. “It hurts. Really bad.”

“I know. You have a morphine pump. Let me give you a good dose.”

He did. While they waited until the world grew hazy again and the pain pulled away, he said, “The NYPD found Ian’s body. Thankfully, the bullet missed your heart by a fraction.” He closed his eyes for a moment. “You were so lucky, Nessa, so very lucky. Is the pain better now?”

“Yes, I know it’s there, but it’s sort of standing across the room. Waiting.”

He smiled at her and began to stroke her hand. “You’ve had surgery. It was very long and I was so scared.” He paused, getting himself together. “Your blood pressure, well, it’s still a worry. Do you remember falling off the roof?”

She tried to remember, but it wouldn’t come.

“It’s all right, don’t worry about it. The fall broke a few bones. Your left tibia had a clean crack, but your femur and ulna on the right arm will need surgery when you’ve stabilized, probably a few screws and pins. Okay, I can see the morphine is taking you back to dreamland. Let it all go now, Nessa, let it all go. You can tell me the rest of it later. Sleep, sweetheart, sleep now.”

She thought she heard him say she wasn’t going to die like her father had when he’d been undercover during the height of the Troubles in Belfast.

She whispered, “My cover is gone, and that means—”

Her uncle put a finger over her lips and shook his head. “Not now, don’t worry about it.”

She let her eyes close again and let the morphine take her back to float in the white clouds. She was warm, she was safe, and best of all, her uncle was here and he’d protect her. She felt him squeeze her hand. As she floated away, she thought things could be worse.

But then it hit her, she had to tell him, had to—her eyes opened. “Uncle Carl, they’re going to assassinate someone, someone big.”

The machines beeped faster, insistently now.

He smoothed her hair off her forehead. “Calm down, Nessa. We’re going to stop them. We’re on their trail already. Now I want you to get some rest.”

“No, no, there’s going to be another attack—and an assassination, someone important—” She was gasping for breath, fighting to stay awake.

Pain, so intense, struck her chest like lightning. She felt a strange rush bubbling inside her. Her eyes rolled back in her head. Her heart monitor went haywire.

Nurses and doctors rushed into the room, shoving him out of the way.

“What’s happening?” Carl Grace yelled.

“She’s coding. Sir, please, you must move out of the way.”

29

BISHOP TO C4

Brooklyn

Rather than going immediately into Vida Antonio’s Laundromat, they stopped to study the burned-out auto repair shop. It took up most of the opposite block. The second story had collapsed into the first, and wouldn’t you know it, the broken-down cars in the lot right next to the burned-out building weren’t damaged. The brick was scorched black; the glassless windows gaped onto the street. The smell of soggy insulation and burned wood still filled the air. Bits of ash were still being churned up by passing cars. A yellow strip of crime scene tape was strung across the drive to keep vehicles out of the lot.

“Nothing to do here,” Nicholas said. “Let’s go see Mrs. Antonio.”

Vida Antonio was waiting for them behind a spotless counter in her Laundromat. She was small and round and gray and sharp-eyed, somewhere in her late sixties. She had a seen-it-all air about her, and the barest hint of an Italian accent, almost smothered by all-out Brooklynese. They were barely through the door when she said, “You the FBI?”

Nicholas nodded. Mike said, “Hello, Mrs. Antonio. I’m Agent Caine, and this is Agent Drummond. I understand you saw something of interest last night?”

Mrs. Antonio immediately held a finger to her lips and gestured for them to follow her into the back, past a dozen churning washing machines and dryers, ten or so patrons sitting in chairs reading or cruising the Internet on their tablets, or staring blank-eyed at the tumbling windows in the machines. Two young guys were folding sheets and talking. No one paid them any attention.

Once inside a small office, Mrs. Antonio breathed out a sigh of relief.

“Before I tell you anything, I need to see some ID.” She held out her hand.

They gave her their creds, and Mrs. Antonio examined them closely before saying, “Anyone can see me talking to you from the street. I don’t need to upset anyone, you know what I mean? Certain folk could get the wrong idea. Now, don’t think I’m talking about the Mob and them seeing you and coming in to cut my throat. It’s the young people, they get nervous around cops and I don’t want to lose business.

“I’m pleased you took me seriously. Of course I knew you had to be FBI; the two of you are as spiffy and clean as a sunrise. Except for the bruises. What did you do, get into a catfight?”

“Yes, ma’am, and I won,” Mike said. “I’m glad you called the tip line. Can you tell us what you saw across the street last night?”

“Okay, okay. Let me see, a week ago, Georgie—Georgio Panatone, he owns the repair shop—he took off for Europe. Lord knows where he got the money, business hasn’t been too good this year for either of us. Before he left, he told me some friends were going to stay in his place, water his plants, keep an eye on things, so not to be worried if I saw people come and go. He gave me a spare key in case there was trouble, and took off.”

She sniffed. “I don’t know why he didn’t ask me to care for his things, we’ve known each other for decades. Anyway, I’m nosy, so I watched over things, in case something happened. Friends can’t always be trusted. The day he left, I saw a big black van drive up and five people got out and they had all kinds of boxes, and what looked like small TV screens. They dropped black curtains over the windows in Georgie’s apartment—it’s above the shop—and isn’t that strange? Black curtains? Like they didn’t want anyone to see what they were up to. What sort of plant-watering friends do that?”

Mike said, “I agree, ma’am, it’s very strange behavior. Can you tell us what the people looked like?”

Mrs. Antonio’s brows shot up. “Well, of course I can and I was going to. I didn’t bring you out here to tell you about some black curtains. You some kind of dummy?”

Nicholas and Mike both grinned. Mike said, “Ah, no, ma’am. Forgive me for interrupting. Please continue.”

“Okay, then. So they didn’t leave for two days, until last night. I saw them clear on the steps—four men: one was an Arab; three were white. I’d say the Arab guy was well into his forties, two were in their thirties, and a younger guy, probably late twenties, like my oldest grandchild, Nelson. And there was a pretty young woman with red hair stuffed under a ball cap. They were carrying duffel bags and backpacks.

“Last night, three of the men and the young woman piled into a beat-up Corolla Georgie had sitting on his lot. They had a lot of stuff with them in duffel bags. I don’t see them come back, but every half-hour or so, the curtains twitched, so I knew for certain the young guy had stayed behind.” Nicholas saw that Mike was ready to shout to the heavens.

Bless Zachery’s gut.

Nicholas said, “Mrs. Antonio, I think you’ve missed your calling. You should have been a private investigator.”

She nodded. “Not a bad idea. After five boys and thirty-two grandchildren, you bet I know how to keep my eyes on things.”

“Are you certain of their races, ma’am?” Mike asked. “Could you describe these people to a sketch artist for us?”

“I have eyes in my head, Agent Caine. Yes. I am absolutely sure, and yes, I’ll work with your people. Now I’m getting to the meat of the story, so hang on. I heard them drive back about two in the morning and looked out my window. There were only three of them, two white men and the redheaded woman. They were careful, quickly made sure there wasn’t anybody around. The Arab man was nowhere to be seen. It wasn’t more than thirty minutes later when I heard the shots.”

Mike could feel Nicholas vibrate. “Tell us about the gunshots. You’re sure they were gunshots? Sure there were two?”

Mrs. Antonio said, her voice patient, as if she were speaking to an idiot, “Agent Caine, I haven’t lived in this swanky part of town all my life. I came from a worse area, up north. Trust me, I know what a gunshot sounds like. Yes, I’m sure. I heard two shots, but I didn’t know from where, so I didn’t call the police, I waited to see if there’d be anything more. Two of the men came out of the building and loaded stuff in the van. Three trips they made, then they left, fast.

“Right after I smelled smoke, I went to the window and saw Georgie’s building was on fire. I called nine-one-one, told them to get someone out here right away. There wasn’t anyone moving around, and I was worried, you know? I mean, what happened to the other man and the redheaded woman? Of course, I thought it had to be Georgie’s where the gunshots came from. And though whoever they were and whatever they’d been doing in Georgie’s apartment wasn’t my business, I still didn’t want someone to die.

“While I waited for the fire trucks to show, I saw a shadow moving on the roof. It moved real slow, then it was crawling along the edge of the roof. I realized it was the woman, the one with the red hair. I saw her pull herself to the fire escape and she climbed down like she was hurt, careful and jerky, and I thought—she was the one who got shot. She was almost down when she simply fell off and dropped like a rock into the parking lot. I was about to run out when this big black Suburban drove up and two men jumped out. One of them pointed and they ran over and grabbed her up. One shoved some sort of towel in her chest, then wrapped this big white pad around her. They picked her up and carried her together. I saw them put her real gently in the back of the Suburban and one of the men got in with her, and the other one drove away. I don’t think she was dead, not the way they were taking care of her. That’s it, that’s all I saw.”

She nodded once; she was now open for questions.

Mike said, “The men who helped, the two who took the redheaded woman away, it wasn’t two of the same men who moved in?”

Mrs. Antonio shook her head. “Of course not, I would have told you if they’d been the same. No, I’d never seen them before. They were very businesslike, dressed all in black, with those black wool beanies on their heads, so I couldn’t tell their hair color. Both of ’em were tall, like you, Agent Drummond, taller than three of the four men who’d been there before. They moved young, though, now I think about it.”

She looked over at Nicholas, who’d been taking notes. “You’re a lovely big boy. You got good genes.”

Nicholas gave her a blazing smile. “I agree with the good-gene part, Mrs. Antonio. Now, I’ll bet you took down the license plate of the Suburban.”

“Of course,” she said with a grin that took years off her face. She gave Nicholas the plate number, watched him send a text to Gray. “I could never figure out how someone with big hands and fingers like yours can type on those tiny letters. You’re loaded with talent, aren’t you?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Nicholas said, sending another text, this one to Zachery.

“Who’d they drag out of the building? There was a body bag.”

“We don’t know yet, ma’am,” Mike said, half her attention on Nicholas’s flying fingers.

“I’m hoping it wasn’t Georgie. He’s too nice a man to die like that. Course, I’d have known if he was back home.”

Mrs. Antonio must have decided they were worthy, because she brought out a teapot and three battered mugs, poured tea before they could escape. “You’re not from around here,” she said, handing Nicholas a mug of tea. Now that she’d made their day, she was ready to flirt.

He took a grateful slurp. “No, ma’am. That’s very good. Thank you. I’m from outside of London, in the countryside, a small town you’ve never heard of.”

Mike accepted her own cup, nudged him on the shoulder. “Go on, Nicholas. Tell her who your mom is.”

“No, no, I mean—”

“Well, come on, boy, who is your mama? I’m getting older by the minute. Who knows if I even have all day?”

“My mother is Mitzie Manders. She was a comedian, starred in A Fish Out of Water, a TV show back in the early eighties.”

Mrs. Antonio’s face lit up. “A Fish Out of Water—oh, my, it was one of my favorite shows. Probably my husband’s very favorite, since he thought she was the cutest girl he’d ever seen, a funny Grace Kelly, that’s what he called her. And she’s the one responsible for making you tall and strong? How to speak such spiffy English? Did she teach you how to dress, too? Would you look at those lovely French cuffs. Very sharp. Well, I am impressed. You tell her she has a fan in Brooklyn the next time you talk to her.”

When they finished their tea, both Mike and Nicholas rose. He said, “We must be going, but we may be in touch again.” He handed her a card. “If you remember anything else, Mrs. Antonio, please call me straightaway.”

“You’ll come back and tell me what happened, won’t you?”

“We’ll circle back, absolutely.” And to himself, he made a mental note to call his mother first chance he had. They shook Mrs. Antonio’s hand, thanked her for the information and tea, and stepped out of the Laundromat in time to see a man poking around the ashes across the street. He saw them looking his way, turned on his heel, and took off running.