Текст книги "Two Graves"

Автор книги: Lincoln Child

Соавторы: Douglas Preston
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Текущая страница: 17 (всего у книги 34 страниц)

37

THEY LOOKED AT EACH OTHER THROUGH THE SEMIDARKNESS, not moving. Pendergast stood, catching his breath, only now realizing that he had never been quite so thoroughly and rapidly overcome in his life. Alban had entirely surprised him, the way he had stopped as if to wait for Pendergast to catch up, and then—in the space of mere seconds—set up an ambush and followed it through with remarkable success.

Keeping his eyes on his son, he brushed himself off, waiting for Alban to speak, waiting for his opportunity. He still had a backup sidearm and several other weapons on his person. Alban would not escape him now.

“Amazing, isn’t it?” said Alban. “Here we are, face-to-face.” His voice was cool, mellifluous. Unlike his brother, he did not have the trace of an accent, yet he spoke with the slight over-preciseness of one to whom English was a second language. “I was destined to meet you. As are all sons to meet their fathers.”

“What about their mothers?” Pendergast asked.

This question did not seem to surprise Alban. He continued. “The test has reached a crucial phase. Allow me to compliment you, by the way, on solving my little riddle. And to think I doubted you would. I apologize.”

“You like to talk,” said Pendergast. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the glint of the .45 in the weeds about ten feet to his left.

Alban laughed. “Yes, I do.” He took a step to his right, then another, effectively blocking Pendergast’s approach to the gun. Although he was only fifteen, he seemed much older—tall, extremely fit, strong, and whippet-fast. Pendergast wondered if the youth had been trained in the martial arts. If so, he did not believe he could best him in a physical contest.

“Why are you—?”

“Killing? Like I said, it’s a test.”

“Tell me—”

“About the test? It’s simple. At least in part, it’s to see who’s the better man: you or me.” He held out his hands toward Pendergast, turned up his palms. “Like you, I’m unarmed. Here we are, evenly matched. It’s not quite fair since you’re old and I’m young. So I’m going to give you a handicap.”

Pendergast could feel his moment arriving, a window in which he could act. He prepared himself mentally, choreographing his actions in his head. But then, mere seconds before he made his move, one of Alban’s extended hands jerked into Pendergast’s jacket and—in one astonishing blur of movement—removed his backup sidearm. It happened so quickly that by the time Pendergast reacted, Alban was already in possession of the weapon.

“Oops.” Alban examined it—a Walther PPK .32—and snorted. “Now, this is a side of you I wouldn’t have guessed. A romantic, aren’t we, Father?”

Pendergast took a step back, but even as he did so Alban stepped forward, keeping the distance between them a close five feet. He continued holding the Walther, his thumb on the safety.

“Why this test?” asked Pendergast.

“Ah! That really is the heart of the matter, isn’t it? Why pit me against you? What a strange thing! And yet, so muchdepends on it—” But suddenly Alban stopped and stepped back, his arrogant self-assurance wavering.

“Is that why you’re—”

“Calling this the betatest? Yes.” After a moment, Alban relaxed, smiled again. Then he removed the magazine from the Walther, slid out the rounds with his thumb, one at a time, leaving just one in the magazine. He slid the mag back into place, racked the final round into the chamber, and thumbed off the safety. He handed the gun back to Pendergast, butt first.

“There. Your handicap. One round in the chamber. Now the advantage is yours. See if you can capture and take me in. With a single round.”

Pendergast aimed the pistol at Alban. He would not– couldnot—kill him, not at present: his need to know his son’s motive, his relation to Der Bund, was very great. But the boy was so strong and fast that he could escape, even now, simply by running.

A bullet in the knee would be necessary.

With the faintest flickering movement he dropped the muzzle and fired, but Alban moved so fast—even before Pendergast seemed to have started his own move—that the bullet missed, just nicking the cloth.

Alban laughed, reaching down, poking his finger through the hole in his trousers, wiggling it. “Close! Whew. But not good enough. What is the expression? This time, I bestedyou.”

He took a quick step back, reached down into the weeds, and picked up Pendergast’s .45. “Do you know the Goethe poem ‘Der Erlkönig’?”

“In translation, yes.”

“ Schön!By heart?”

“Yes.”

“Excellent. Here’s what’s going to happen. You’re going to turn your back, close your eyes, and recite it. The first three stanzas should be sufficient. No—considering we’re in relative darkness, I’ll be even more sporting and make it only the first two stanzas. And then you can come looking for me.”

“And if I cheat?”

“I’ll shoot you.” Alban’s pale eyes twinkled. “Of course, I could just shoot you right now, and that would also be cheating. We Pendergastsdo not cheat.” Another pleasant smile. “Do you want to play?”

“I have more—”

“I think I’ve answered enough questions. Now: do you want to play?”

“Why not?”

“If you open your eyes early, it means you’re a cheater; I shoot; you die.”

“You’ll merely outrun me. This is no challenge at all.”

“It is true I could outrun you. But I won’t do that. Instead, during your recitation, which should take no longer than ten seconds, I’m going to hide. And you will have to find me however you can—by intelligence, by stealth, by tracking, by deduction—it’s up to you. So! Turn your back and let’s begin.”

Pendergast heard the soft click of the safety on the Les Baer being thumbed back. He immediately turned around and began to speak in a clear, loud tone:

Who rides there so late through the night dark and drear?

The father it is, with his infant so dear…

At the end of the second stanza, he quickly turned and scanned the deserted piers.

Alban was gone. The Les Baer lay in the weeds a few yards away.

Three hours later, Pendergast finally gave up searching.

38

DAMN IT TO HELL,” LIEUTENANT VINCENT D’AGOSTA muttered as he stood in the hallway of the Murray Hill Hotel. Even in the corridor he could hear the shouts and electronic blarings of the press down on the street, along with a chorus of sirens, cars honking, and miscellaneous New York City noise. Hours had passed since the killing, but the media only got thicker. Traffic on Park Avenue was gridlocked from the hotel all the way to the MetLife Building, no doubt the rubbernecking effect at work. The hotel throbbed with the thwap thwapof helicopters above, their spotlights sweeping the building. And Pendergast had disappeared.

What was it about New Yorkers and crime? They loved it, they ate it up. The Newsand the Posthad been running screaming headlines for days on the Hotel Killer. And now this. God forbid the crime rate should drop to zero; most of the papers in the city would go bankrupt.

Brilliant white light poured out into the hall from Room 516, and D’Agosta could see the occasional shadows of the figures still working in there. Gibbs was inside as well. It was complete bullshit that the man had been given access during the evidence-gathering phase—top brass were supposed to be kept out. But this time he’d insisted on going in, despite D’Agosta’s demurral. Christ, he himself, the squad commander, hadn’t been in there since the initial discovery.

“Hey, what’s with the fucking Coke?” he bellowed at a latents specialist passing down the hall. “You know there’s no eating or drinking at the scene!”

The man, immediately cowed, ducked his head in abject submission, turned, and hustled away down the hall, carrying the frosty can, not daring to sip from it.

D’Agosta could see some of the other detectives hovering around the corridor exchanging glances. All right, so he was pissed and showing it. He didn’t give a shit. The whole thing with Pendergast had freaked him out, the way he’d disappeared like that. Just vanished. Along with the perp. And this crazy theory about it being his son… and yet, he’d called it right on the button: date, time, and place.

D’Agosta had been on a lot of strange trips with Pendergast, but this was the strangest of all. He was well and truly shaken up. On top of that, his not-so-old chest wound was giving him a hard time. He felt in his pocket for some Advil, popped a few more.

“Hey, who gave you permission to waltz in here like you owned the place?” he shouted at a white-coated forensic specialist just ducking in under the crime-scene tape. “Log in, for shit’s sake!”

“Yes, Lieutenant, but you see I did log in. I was just visiting the men’s room—”

His attempted smile was cut off by D’Agosta’s shout. “Log in again!”

“Yes, sir.”

D’Agosta turned back and abruptly saw Pendergast. The man’s gaunt figure had materialized at the far end of the hall. As he approached, walking swiftly, D’Agosta’s gut tightened with apprehension. He had to talk to him, find out more about this bizarre business of the alleged son.

He was shocked by the look on Pendergast’s face: it fairly blazed with hard, dazzling intensity. He looked almost mad. And yet the eyes were absolutely clear.

“Where’d you go?” D’Agosta asked.

“I chased the killer to the river. He escaped at the piers.”

“You… chasedhim?”

“He had just left the room when I arrived, by the fire escape. There was no time. I engaged in pursuit.”

“And you’re sure he’s… your son?”

Pendergast stared at him. “As I said earlier, that information remains strictly between us.”

D’Agosta swallowed. The intensity of Pendergast’s stare unnerved him. “If you’ve got information, I mean, we’ve got to share it…” he began.

The look on Pendergast’s face became distinctly unfriendly. “Vincent, I am the only person who can catch this killer. Nobody else can. In fact, their attempts would only make things worse. Therefore, we must keep the information to ourselves. At least for now. Do you understand?”

D’Agosta couldn’t bring himself to answer. He did understand. But withholding information—especially the possible identity of the killer? You couldn’t do that. Then again, it seemed a completely crazy idea that the killer was Pendergast’s son—that he even hada son. The man was cracking up. Maybe they shouldwithhold it.

He had no idea what to do.

“Well, well, if it isn’t Agent Pendergast.” And here came Gibbs, striding out of the hotel room. He approached, hand extended, the phoniest of smiles on his face. Pendergast took the hand.

“You look like you’ve been in a rumble,” said Gibbs with a chuckle, looking over Pendergast’s muddied suit.

“Indeed.”

“I’m curious,” said Gibbs, “how you and the lieutenant managed to get to the crime scene just, what, minutes after the perp arrived? The lieutenant said it was your idea, something about a number sequence?”

“Fibonacci,” Pendergast said.

Gibbs frowned. “Fibonacci? Who’s Fibonacci?”

“Leonardo Fibonacci,” said Pendergast, “a medieval mathematician. Italian, naturally.”

“Italian. Right.”

“I examined the numerical evidence of the killings and discovered that the addresses of the hotels follow a pattern: Five East Forty-Fifth Street, Eight West Fiftieth Street, Thirteen Central Park West. Five, eight, thirteen. That is part of the Fibonacci sequence, each number being the sum of the previous two. The next term in the sequence would be twenty-one. I discovered there was only one Manhattan hotel at a twenty-one address—the Murray Hill, at Twenty-One Park Avenue.”

Gibbs listened, head bowed, arms crossed, still frowning.

“The times of the killings follow a simpler sequence, alternating between seven thirty in the morning and nine in the evening. It’s a sign of arrogance, like showing his face to the security cameras—as if we’re so beneath contempt, he doesn’t even have to try to hide his work.”

When Pendergast fell silent, Gibbs rolled his eyes. “I can’t argue about the times of death. But all that about the Fib… the Fib… that’s got to be one of the most far-fetched ideas I’ve ever heard.”

“Yeah, well,” said D’Agosta, “it seems to have worked.”

Gibbs took out his notebook. “So, Agent Pendergast, when you got here, what happened? The lieutenant tells me you just disappeared.”

“As I was telling Lieutenant D’Agosta, I went directly to the room, found the bathroom window open. The perpetrator was descending the fire escape. I gave chase and pursued him to the river, where I lost him in the area of the old piers.”

Gibbs took a few notes. “Get a good look at him?”

“No better than the security cameras.”

“You can’t tell me anything else?”

“I’m afraid not. Except that he’s a fast runner.”

D’Agosta could hardly believe it: Pendergast really was withholding evidence. It was one thing to talk about doing it; quite another to actively do it. Not only that, but Pendergast was doing so in an investigation D’Agosta himself was in charge of. He was finding it increasingly difficult not to take Pendergast’s flippant attitude toward the rule of law personally.

Gibbs slapped his notebook shut. “Interesting that he chose a dump like this. It shows his M.O. is evolving. That’s a common trait of this type of serial killer. He first kills in environments where he feels safe, then branches out, gets more daring. Pushes the envelope.”

“You don’t say,” said Pendergast.

“I dosay. In fact, I believe this is significant. He killed first in the Marlborough Grand, the Vanderbilt, the Royal Cheshire. Five-star hotels all. It suggests to me the perp comes from a wealthy, privileged background. He starts off where he’s comfortable, then, as his confidence grows, he gets more daring, goes slumming, so to speak.”

“He chose this hotel,” Pendergast spoke mildly, “for one reason only: because it is the only one in Manhattan with a twenty-one in its address. It has nothing to do with his background or his ‘slumming’ habits.”

Gibbs sighed. “Special Agent Pendergast, how about if you stick to your own area of expertise and leave the profiling to the experts?”

“And which experts might that be?”

Gibbs stared at him.

Pendergast glanced at the open door of Room 516; at the shadows of those working within, still silhouetted upon the opposite wall of the corridor by the bright crime-scene lights. “Do you know Plato’s Allegory of the Cave?” he asked.

“No.”

“You might find it enlightening in the present situation. Agent Gibbs, I’ve thoroughly examined your forensic profile of the so-called Hotel Killer. As you say, it is based on probabilities and aggregates—the assumption that this killer is like others of his type. But the truth is, this killer is completely outside your bell curve. He does not fit any of your assumptions or conform to any of your precious data. What you are doing is not only a colossal waste of time but an actual hindrance. Your puerile analysis is badly sidetracking this investigation—which may well be the killer’s intention.”

D’Agosta stiffened.

Gibbs stared at Pendergast, and then spoke in measured tones. “From the beginning, I’ve wondered what the hell you were doing on this case. What your game was. We at the BSU have looked into your record, and we’re not impressed. I’ve seen all kinds of unusual stuff in there—mysterious leaves of absence, inquiries, reprimands. It’s amazing to me you haven’t been cashiered. You speak of a hindrance. The only hindranceI see here is your interfering presence. Be warned, Agent Pendergast—I won’t stand for any more of your games.”

Pendergast inclined his head in silent acquiescence. There was a silence—and then he spoke again. “Agent Gibbs?”

“Yes, what now?”

“I note blood on your left shoe. Just a spot.”

Gibbs looked down at his feet. “What? Where?”

Pendergast stooped, rubbed a finger along the edge of the sole, brought it up red. “Unfortunately, the shoe will have to be taken up as evidence. I’m afraid a report will need to be made of your error at the scene of the crime. Alas, it’s obligatory, as the lieutenant will confirm.” Pendergast waved his hand, calling over a CSI assistant with evidence bags. “Special Agent Gibbs will give you his shoe now—pity, as I note it’s a handmade Testoni, no doubt a painful loss for Mr. Gibbs, considering his modest salary.”

A moment later, D’Agosta watched as Gibbs stomped down the hall in one shoe and one stockinged foot. Funny—he himself hadn’t noticed any blood on the agent’s shoe.

“One has to be so careful at a crime scene these days,” Pendergast murmured at his side.

D’Agosta said nothing. Something was going to happen, and it wasn’t going to be nice.

39

IT WAS A COLD, GRAY, DRIZZLY MONDAY MORNING, THE cars lined up on the lot like blocks of wood, dull in the dull light, streaming rivulets of water down their flanks. It was just past eleven but already it was shaping up to be a terrible day for selling, which was just perfect as far as Corrie was concerned. She’d retreated with the other salespeople into the lounge, where they were all drinking bad coffee and shooting the breeze, waiting for customers to show up. There were four other salespeople in the lounge—all men. Joe Ricco and his son Joe Junior weren’t around, and the salesmen were in a relaxed mood.

Corrie had gotten to know them over the past two days, and they were all first-rate, top-drawer assholes. All except Charlie Foote—the man her father had mentioned. He was younger than the rest, a little shy, and for the most part he didn’t join in the asinine frat-house banter. He’d graduated college, unlike most of the others, and he was the best salesman of the group; something about his gentle voice and understated, self-deprecating manner seemed to work like a charm.

One of the older salesmen had the floor and was finishing up a tits-and-ass joke, which Corrie laughed hard at. She took a sip of her coffee, added another container of fake cream to try to drown out the burnt taste, and said, “Weird, isn’t it, that I replaced a salesman with the same last name.”

She directed her statement to the salesman who had made the joke. His name was Miller. He was a real comedian, and Corrie had been forcing herself to laugh at all his lame jokes. She had even passed on a hot customer to him, pretending to need guidance, and then let him keep the sale. In return, Miller had sort of taken her under his wing, no doubt hoping to get lucky. He was already starting to make comments about a bar he went to after work that served killer margaritas. She wouldn’t disabuse him of the pathetic notion she might sleep with him—at least, not until she had a chance to cash in her chips.

“Yeah,” said Miller, lighting up even though he was only supposed to do that outside. But Joe Ricco smoked and so no one objected. Miller was a beefy, crew-cut redhead with triple rolls around his neck, a beer belly, wide lips, and a pug nose. The look was somewhat mitigated by his expensive suit. They all dressed well. Gone were the days, she thought, of the fast-talking salesman in plaid polyester.

“What was he like?” Corrie asked. “Jack Swanson, I mean.”

Miller exhaled. “Asshole.”

“Oh, yeah? So that’s why he was fired?”

Miller guffawed. “Nah. The guy robbed a bank.”

“ What?” Corrie feigned shock.

“Miller, take it easy, we’re not supposed to talk about that at work,” said another salesman, a guy by the name of Rivera.

“Fuck it,” said Miller. “There’s no customers around. She’d hear about it eventually.”

“Robbed a bank!” Corrie interjected, eager to keep the thread of conversation going. “How?”

Miller seemed to find this funny, too. “The guy’s an idiot. He can’t sell cars worth shit, makes no commissions, so one day he borrows an STS off the lot, drives to the local Delaware Trust, goes in, and robs the damn place.”

More laughter.

“How do they know it was him?” Corrie asked.

“First, the car came from our lot, like I said, our dealer plates. Second, he’s wearing his usual crappy suit—which we all identified. And Ricco himself saw the guy driving it off.”

Nods all around.

“Third, they find a hair of his on the headrest.”

“Open and shut,” said Corrie. She felt glum. This was going to be a bitch and a half—assuming her father really was innocent in the first place.

“Not only that, but they found his fingerprints on the piece of paper the guy handed to the cashier.”

This was beginning to sound just a little too convenient. “And now he’s in jail?”

“Naw. The guy disappeared. They’re still looking for him.”

Corrie let a beat pass. “So how was he an asshole?”

Miller took another drag, exhaled into his nose while looking at her. “You’re interested, aren’t ya?”

“Yeah. I mean, we do have the same name.”

A nod. “Like I said, he couldn’t sell worth shit. And… he wouldn’t get with the program.”

“Program?”

“We do business a certain way around here.”

“Should I know about this program?”

Miller stubbed out the cigarette and rose, looking toward the showroom floor, where a couple of people had walked in and were folding their umbrellas. The man was holding a manila file folder. “You’re going to find out right now. On a crappy day like today, everyone who walks in is a buyer. Follow me.” He winked at her, his eyes roaming over her tits.

As they approached, Miller greeted the couple in a low-key way, speaking softly. He introduced Corrie as a salesperson in training and asked their permission for her to be involved. It was a nice technique and they said yes. “She might get her first commission out of this,” said Miller. “Could be a red-letter day for her. Right, Corrie?”

“Right!” said Corrie brightly.

Corrie looked the two over. The man was almost certainly a doctor, with very little time, used to making quick decisions. His wife, thin and nervous, dressed in track clothes, wanted a black Escalade. With no preliminaries, the husband launched into a carefully prepared spiel. He had spent hours on the Internet. He had actually identified the car on the lot that he wanted. It had a long list of optional equipment, which he had printed out; he knew the invoice price and was willing to pay two hundred dollars above it. If they weren’t able to make a deal now, on the terms he named, he was ready to move on to another dealer, the one in the next town, who had an almost identical vehicle on his lot. And another thing: he didn’t want any of that fabric protection or rust-proofing or other rip-offs like that. Just the car.

The doctor halted, puffing slightly. This was probably as stressful for him as an emergency room code, Corrie thought. She wondered just how Miller was going to handle it.

To her surprise, Miller didn’t seem put out. He didn’t launch into negotiations or try to counter the man. On the contrary, he complimented the doctor on his research, expressed the opinion that he himself appreciated the opportunity of concluding a quick and efficient transaction, even if there was little profit in it. A sale was a sale. Of course, he wasn’t sure it would be possible to sell the car at that rock-bottom price, but he would check with the owner of the dealership. Did the doctor intend to pay cash or finance?

The doctor would finance. Ten thousand down, the rest on time.

Miller got the good doctor’s Social Security number and other financing details. He deposited the doctor and his wife in the luxury waiting room with cups of coffee while he went back to his cubicle, Corrie trailing behind. She watched over his shoulder as he checked the doctor’s credit rating on the computer and began writing up the offer.

“Don’t you have to ask Mr. Ricco?” she said.

“I don’t need to ask him shit,” said Miller.

“Are you really going to let them have the car for what he’s asking?”

Miller grinned. “Sure.”

“So how can you make a profit? I mean, two hundred bucks seems hardly worth it.”

Miller continued to write, then signed at the bottom with a flourish. “There’s more than one way to skin a cat,” he said.

“Like how?”

“Watch and learn.”

She followed him back into the waiting room. He flourished the papers. “We’re all set,” he told the couple. “The boss, Mr. Ricco, approved it, although it took quite a lot of pushing. Between you and me, he wasn’t very happy. But as I said, a sale’s a sale and on a lousy day like today we’re lucky to make any sales at all. Only one thing, though: your credit rating didn’t quite qualify for the most competitive financing rate. But I still got you an excellent rate, almost as sweet, the very best possible under the circumstances—”

The doctor frowned. “What do you mean? My credit’s not good?”

Miller gave him an easy smile. “No, not at all! You have quite a good credit rating. It’s just not in the absolute top tier, that’s all. Perhaps you were late with a mortgage payment or two, maybe you carried over that credit card debt from one month to the next without paying the minimum. Small stuff. Believe me, I got you the very best rate possible.”

The doctor’s face flushed and he glanced at his wife, who looked put out. “Have we been late with a mortgage payment?”

Now it was her turn to redden. “Well, I was late by a week some months ago—you remember when we were on vacation?”

The doctor frowned, turned to Miller. “So what’s the rate you got us? I won’t pay anything exorbitant.”

“It’s just three-quarters of a percentage point higher than the best rate. I also was able to stretch it out to seventy-two months, to keep your monthly payments down.”

Miller named the monthly payment, which did indeed seem reasonable to Corrie, especially for a loaded, eighty-thousand-dollar Escalade. She began to wonder how they made money selling cars at all.

In twenty minutes, the good doctor and his wife were driving off the lot with their new car, and as soon as they were gone Miller began wheezing with laughter. He retreated to the staff lounge, refilled his coffee cup, eased his stout frame down. “Just sold Dr. Putz an Escalade,” he announced to the assembled group. “Two hundred dollars over invoice. Putz was determined to make a crackerjack deal. So I made him a crackerjack deal.”

“I’ll bet,” said one of the others. “Credit problem, right?”

“Right. I told him his credit wasn’t quite up to snuff… and he financed at seven and a half percent over seventy-two months!”

Laughter, shaking heads all around.

“I don’t get it,” Corrie said.

Miller, still chuckling, said: “The profit built into that financing deal is, what, eight thousand dollars? That’s how we make our money—financing. That’s the first lesson in selling cars.”

“Eight thousand profit?” she asked.

“Pure, unadulterated profit.”

“How does that work?”

Miller lit up, inhaled a massive lungful, kept talking while the smoke dribbled back out. “Before he came in here, old Dr. Putz obviously spent a lot of time checking Edmunds, but he failed to check the most important thing: his own credit rating. Jacking up his rate by three-quarters of a percentage point over seventy-two months on seventy thousand is over three grand alone. And that’s on top of a jacked-up rate to begin with. Shit, if he’d gone to his bank before he came in here, he could’ve borrowed that money at five and a half percent, maybe less.”

“So that wasn’t true—that his credit rating wasn’t good?”

Miller swiveled his head around. “You got a problem with that?”

“No, no,” she said hastily. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Charlie rolling his eyes, a look of annoyance on his face. “I think it’s just fine,” she repeated.

“Good. ’Cause your predecessor, old Jack, he just didn’t get it. Even when he sold a car, which was hardly ever, he’d give them the true best rate. Then, when we called him on it, the son of a bitch threatened to go to the attorney general. Report the dealership.”

“That sounds serious. What would’ve happened?”

“It’s not exactly an uncommon practice. Anyway, it didn’t come to that, because the dickhead went off and robbed a bank. Solved our problem for us!” He turned and stared at Charlie. “Right, Charlie?”

“You know I don’t like that way of doing business,” said Charlie quietly. “Sooner or later, it’s going to come back and bite you.”

“Don’t pull a Jack on us,” said Miller, his voice suddenly not so friendly.

Charlie said nothing.

Another couple came into the dealership.

“They’re mine,” said another salesman, smacking his hands together and rubbing them. “Seven and a half percent, here we come!”

Corrie looked around. It was now as clear as day. One of them had framed her father to stop him from going to the AG.

But which one? Or… was it allof them?