I can guess, but sharing the specific source would be a felony, and I cant go there, not even for Naomi Nantz.
Not even for Randall Shane?
Bevinss cold glare makes Dane feel like shes been drenched by a bucket of ice water. The Bureau looks out for its own, the big woman says, hotly. Were now fully involved. Theres an FBI alert out for the missing child, as of this morning. Thats all you need to know.
Before the young lawyer can apologize-testing and probing, thats her job, nothing personal-the patient groans from his hospital bed. They both turn to see Shane attempting to sit up.
Monica! he cries in a ragged whisper.
A moment later the two old friends are embracing, faces wet with tears, and this time Dane Porter follows her best instincts and steps out of the room for a few minutes. Texting quietly as she goes.
Chapter Twenty-Four
He always carries his own bag. No cart, no caddy, and the best part, today hes playing alone. Not quite a scratch golfer, but close, and perfectly capable of birdieing this, the seventeenth hole. Salt water on two sides, as blue as the sky above. Seagulls wheel like silent drones in the high summer air. Unarmed, he hopes, chuckling to himself. On this course, with so many ducks and seabirds in the general vicinity, members wear hats to avoid the splat.
Taylor Gatling, Jr., finds himself in an excellent mood, savoring life. It helps that he owns the course, and that hes arranged to have this part of it to himself. Nobody ahead, nobody behind. Could a man ask for more?
Oh yes, a chilled martini back at the clubhouse. That will make it a perfect day for bananafish, as his dad used to say, in reference to some silly story Taylor never bothered to read. Taylor has never cared for fiction. Why bother, when reality is so much more interesting?
With no other players pressing he can take his own sweet time, savoring the moment, imagining his triumph. Two hundred and fifteen yards to the pin, no problem, sir, consider it done. He selects his club, extracts it from the bag. An easy three-wood will impart the necessary backspin, placing the ball tight on the green.
Taylor can feel the birdie, has it firmly in his mind. Hes in the act of bending down to place the ball on the tee when he detects the putt-putt of an approaching tractor mower, and curses softly. He waits, assuming that the groundskeeper, upon seeing the owner himself poised to drive, will turn around and leave the area.
The tractor keeps coming, chugging up the slope. Oddly enough, the blades in the rig are not engaged. The damned fool isnt even mowing. Taylor focuses on remaining calm. The man must be a simpleton, dont let him ruin the moment. The tractor approaches a long bunker, one the machine cant possibly traverse, but instead of swinging around to leave, the groundskeeper sets the brake and climbs down from the little green bucket seat and strides up toward the tee.
Taylor cant quite make out the mans face-the sun is behind him-but he recognizes the type of wide straw hat often worn by those who maintain the fairways and greens. And then, jarringly, he suddenly recognizes the jaunty stride of a man who is most certainly not one of the groundskeepers.
Hey, boss, how they hanging?
What the hell are you doing here? I told you never to-
Yeah, yeah, says the man who insists on calling himself Kidder. Never speak to you in public. Well, this isnt public, is it? This is a private course and you own it. Plus theres nobody here but us chickens. Or ducks or seagulls or whatever.
Son of a bitch, Taylor says, scanning the area to make damn sure theyre alone. Are you out of your mind? What do you want?
I tried you at, what do you call it, your bad little boys club? Nobody home. And you wont give me a cell phone number, which is just a tiny bit insulting.
You were at the boathouse? Taylor hisses, throttling his three-wood. Were you seen?
Im sure your security cameras clocked me, but you can erase that, right? The point is, we need to have a conversation, so I made it happen.
This is beyond the pale!
Kidder chuckles. Really? Beyond the pale? I always wondered what that means. I mean, what is the pale, exactly, and how do you get beyond it? Ill bet thats one of the things your father used to say.
Leave my father out of this!
Hey, no problem. Kidder zips his lips. Total silence in the father department. I could care less about fathers, if you want to know the truth. My concern is mother and child.
This is beyond the pale!
Kidder chuckles. Really? Beyond the pale? I always wondered what that means. I mean, what is the pale, exactly, and how do you get beyond it? Ill bet thats one of the things your father used to say.
Leave my father out of this!
Hey, no problem. Kidder zips his lips. Total silence in the father department. I could care less about fathers, if you want to know the truth. My concern is mother and child.
Youre never to contact me. We communicate through an intermediary, that was the arrangement.
Yeah, well, theres always an exception, and this is it. The situation is getting to be a problem and needs to be resolved. Permanently, would be my preference.
Taylor walks in a tight circle, tapping the ground with the heel of his club. Not yet, he says, jaw clenching. Absolutely not. Direct order.
I dont get it, Kidder says, as if bemused. The operation is over. Time to tidy up.
What makes you think its over?
Looks over to me. The evildoers are dead, if not quite buried, and the target is in custody, with enough evidence to plant his bony ass in jail for life. Done and dusted. Over.
Its not your call, damn it! And for your information the operation is not over. Not quite.
No? Thats fine. Im always up for more. So what happens next? Give me a clue.
Youll know when you get your orders.
Kidder is amused. My orders? Were no longer in the field, Captain. Im an independent contractor.
Taylor glares.
Kidder remains affable. Okay, fine. Ill maintain status quo, await instruction. But I know what youre thinking, Cap. I always knew what you were thinking back in the day, and I do now.
What am I thinking?
Youre thinking I need my ticket punched, once this is all over. Tie up the last of the loose ends. Bury me in a foxhole and move on.
Youre wrong. Id never-
Yeah, you would, Kidder interrupts. I get it, a man in your position. So much to lose. Thing is, Ive taken precautions. If I go down, youll be right behind me. Thats a certainty, Cap. Ill be saving you a place in hell.
What have you done? Taylor hisses, struggling to keep his voice down.
Taken precautions. So put it out of your mind. And do please let me know what happens next. Provide me with a contact number. And soon, or Ill have to go all rogue, and you always hated that.
Taylor waits until the smart-mouthed bastard is over the hill and gone, and then he takes a deep breath and swings at the little white ball.
And misses.
In his mind his dead father laughs and says, strike one, my son.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Im updating the case notes into my personal shorthand when a blinking light on my desk indicates an incoming call on the secure line.
I lift the handset and announce, Alice Crane, Secretary of Ambivalence.
Hey, Alice.
Hey, Dane. Sup?
Nothing earthshaking, she says, way too casually. Listen, I just remembered I left my lipstick in that little bathroom down the hall from Naomis office? Could you check when you get the chance? Pale Peach.
Not a problem. Later, alligator.
I grab my purse, give a shout-out to boss lady, letting her know theres an errand needs running, and leave the residence. The call for lipstick is a coded signal that Dane needs my ears to her lips, with no chance the conversation will be overheard, electronically or otherwise. Plus we never say office, always command center or command, so misuse of a common word underlines the importance of a request. Shes staked out in Randall Shanes room at the hospital and wont be letting him out of her sight until the indictment comes down, so that means hoofing it to Mass General and hearing whatever it is thats too important to wait for the evening briefing.
With all the talk of spies and secret security agencies, and what I know firsthand about hovering helicopters, you might say my sense of awareness has been heightened. Or Im getting to be as paranoid as the late professor. Whatever, I hit the street with eyes peeled, after deciding to proceed on foot rather than bike or taxi. Figuring as a pedestrian Ive got a better chance of spotting a tail, and a brisk walk will do me good.
All is serene for several blocks. Considering Back Bay is in the heart of the city, its amazing how lush and varied the urban vegetation gets this time of year. There are places where the canopy of white ash trees almost entirely spans the narrower streets, and many of the tulip trees and dogwoods are still in full bloom. Im striding east on Beacon, in the vicinity of Fisher College, when I finally spot her. A young, professional-looking female quickly exiting a black SUV half a block ahead of me, on the opposite side of the street. What gives her away is a telling glance-shes checking my precise location before pretending to wander along Beacon, as if looking for a particularly hard-to-find address.
My guru and mentor in the art of spotting tails is Jack Delancey, so I know enough to drop my purse-oops, how clumsy! and get a slant on the block behind me. A young, casually dressed male wearing sunglasses and a Bluetooth ear set studiously ignores me and walks right on by without offering to help with the spilled purse. So there are at least two tails and probably a third somewhere, waiting to be dropped off by the roving SUV, as well as another vehicle running backup, assuming this is a standard tail job with a full crew.
Useful to know that Im under surveillance-that probably means all of us are, which means a big operation, lots of manpower-but theres not a lot I can do about it right at the moment, not without getting silly, not to mention sweaty. Besides, if theyre any good at all theyll have already guessed that Im heading to the hospital. Plus the trick with the purse will have confirmed my awareness of being followed.