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She hadn’t made the call to turn him in, but it had to be done. There was no rush. Brent wasn’t going anywhere. He’d been barely coherent when she bandaged him, babbling names she’d never heard and something about being set up.

After several minutes she raised her head, glanced around her kitchen, and gave up any pretense of sleeping. She stood, loaded the coffee maker, took eggs from the refrigerator, and then pulled bacon and English muffins from the freezer.

She defrosted the bacon in the microwave and put the muffins in her toaster oven to thaw. A few minutes later the bacon was soft enough for the frying pan, and shortly afterward, the kitchen filled with its mouthwatering aroma. She split the muffins once they softened then cracked eggs into a blue crockery bowl that had belonged to her grandmother. Her ability to do something simple and physical was like a balm. Twenty minutes later she took two heaping plates of scrambled eggs, toasted muffins, and crisp bacon into the den.

“Wake up,” she ordered.

Brent opened his eyes. His lips were dry and cracked.

“Sit up and eat,” she said in a deliberately cold voice.

Brent winced, but he struggled into a half-sitting position and took a plate. He glanced down at the blanket she’d thrown over him, lifted the corner, and peeked at his boxer shorts. “Did you take advantage of me?”

Maggie ignored the comment as she fixed him with her toughest glare. “Who is Spencer McDonald?” she demanded, repeating one of the names he’d babbled as she bandaged him.

At her mention of the name, Brent’s attempt at humor vanished. He took a few bites and then began telling her a convoluted story about how he’d gone to work at Genesis Advisor at the request of the Justice Department, how some bogus FBI agents and a bogus lawyer had embezzled his client’s money, and how he’d found bodies in his client’s townhouse. Finally, he told her about the assailant with the knife in the parking garage.

“You’re working for government?”

Brent nodded. “For a woman named Ruth Simmons.”

“You have anything in writing that proves it?”

“No,” Brent said.

Maggie made a mental note to call Ruth Simmons, and then asked, “How about the FBI Agents or the lawyer, could you pick them out of a lineup?”

Brent nodded, as he continued to shovel food.

“What about the guy with the knife and the driver of the van?”

“The guy with the knife,” Brent nodded. “But I never saw the driver’s face.”

“You think they’re all tied to the money?”

Brent nodded, some of the old spark returning. “If they made me disappear, the Feds would keep on thinking I took the money, but they’d never find me.”

“How did they set this up?” she asked.

“I’m guessing through somebody I work with.” His gaze turned inward, and his shoulders slumped. “Only I’ve got no way to prove it.”

Maggie nibbled at her eggs and thought for a minute. “Have you considered the possibility that this is why you were hired?”

“Only about a hundred times in the past few hours. I tried to call Simmons on the cell phone she gave me. It’s supposed to reach her twenty-four seven.” He shook his head. “She hasn’t been answering.”

On an emotional level Maggie believed him. As she listened to his story the rational part of her brain was becoming persuaded as well. His story triggered another association deep in her subconscious, but she pushed it aside because the extrapolations seemed too fantastic. “Is there anybody else who might be able to help you? Someone at work?”

“One guy, and I should have heard from him by now.” Brent’s head shot up, and he patted his shirt pocket. “Shit!” he said. “He may have been trying to call me. I turned my cell phone off to save the juice.”

He tried to swing his legs to the floor and then groaned and fell back. “Stay here,” Maggie commanded. She stood and headed out the back door. The sun was over the trees, and in the early light the dew-drops in the grass glistened like tiny diamonds. The air had a foggy, romantic quality, and for a few seconds she could almost imagine that it was a weekend morning and she and Brent were still together.

She raised the garage door and saw the Volvo, and her spirits plummeted. She knew the car was stolen even before she pulled the registration from the glove box. It hammered home the fact that Brent was wanted for murder. It didn’t matter that she loved him. She had an obligation to uphold the law, and she couldn’t escape it.

She grabbed his cell phone off the seat then leaned against the car roof with her face in her hands. She let out a quick sob, but after a second she bit her lower lip and straightened. Get a grip, she told herself as she headed back to the house. She knew what she needed to do.

THIRTY-FOUR

MORRISTOWN, NJ, JUNE 30

BRENT SAW THE CHANGE THE moment Maggie returned with his cell phone. Her eyes had grown murky, her expression distant, and he knew it had been the discovery of the Volvo. He was too exhausted, his brain too full of sand to try and explain, and he watched her turn and walk out of the room.

He checked the phone, cursed himself for having turned it off and saw that he had six missed calls from Ruth Simmons and three messages from Smythe, the first from around eleven thirty last night. In it, Smythe’s normally superior voice betrayed an anxiety he’d never heard.

“We’re more than even, you sonofabitch,” Smythe said. “I went back and pretended there was some work I’d forgotten to finish up. Betty had already gone home and Biddle’s office was locked, but Wofford’s assistant was there. I chatted her up and got her a Coke, then I stood in the stairwell ‘til almost ten o’clock.”

Brent smiled as he pictured Smythe hovering in the shadows. His pulse quickened as he heard what came next.

“She finally went to pee, and I snuck onto Wofford’s computer. One of the phone numbers was in his trash file. Lucky for you he forgot to erase it. The name that went with the number is Howard Turner. I’ve got more, but it’s too long to leave on a message. Call me!”

The second and third messages had come in at midnight and one a.m. “Where the hell are you? Call me!” Smythe said both times. Brent lay back on the couch and allowed himself his first breath of hope.

He checked his watch and saw that it was already six fifteen. Smythe would be up and just about to leave for the station. Knowing his cell phone could be traced, he dropped his feet to the floor and sat up. His stomach had stiffened, and movement brought a tearing feeling. He looked down, saw that the butterfly bandages seemed to be holding, and then gritted his teeth and stood.

He hobbled into the kitchen and saw Maggie slumped at the small table, her eyes unfocused. He took her cordless phone from the wall, shuffled back to the den, and dialed Smythe’s cell phone. The number rang until he got a recording. He hung up, found Smythe’s home number on his BlackBerry, and dialed. The number rang, only this time there was no answering machine. Probably Smythe’s wife on the computer, he thought.

He waited five minutes and tried both numbers again. Still no answer. “Damn,” he said. He felt a huge surge of gratitude for the risk Smythe had taken. He couldn’t wait to hear the rest of his message and then offer to take him to New York’s best restaurant by way of a thank-you. Hell, he’d take the Smythes to Paris if that was what they wanted!

He heard Maggie’s chair scrape the kitchen floor. A second later, she stood in the doorway, her face grim.