“Yeah, right. Whatever you say, Freddy.”
“Second, do not call me Freddy.”
“I’m crapping my pants in fear here, Freddy.”
“Fine. Stay there. I’m going to bone that little surfer girl you’re so hot for.”
There was a silence.
Interpreting it correctly, Frederick said, “Yes, I know all about her. Did you think that was a secret you could keep from me, Morgan? I know her better than you’d think. We had a drink together this afternoon.”
“God damn it-”
“Just a drink, that’s all.”
“You’re lying.”
“Oh no, we definitely had drinks.”
“If you’ve so much as held her hand-”
“I’m crapping my pants in fear here, Morgan.”
Morgan fell silent again.
“I can get the next flight out,” Frederick went on. “You can be on your way home in three hours. You can find out what the lovely-what’s her name? Sherry. Yes, Sherry-what your little hottie refused me. So far, anyway. Spoke of no one but you, Morgan, truly. But, you know, a girl gets lonely…”
“You are such a prick!”
“I see. All right, I’ll say good-bye and see what progress I can make on the beach.”
“No, forget it. Come on out here. But if I get back there and find out that you’ve put some move on her, you might as well not come back to L.A.”
Sitting at the bar now, recalling the conversation, Frederick started to smile to himself. Would an agent smile? Yes, he decided, especially if it was a knowing smile. He allowed it.
He had come here straight from the airport. He had rented the car using one of four stolen California driver’s licenses he kept on hand, and charged it to the matching credit card Everett had issued to him. He had credit cards for all the names on the licenses. Everett and Cameron had control of the bank that issued them.
Project Nine had resources that extended far beyond these, of course. At the moment, out of necessity, he wasn’t making much use of them. He was, as he liked to think of it, working solo.
This had been emphasized from the moment he arrived at the hotel. At the entrance booth to the parking structure, he paid cash for a magnetic striped ticket that would allow him to go in and out of the structure all day. Morgan waited until Frederick saw Meghan Taggert’s BMW, and drove off, which meant Frederick was on his own to procure a weapon. Frederick had been a little pissed about that.
But in the next moment, over the rental car radio, he heard something that lifted his spirits. A newscaster announced that reports just in from Los Angeles indicated that three criminals on the FBI’s Ten Most Wanted list had been found dead there. A press conference had been scheduled for five-thirty Los Angeles time.
Frederick could hardly contain his glee. He hurriedly checked to make sure his tinted contact lenses were in place and smiled at the brown-eyed stranger in the mirror. He put the sunglasses on. Cool.
He spent the next few minutes calming himself, going through a set of breathing exercises designed to help him focus. “Special Agent Frederick Whitfield IV,” he said aloud, with as much baritone as he could manage.
He got out of the car, and despite the warmth of the day, donned the suit coat. He moved with purpose as he made his way to the lobby of the luxurious hotel.
Once there, he suffered a slight shock. A slender young woman with straight, dark hair reaching to her shoulders, silvery-blue eyes, and-although she was neither speaking nor looking at them-the undivided attention of every male in the lobby, was waiting for an elevator. His quarry, Meghan Taggert-and she was only a few yards away from him. He quickly realized that she seemed to be lost in thought-distressing thought.
Of course. Meghan had always had one big worry to contend with, and his name was Gabriel Taggert. She was thinking of her brother. She had suddenly left her home and traveled here without warning.
She had to be planning to meet Gabe.
And Special Agent Frederick Whitfield IV was going to be on hand for that moment. That asswipe Morgan was going to be missing out on all the glory.
Frederick watched her get into the elevator, watched the lights on the lobby panel, saw that the elevator stopped on the seventh floor.
He glanced at his watch. Fourteen minutes to go before the press conference. He smiled. Easy work for an agent of the fucking FBI, now, wasn’t it? He caught another elevator car, rode it up to the seventh floor, exited cautiously, and, hearing a door close in the hallway to his right, turned in that direction. He opened his cell phone. He dialed the hotel’s number.
“Ms. Meghan Taggert’s room, please,” he said.
He walked along the hallway, listening to the sound of the ringing phone. He was trying to decide whether it was 716 or 718, when the ringing stopped.
“Hello?” she said a little breathlessly. Softly.
God, he loved her voice.
Which door? Just say hello again, he willed her silently. He waited, listening, but she hung up.
He moved a little farther away from the doors, called again, and said to the operator, “I’m sorry, I was just talking to one of your guests on my cell phone when I must have hit a dead zone and lost the signal. Could you reconnect us? Her name is Meghan Taggert.”
As the operator made the connection, he moved back to the doors. This time, the phone rang several times before she picked it up.
“Hello?” she said again, almost angrily.
Room 718, then. He hung up and went back down to the lobby. If he hurried, he’d be just in time to watch the press conference.
In her room, Meghan hung up the phone after the second call. She stood up and paced, hugging her arms across her stomach, looking at the phone as if it were a weapon left behind by an invader.
Kit was the only other person who knew she was here.
Be sensible, she told herself.
She called the hotel operator.
“Oh, that was a young gentleman. He didn’t give a name, but he did mention that he was having trouble with his cell phone.”
“Thank you,” Meghan said, feeling relieved.
She turned on the television set. She watched the evening news every night now, expecting an announcement of Gabriel’s capture. Or worse.
The newscaster smiled and said, “Three of the FBI’s Ten Most Wanted fugitives have been found murdered in the Los Angeles area. We’ll take you to a live press conference at the Los Angeles Sheriff’s Department. We’ll have this and other stories when we return.”
She sat down hard on the bed. Not Gabe, she begged silently. Not Gabe.
She thought of the phone calls. Kit must have learned something and called to warn her, to tell her what had happened.
Frederick Whitfield IV finished his club soda slowly. The bar was buzzing with talk of what they had done. He eavesdropped with all the pleasure of a man who is hearing his work praised by strangers.
“Ask me, couldn’t have happened to a nicer bunch of folks,” a woman next to him said, and laughed harshly. She was a big blonde and bore all the marks of a heavy drinker. She raised her glass. “Here’s to seven more of them kicking off as soon as possible.”
Frederick obligingly clinked his glass with hers, as did the man on her right. The man was leathery and thin. “Amen to that,” he said in a flat Midwestern accent. “It’s about time the government realized that if they just sit around and coddle these criminals, worrying about their rights, people are going to take matters into their own hands.”
“Jesus, yes,” said another man, two seats down. He had abruptly ended a discussion of baseball with the bartender when the news came on. “It’s not just that. It’s their damned incompetence. People are tired of shivering in their beds, waiting for the cops to figure out how to catch these guys.”
“That’s what I’m saying,” said the leathery man. “The cops catch them, and they have to let them go.”