The recovery of Trudy Kittridge filled him with hope.
Daphne said from the backseat where she held a bottle of formula for the child, “Those injuries are severe, Lou.”
“I know.”
“You hear Chevalier trying to get her to see a doctor? He saw it too. That eye …”
“I know.”
“We need her healthy. If she’s going to lead you back to Sarah-”
“She’ll survive. It’s Hale I’m worried about. A couple phone calls from Hale and we’re either talking a federal invasion led by Flemming, or the Crowleys blowing to Singapore.”
Daphne considered this. “Are you saying Hale’s working for them?” she called out loudly from the backseat, sending the baby into a volley of cries. She settled her down.
“It would explain him playing this solo. It doesn’t fit with Bureau policy, Daffy. He has carried this too far. It has to be explained. If he’s not down here to investigate these people, he’s down here to protect them.”
“He came onto Flemming’s team late in the game.”
“The two have known each other for a long time, have worked together before. Hale could have easily monitored Flemming’s progress in each city and told the Crowleys when to bail out. It would explain their perfect timing.”
Daphne played along. “She gets involved in an injury car accident. That changes things. Flemming is warming to her. I see what you’re saying: At that point either the Crowleys or Chevalier could demand protection. Hale would respond.”
“Which explains his being down here alone. He tells Flemming he’s chasing leads. Flemming buys into it, it’s how he runs things. Flemming’s not sending in the troops before he’s absolutely sure they have the collar.”
“The tattoo shop?” she asked him.
“Hale removes that evidence ahead of us. They go ahead with the Kittridge adoption, thinking they’re okay. That’s the best sign of all as far as Sarah’s concerned: They haven’t pulled the plug.”
“But Hale?” She sounded incredulous.
“He knows better than anyone Flemming’s determination and his resources. He knows what’s coming. Lisa Crowley is injured. Their credit card identities have been made. For all they know, Spitting Image as well. It’s coming apart on them.”
“So they blow off Seattle.”
“So they blow,” Boldt agreed. “And poor Sarah is suddenly a liability.”
CHAPTER 71
LaMoia pulled into short-term parking and snagged an automated ticket.
He stowed the handgun and cuffs under the front seat but kept the stun stick wedged between his calf and his right boot. It would have to be removed before he passed through security, but the idea of going naked was beyond him-he’d spent fifteen years with some form of self-defense pressed against his skin. The loading areas outside the terminal were crowded with travelers avoiding the storm. LaMoia shoved his way through the crowd and rode an escalator to obtain a view of the entrance ramps, crowded with cabs, vehicles and buses. He could just make out the entrances to the short- and long-term parking lots.
The combination of rain and traffic limited his chance of identifying Crowley’s Taurus. He waited there for less than a minute, abandoned the effort and headed inside.
LaMoia snagged an abandoned USA Today-McPaper-and took a seat with a view of the ticket counters, a set of escalators and the terminal’s central security station. He expected Boldt and Daphne, who had left ahead of him, to be checking in for their flight to Houston, but he didn’t see them, which meant they were probably already at their gate.
According to the video monitors, the next flight to Houston didn’t leave for an hour and a half-gate 14. Flights to Dallas- Fort Worth, a hub for several major carriers, left regularly. He suspected Crowley would ticket one of those flights, knowing firsthand that American flew several nonstops between Dallas and Seattle.
Five minutes lapsed. LaMoia nervously checked his watch and then tried the cell phone. NO SERVICE. Hovering on the edge of panic, he took up position, the paper held as a prop as he scanned the terminal. Two bus groups crowded the Delta ticket line, filling the area with chatter and too much luggage.
A moment later, a woman arrived in the terminal via the baggage claim escalator. Outwardly, this was not the same woman he had watched climb into the Taurus, but he took a mental snapshot of her just the same. She wore a blue skirt, not khakis, as Crowley had; a white cotton T-shirt, small black boots that laced up over her ankles and a French beret pulled down on her head. She carried herself in a fluid feminine walk that shared nothing with the woman outside Chevalier’s office. But the dark wraparound sunglasses were the same, as was the general shape and size of the overnight bag slung from her shoulder. That bag caught LaMoia’s eye.
He lowered his head back into the sports pages, the presence of that bag suggesting she was there not to observe the Brehmers but, indeed, for a flight of her own. The change in disguise, accomplished in the rental’s front seat or in a baggage claim washroom, contributed to her confidence. She walked with her back straight, her chin held high, and yet she failed to disguise the pain that each step cost her. He could sense her measuring the remaining distance to the security check, like an exhausted boxer heading to his corner.
The sunglasses not only obscured her injuries but prevented others from knowing where she was looking. For this reason, LaMoia remained slouched in his seat, his long legs crossed straight in front of him, his casual attention alternately divided between the terminal and the newspaper. He sized up every skirt that passed by. In character, he told himself. Some things came easily.
Hale appeared in the center of the ticket terminal, wet and bedraggled. LaMoia, distracted by Crowley, had missed his entrance, though he had expected him. Looking like a businessman in a hurry, Hale checked the departure monitors, his wristwatch, and then the monitors a second time. LaMoia looked left to Crowley, right to Hale, encouraging Crowley to get through the security check.
When Hale made for a bank of pay phones across the terminal, LaMoia knew instinctively the man had to be stopped, knew what had to be done.
Boldt, Daphne and Trudy Kittridge waited amid a clutter of people and carry-on luggage, their flight more than an hour away. The public address announced a white courtesy phone call for “Scott Hamilton.”
“That’s for me,” Boldt informed her.
“You know how many Scott Hamiltons there are?” she asked.
“The cell phones are out. How else is LaMoia going to reach me? He can’t page me by my name.”
“And what if it’s Hale?” she asked, stunning him. “What if Hale recognized us?”
“Not in that rain.”
“What if he did? He probably knows everything about you, including your love of jazz, even Scott Hamilton. What if all he wants is to flush us?”
Boldt stood, eyes searching for the nearest white phone. “Then I guess I let the caller speak first,” he said.
“Don’t do this. It’s what he wants. He’s a federal agent. He can arrest us for kidnapping, don’t forget-we haven’t reported this to anyone. If he’s part of this, if he’s trying to buy time, that’s exactly what he’ll do. Don’t play into that.” She added, “For Sarah’s sake, please don’t play into that.”
Boldt hesitated. Daphne was right more often than not. He met eyes with her-the public address repeated the page-and he hurried toward the white phone on the far wall.