“P and F Storage in the Bronx, and the name is Connie Pearl.”
“I don’t think I want to know where you got that name.”
He watched her walk to the sink with the empty coffeepot and rinse it out. When she turned to reach for the coffee, her head slanted in a certain way. He blinked. He knew that certain set of the head very well. He’d seen her father do that not six days before. He watched her closely and saw that her movements were economical, graceful. He liked the way she moved. She’d inherited that from her father, too, one of the smoothest, most elegant men Adam had ever known. He clasped his hands behind his head, closed his eyes for a moment, picturing Thomas Matlock clearly in his mind’s eye, and thought back to that meeting between the two of them on June 24.
Washington, D.C.
The Sutter Building
“She still believes you’re dead.”
He nodded. “Of course. Even when Allison knew she was dying, we decided not to tell Becca about me, it was just too dangerous.”
At least, Adam thought, Thomas had been in close contact with his wife since e-mail had come along. They were online every night, until his wife had gone into the hospital. Adam said, “I don’t agree with that, Thomas. You should have contacted her when her mother fell into a coma. She needed you then, and the good Lord knows, she needs you now.”
“You know it’s still too risky. I haven’t known where Krimakov is since right after I shot his wife. I realized soon enough that I would have to kill him to protect my family, but he simply disappeared, with the help of the KGB, no doubt. No, I can’t take the risk that Krimakov could find out about her. He would slit her throat and laugh and then call me and laugh some more. No. I’ve been dead to her for twenty-four years. It stays that way. Allison agreed with me that until I know for certain that Krimakov is dead, I stay dead to my daughter.” Thomas sighed deeply. “It was very hard for both of us, I’ll be honest with you. I think if Allison hadn’t slipped into that drugged coma, she might have told Becca, so that she’d know she wasn’t really alone.”
The pain in his voice made Adam silent for a long time. Then he said, all practical again, “You can’t stay dead to her now and you know it. Or haven’t you been watching CNN?”
“That’s why you’re here. Stop frowning down at me. Pour yourself a cup of coffee and sit down. I’ve done a lot of thinking. I’ve got a favor to ask.”
Adam Carruthers poured himself some coffee so strong it could bring down a rhino. He stretched out in the chair opposite the huge mahogany desk. A computer, a printer, a fax, and a big leather desk pad sat in their designated spots on top of the desk. No free papers stacked anywhere, no slips or notes, just technology. He knew that on this specific computer, there were no deep, dark secrets, just camouflage. Even he would have a hard time getting through all the safeguards installed to protect any hidden files on the machine, if there had been any, which there weren’t. Thomas Matlock had stayed at the top of his game by being careful and smart.
Adam said, “The governor of New York was shot in the neck two nights ago. The man was lucky to be surrounded by doctors and that he’d promised more big state bucks for cancer research, otherwise they might have let him bleed to death.”
“You’re cynical.”
“Yeah, well, you’ve known that for ten years, haven’t you?” Adam took a drink of the high-test coffee and felt a jolt all the way to his feet. “Everyone is after her now, particularly the Feebs. She’s gone to ground. They’ve pulled out all the stops, but no sign of her yet. Smart girl. To fool everyone isn’t easy. She’s your daughter, all right. Cunning and sneakiness are in her genes.”
Thomas Matlock opened a desk drawer and pulled out a 5x7 color photo set in a simple silver frame. “There are only three people alive who know she’s my daughter, and you’re one of them. Now, her mother got this to me just eight months ago. Her name’s Becca, as you know, short for Rebecca-that was my mother’s name. She’s about five feet eight inches tall, and she’s on the lean side, not more than one hundred twenty pounds. You can see that she’s in good shape. She’s athletic, a whiz at tennis and racquet-ball. Her mother told me she loves football, not college but professional. She’d kill for the Giants, even in their worst season.
“You’ve got to find her, Adam. I don’t know if Krimakov will connect her to me. It’s very probable he’s known all along that I had a wife and a daughter, no way to bury that, and we didn’t want to do the witness protection program. But you know something? I still don’t have a clue where he is or what he’s been doing the past twenty years. I’ve got tentacles all over the world but no definite leads on his whereabouts. Now I’ve upped the ante, but still nothing.
“But you know he’s on top of American news, all of it. The instant he hears the name ‘Matlock,’ he’ll go en pointe. She’s in deep trouble. She doesn’t even realize how deep, that the cops and the FBI are the least of her worries.”
“Don’t worry, Thomas. I’ll find her and I’ll protect her, from both the stalker and Krimakov, if either of them shows up.”
“That’s just it.” Thomas sighed. “This stalker bothers me. What are the odds that a stalker would go after Becca? Too great, I think. What I’m thinking is that just maybe Krimakov already found her, just maybe he’s the stalker.”
“Jesus, Thomas,” Adam said. “I guess it’s possible, but unlikely, I think. If he’s the stalker, then that means he found her even before your wife died.”
“Yes, it scares me to my toes.”
“But there’s no proof at all that it’s Krimakov. Now, first things first. I’ve got to get the locals and the Feds off her trail once and for all.”
“You’ve already begun to track her, then?”
“Sure. The minute I heard her name, I got all my people working on it. What would you expect? You’re the one who always has to look at the big picture. I don’t. Let me make a phone call right now, let Hatch know you’ve approved everything, get all my people on this.”
“And if I hadn’t called you?”
“I’d have taken care of her anyway.” Adam turned to pick up the phone. “She’s your daughter.”
Adam knew that Thomas Matlock was looking at him as he lifted the receiver of the black phone and punched in some numbers. He knew, too, that Thomas had worried and worried, tried to figure out the odds, determine the best thing to do, but Adam had simply stepped in and begun protecting his daughter from a stalker who could be, truth be told, Krimakov, although to Adam the odds were that Krimakov was long dead. But it was a lead. It was something, the only thing they had.
Thomas should have known that he didn’t have to even ask. Adam also imagined that Thomas Matlock felt a goodly amount of relief.
As he spoke quietly on the phone, he saw the jolt of pain cross Thomas Matlock’s face, and he knew it was because Thomas would never again see Allison. And more than that. Thomas Matlock hadn’t been with his wife when she died. He’d wanted to be, but Becca was there, always there, and he couldn’t take the chance. The pain and guilt of that had to be tearing him up inside.
Oh yeah, he’d try to save Thomas’s daughter.
Only one mistake in the seventies, and Thomas Matlock had lost any chance at the promising life he’d begun. He’d had to hold himself private. He’d kept his position in the intelligence community so he would know if Krimakov ever surfaced. But he’d had to remain alone.
Jacob Marley’s House
Adam slowly opened his eyes. He was in the same room with Allison and Thomas Matlock’s daughter, and she was looking at him with an odd combination of helplessness and wariness. Damn, she looked so very much like her father. He couldn’t tell her yet. No, not yet. He said on a yawn, “I’m sorry, I guess I just sort of flashed out for a while.”