The moment the door shut behind them, she swung her legs over the side of the bed. “We’re getting out of here. Now.”
“Charley, what—”
“This whole thing stinks. And I’m going to find out wh—” She stood and a wave of dizziness swept over her.
Perez grabbed her arm, steadying her. “Harry’s in some trouble, no doubt. But there’s nothing you can do about it right now — and certainly not in your condition. I’ll get the nurse to call Doctor Levine and find out when you’re being released, and we’ll plan from there.”
She shook off his hand. “You don’t get it. I’m not going to lie around here and do nothing when I know Harry’s in danger.”
“For God’s sake, Charley. You’re in more danger than he is. You just had a miscarriage. Doctor Levine said to expect discomfort and bleeding. That you’d be weak. He advised taking it easy for a couple days. I’m not letting you walk out of here without his okay.”
“Try to stop me.” She took a deep breath and looked her husband squarely in the eyes. “Those guys weren’t FBI.”
Without waiting for a response, she crossed to the room’s version of a closet, a press board armoire. Her panties and trousers were bloodstained. The panties were ruined, she decided, so she would have to make do with the pads the hospital had provided. If she tied her jacket around her waist, her dark-colored trousers would do until she could replace them.
She glanced at her husband as he watched her. “Those cards ‘Agent Smith’ handed us were bogus,” she said. “Take a good look. Cheap stock. Laser jet printing. Run your finger over it. The Bureau’s cards are engraved. This one could’ve been printed from any home computer.”
She stepped into the stained trousers, a lump in her throat. She swallowed past it. There would be a lifetime to mourn their loss. Right now, Harry needed her.
“The only number on Smith’s card,” she continued, “is a cell number.”
Perez frowned, struggling to come to grips with what she was proposing. “So where’s the Bureau’s number?”
“Exactly.”
He rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Charley, have you considered that you might be a little emotionally unstable right now? You’ve suffered a loss…It’s been a shock. I think taking a step back and a deep breath might be a good idea. I’ll check you out, we’ll go home. See if Harry’s there or left us a message. You need a change of clothes, something to eat. We’ll sort everything out.”
“Do you trust me?”
“Of course.”
“Then help me. Please.”
In the end, she wore him down. Worried that one of the bogus agents was watching the front of the hospital, she refused to allow him to officially check her out. The hospital would insist on a wheelchair — standard policy — and a front-door exit. Instead they took the stairs and slipped out the delivery entrance.
She waited while he brought the car around. Once they were both buckled in, he looked at her. “What’s the plan?”
“We find Harry.”
He smiled at her. “Good plan. How do y—”
The faint sound of a digitized version of the song “Brown-Eyed Girl” interrupted him.
Her cell phone’s ring tone.
“It’s in your purse,” he said. “I locked it in the—”
“Trunk.”
He shifted into park, threw open his car door and climbed out. A moment later he returned with her purse, cell clipped to it, message light blinking frantically.
A number she didn’t recognize — perhaps her father had bought a pre-paid for security. She quickly scrolled through a half-dozen missed calls and one text message waiting. All from Harry.
She returned the last call first, and it was answered on the first ring. “Dad, it’s me. Thank God! I was so worried.”
“Charlotte! Where are?”
“Jack and I—”
She bit the words back, realization crashing in on her. Not her father. Her father hadn’t called her Charlotte since the second grade.”
“Charlotte? Sweetheart, are you—”
With a sound of distress, she hung up. “Drive, Jack. Now.”
He did as she instructed. “What happened?”
“Someone pretended to be Harry. They wanted to know where I was.”
“Check your messages.”
She did. At the sound of her father’s voice relief flooded her.
“Charley, I’ve been delayed. I hope to still make a late dinner. Love you.”
She frowned at the second message. “Charley, there’s a situation here. I’ll explain everything when I get there. Look…Be careful. Stay with Jack. Don’t trust anyone you don’t know. My flight’s due into Dulles at 7:10 p.m.”
By the third and last message there was no denying the panic in his voice. “Where are you? I’m boarding the Paris flight. When you get this, dial back so I’ll know you’re okay.”
She checked the text message next.
GREEN LANTERN EVAC SCOTLAND
Their secret code. She stared at those four little words, feeling as if all the air had suddenly been sucked out of the car’s interior.
“What’s wrong?”
“Change in plans. We’re going to Capitol Hill. The Scotland — The St. Regis.”
While he drove, she explained about the code. When she finished, he glanced at her. “This is a gag?”
“Hardly. Harry would never have sent that text message unless it was for real.”
“Maybe he didn’t send it?”
The thought chilled her, but only for a moment. “No, no one else would know our code. Even mother only knew part of it. Harry sent it.”
“This makes no sense. It’s like some cloak-and-dagger parlor game. Only you’re telling me it’s real.” Perez pulled up in front of the hotel. “What is your dad, some kind of a spy?”
She flung open the car door. “Wait here. I’ll be right back.”
Moments later, she greeted the guest services agent. She dug a photo of Harry out of her wallet; the guy at the desk squinted at it, then nodded.
“He was here. Looking for some woman. You, I suppose. Went to the bar to wait.”
She thanked him and hurried to the lounge She saw right away that he wasn’t there.
She crossed to the bar. The bartender was busy with another patron, a stunning redhead. While she waited for him to finish, her attention was drawn to the television behind the bar, the news story being broadcast. A shooting at Dulles. A police officer down. The grainy image of the suspect.
Harry. It couldn’t be true.
“What can I get you?”
She looked at the bartender. She had the photo of her father out, ready to ask if the man had seen him, if he knew where he’d gone. Instead, she shook her head and slipped the photo back into her pocket. She couldn’t chance him recognizing Harry and sounding the alarm.
“Nothing. I just remembered…Sorry.”
She turned and quickly left, aware of the bartender’s gaze on her. As she strode past the desk again, she glanced the attendant’s way. He was on the phone; when he saw her looking his way, he quickly averted his eyes.
If those goons had what they wanted, they wouldn’t have paid her the little visit in the hospital. That was the good news.
The bad news. Harry was wanted in connection with the murder of a cop. That part of the “agent’s” story had been legitimate.
By now, the police knew who he was, where he worked and lived. Where she lived. They were amassing the names of friends and coworkers. He wouldn’t be able to use his credit cards or cell phone. His car would be off-limits, as would his home.