She hesitated for a step, then continued. “What do you mean, he’s missing?” She was surprisingly calm. She’s probably just numb to all this, McThune thought. He gave her a quick version of Mark’s disappearance. They stopped at the window and looked at downtown.
“My God, do you think the Mafia’s got him?” she asked, and her eyes watered immediately. She held the cigarette with a trembling hand, unable to light it.
McThune shook his head confidently. “No. They don’t even know. We’re keeping a lid on it. I think he just walked away. Right here, in the hospital. We figured he might have tried to contact you.”
“Have you searched this place? He knows it really well, you know.”
“They’ve been searching for three hours, but it looks doubtful. Where would he go?”
She finally lit the cigarette and took a long drag, then exhaled a small cloud. “I have no idea.”
“Well, let me ask you something. What do you know about Reggie Love? Is she in town this weekend? Was she planning a trip?”
“Why?”
“We can’t find her either. She’s not at home. Her mother ain’t saying much. You received a subpoena last night, right?”
“That’s right.”
“Well, Mark got one, and they tried to serve one on Reggie Love, but they haven’t found her yet. Is it possible Mark’s with her?”
I hope so, Dianne thought. She hadn’t thought about this. In spite of the pills she hadn’t slept fifteen minutes since he’d called. But Mark on the loose with Reggie was a new idea. A much more pleasant idea.
“I don’t know. It’s possible, I guess.”
“Where would they be, you know, the two of them together?”
“How the hell am I supposed to know? You’re the FBI. I hadn’t thought about that until five seconds ago, and now you’re asking me where they are. Give me a break.”
McThune felt stupid. It was not a bright question, and she was not as frail as he thought.
Dianne puffed her cigarette, and watched the cars crawl along the streets below. Knowing Mark, he was probably changing diapers in the nursery or assisting with surgery in orthopedics, or maybe scrambling eggs in the kitchen. St. Peter’s was the largest hospital in the state. There were thousands of people under its varied roofs. He’d roamed the halls and made dozens of friends, and it would take them days to find him. She expected him to call any minute.
“I need to get back,” she said, sticking the filter in an ashtray.
“If he contacts you, I need to know it.”
“Sure.”
“And if you hear from Reggie Love, I’d appreciate a call. I’ll leave two men here on this floor, in case you need them.”
She walked away.
By eight-thirty, Foltrigg had assembled in his office the usual crew of Wally Boxx, Thomas Fink, and Larry Trumann, who arrived last with his hair still wet from a quick shower.
Foltrigg was dressed like a fraternity pledge in his pressed chinos, starched cotton button-down, and shiny loafers. Trumann wore a jogging suit. “The lawyer’s missing too,” he announced as he poured coffee from a thermos.
“When did you hear this?” Foltrigg asked.
“Five minutes ago, on my car phone. McThune called me. They went to her house to serve her around eight, but couldn’t find her. She’s disappeared.”
“What else did McThune say?”
“They’re still searching the hospital. The kid spent three days there and knows it very well.”
“I doubt if he’s there,” Foltrigg said with his customary quick command of unknown facts.
“Does McThune think the kid’s with the lawyer?” Boxx asked.
“Who in hell knows? She’d be kind of stupid to help the kid escape, wouldn’t she?”
“She’s not that bright,” Foltrigg said scornfully.
Neither are you, thought Trumann. You’re the idiot who issued the subpoenas that started this latest episode. “McThune’s spoken twice this morning with K. O. Lewis. He’s on standby. They plan to search the hospital until noon, then give up. If the kid’s not found by then, Lewis will zip to Memphis.”
“You think Muldanno’s involved?” Fink asked.
“I doubt it. Looks like the kid strung them along until he got to the hospital, and at that point he was on home turf. I’ll bet he called the lawyer, and now they’re hiding somewhere in Memphis.”
“I wonder if Muldanno knows,” Fink said, looking at Foltrigg.
“His people are still in Memphis,” Trumann said. “Gronke’s here, but we haven’t seen Bono or Pirini. Hell, they might have a dozen boys up there by now.”
“Has McThune called in the dogs?” Foltrigg asked.
“Yeah. He’s got everyone in his office working on it. They’re watching her house, her secretary’s apartment, they’ve even sent two men to find Judge Roosevelt, who’s fishing somewhere in the mountains. Memphis PD has the hospital choked off.”
“What about the phones?”
“Which phones?”
“The phones in the hospital room. He’s a kid, Larry, you know he’ll try to call his mother.”
“It takes approval from the hospital. McThune said they’re working on it. But it’s Saturday, and the necessary people are not in.”
Foltrigg stood behind his desk, and walked to the window. “The kid had six hours before anyone realized he was missing, right?”
“That’s what they said.”
“Have they found the lawyer’s car?”
“No. They’re still looking.”
“I’ll bet they don’t find it in Memphis. I’ll bet the kid and Ms. Love are in the car.”
“Oh really.”
“Yeah. Haulin’ ass.”
“And where might they be haulin’ ass to?”
“Somewhere far away.”
At nine-thirty, a Memphis policeman called in the tag number of an illegally parked Mazda. It belonged to one Reggie Love. The message was quickly sent to Jason McThune at his office in the Federal Building.
Ten minutes later, two FBI agents knocked on the door to apartment Number 28 at Bellevue Gardens. They waited, and knocked again. Clint hid in the bedroom. If they kicked the door down, then he would simply be sleeping on this lovely and peaceful Saturday morning. They knocked the third time, and the phone started to ring. It startled him, and he almost lunged for it. But his answering machine was on. If the cops would come to his apartment, then they would certainly not hesitate to call. After the tone, he heard Reggie’s voice. He lifted the receiver, and quickly whispered, “Reggie, call me right back.” He hung up.
They knocked the fourth time, and left. The lights were off and the curtains covered every window. He stared at the phone for five minutes, and it finally rang. The answering machine gave its message, then the tone. Again, it was Reggie.
“Hello,” he said quickly.
“Good morning, Clint,” she said cheerfully. “How are things in Memphis?”
“Oh, the usual, you know, cops watching my apartment, banging on the door. Typical Saturday.”
“Cops?”
“Yeah. For the past hour, I’ve been sitting in my closet watching my little television. The news is all over the place. They haven’t mentioned you yet, but Mark’s on every channel. Right now, it’s simply a disappearance, not an escape.”
“Have you talked to Dianne?”
“I called her about an hour ago. The FBI had just told her he was missing. I explained he was with you, and this calmed her a bit. Frankly, Reggie, she’s been shocked so much I don’t think it registered. Where are you?”
“We’ve checked into a motel in Metairie.”
“I’m sorry. Did you say Metairie? As in Louisiana? Right outside of New Orleans?”
“That’s the place. We drove all night.”
“Why the hell are you down there, Reggie? Of all the places to hide, why did you pick a suburb of New Orleans? Why not Alaska?”