"You were supposed to stay where you were."
"What did you find?"
"The Porsche's leased."
"What?"
"Only for a month. To someone named Joshua Carter. The company he leased it from says he gave his address as seventy-eight Vista Linda in Seaside, California. The local police department's sending an unmarked car to check it out."
Cavanaugh could barely speak. "Tell them to forget it. Carter doesn't live there."
"Doesn't live there? If you knew that, why on earth did you ask me to-"
"I was hoping you'd find a different address."
"This is crazy. I need you at the command center we're setting up. This time, stay where you are."
"Right." Cavanaugh hung up and ran to the Taurus.
19
Jesus, Prescott's so paranoid, he created a false identity within a false identity, Cavanaugh thought as he watched the exercise club from the Starbucks across the street. The son of a bitch probably did what we told him at the bunker. Checked old newspaper obituaries. Found the name of a child who, if he'd lived, would now be the same age as he was. Knowing that most parents get Social Security numbers for their children at the time they're born, and that some states, California among them, include Social Security numbers on death certificates, he went to the hall of records in the city where the child died and asked for a copy of the death certificate. With the Social Security number from the death certificate, he could get a driver's license and a bank account in the child's name.
Pretending to read a magazine, Cavanaugh sat back from the windows. The instructor had said that Joshua Carter usually stayed four hours. The time was now five o'clock. Presumably, Prescott was using his second false identity to test his surroundings. If his remarkable transformation at the exercise club attracted the wrong attention, he could abandon the easily dispensable Joshua Carter persona and go to ground, relying on the absolutely dependable, irreplaceable identity that Karen had created for him. When he came out of the club, he would revert to that identity and drive to his actual residence.
I can't hope to catch him alone in the club, subdue him, and get him out of there without people trying to stop me, Ca-vanaugh thought. But if I can follow him…
Prescott stepped from the building. Pausing in the sunlight, he stood a little straighter than when he'd gone in. His shoulders looked a little more broad, his chest a little more solid. His cheeks, flushed from exertion, seemed subtly thinner. Whatever chemical he was taking, it worked remarkably in tandem with exercise and a strict diet. He wore sunglasses and the same black loafers, gray slacks, and blue pullover as when he'd gone in. He carried the same dark gym bag as, scalp glistening, he scanned the street and turned to his left toward the club's parking lot. At the Porsche, he again looked around, then got into the car.
The moment Prescott drove from the lot, Cavanaugh hurried outside to where he'd parked the Taurus behind Starbucks. Fifteen seconds later, he followed. That length of time was critical because he'd tested both directions on the street and had concluded that fifteen seconds was a little less than the time it took, at the speed limit, to reach the stop sign at either end. As Cavanaugh emerged from the Starbucks lot, he saw the Porsche reach the intersection on the right. A moment later, Prescott turned left.
Cavanaugh headed down to the intersection, turned left, and saw the Porsche among the traffic a block away. He knew he couldn't keep up with the sports car if Prescott used its maneuvering abilities to weave in and out of traffic and turn corners with an efficiency that made up for staying within the speed limit. But Cavanaugh hoped that once Prescott was away from the exercise club, he'd abandon the glitzy persona he'd created and do his best to blend, at least as much as he could with so expensive a car.
In keeping with that logic, Prescott drove conservatively along Del Monte Avenue, taking that main thoroughfare west into the adjoining city of Monterey, where he made two conservative turns in the congestion of five o'clock traffic and entered a two-story parking garage next to an office complex.
The exit from the garage was next to its entrance, but Cavanaugh had to make sure there wasn't a second entrance/exit and that Prescott had not entered the garage only to leave it immediately on the opposite side in case anyone was following him. The problem was, while Cavanaugh drove around the block, checking for other exits, Prescott might leave through the exit that Cavanaugh knew about. But then Cavanaugh noticed that so many drivers were leaving the garage at the end of the workday that a line of cars had formed inside, waiting to reach the checkout booth, enough cars that Cavanaugh figured he had time to drive around the block before Prescott could leave via this exit.
As he hoped, there wasn't another exit. Returning to where Prescott had entered, Cavanaugh drove into the garage and wound his way all through the dusky, exhaust-smelling lower level, but he didn't see the Porsche. Continuing to the second level, he found it in an area marked compact only, along with other small cars, next to a door that led into the office complex.
The location forced Cavanaugh to reconsider his strategy. In an ideal situation, the Porsche would have been away from a door and parked among larger vehicles, preferably SUVs, behind which Cavanaugh could have concealed the Taurus and taken cover, rushing Prescott when he approached the sports car.
Now Cavanaugh was going to have to park a distance away. He considered hiding in a dark corner near the Porsche, charging Prescott before he could get in the car. An alternative was to use the Emerson knife to cut chunks from the seat covers that hid Cavanaugh's bloodstains. If he shoved the chunks into the Porsche's exhaust pipes, the engine wouldn't be able to function. When Prescott got out to see what was wrong, he'd be so distraded that Cavanaugh would have a better chance of rushing him.
But would Prescott be distracted? Cavanaugh wondered. Or would the car's sudden failure make Prescott wary? If Prescott had a pistol, if there was a gunfight… I can't risk killing him, Cavanaugh thought.
Then he realized that the best way to do this was to spray some of the knockout chemical on the Porsche's door handle. When Prescott touched it and collapsed, Cavanaugh could hurry over, Pick him up as if Prescott were drunk, and get him into the Tau-rus.
Cavanaugh put on latex gloves that he'd purchased during the day. He took the spray container from the plastic bag, got out of the car, and put his hands behind his back to prevent departing office workers from noticing the gloves. Thirty seconds later, he was back behind the steering wheel. After returning the container to its bag, he cautiously removed the gloves, careful to touch them only on their interior.
The Taurus was in a shadowy area. Office workers entering the garage didn't notice him. The sounds of car doors being opened and shut echoed throughout the garage. Vehicles pulled out of spaces and descended to the lower level. Fewer and fewer cars re-mained. By six o'clock, the Porsche was the only car against the wall next to the door, and the Taurus was one of only a handful across from it.
Cavanaugh moved the Taurus to a farther section of the garage, blending with the remaining vehicles.
Six-thirty. A few more office workers departed. Seven.
When eight o'clock came and the only vehicles in the area were the Porsche and the Taurus, Cavanaugh had a premonition.