“Not yet, Rachel. Let’s at least see what we can find out today.”
“I don’t like it. We should call them.”
“Not yet.”
“Look, you made the connection. No matter what happens it will be because you made the break. You’ll get the credit.”
“I’m not worried about the credit.”
“Then, why are you doing this? Don’t tell me it’s still about the story. Aren’t you over that yet?”
“Are you over being an agent yet?”
She didn’t answer and looked out the window again.
“Same as me,” I said. “This is my last story and it’s important. Besides, this could be your ticket back inside. You identify the Unsub and they’re going to give you back your badge.”
She shook her head.
“Jack, you don’t know anything about the bureau. There are no second acts. I resigned under threat of prosecution. Don’t you get it? I could find Osama bin Laden hiding in a cave in Griffith Park and they wouldn’t take me back.”
“Okay, okay. Sorry.”
We drove in silence after that and soon I saw a barbecue restaurant called Rosie’s come up on the right. It was early for lunch but the intensity of posing as someone I was not for the past hour had left me famished. I pulled in.
“Let’s get something to eat, make some calls and then go back and wait for Kurt and Mizzou to punch out,” I said.
“You got it, partner,” Rachel said.
FIFTEEN: The Farm
Carver sat in his office, studying the camera angles. Over one hundred views of the building and its surroundings. All at his command. At the moment, he was manipulating the exterior camera located on one of the top corners at the front of the building. By raising and turning the lens, and adjusting the focus, he could see up and down McKellips Road.
It didn’t take long to spot them. He knew they’d come back. He knew about thought processes.
McEvoy and Walling were parked next to the wall outside the Public Storage center. They were watching Western Data at the same time he was watching them. Only he wasn’t as obvious about it.
Carver toyed with the idea of letting them bake out there. Waiting longer to give them what they wanted. But then he decided to get things moving. He picked up his phone and punched in three numbers.
“Mizzou, come in here, please. It’s unlocked.”
He put the phone down and waited. Mizzou opened the door without a knock and stepped in.
“Close the door,” Carver said.
The young computer genius did as instructed and then approached Carver’s worktable.
“What’s up, boss?”
“I want you to take that box of Freddy’s belongings and deliver them to him.”
“I thought you said he blew town.”
Carver looked up at him. He thought that someday he would hire somebody who didn’t take issue with everything he said.
“I said he probably did. But that’s beside the point. Those people that were in here earlier today saw that box on his damn chair and realized we either had to fire somebody or we have a turnover problem. Either way, it doesn’t instill confidence in the prospective customer.”
“I understand.”
“Good. Then, take that box, strap it to the back of your motorcycle and take it to his warehouse. You know where that is, don’t you?”
“Yeah, I’ve been there.”
“Good, then go.”
“But Kurt and me were in the middle of breaking down thirty-seven to see where the heat buildup’s coming from. We got a flash on it.”
“Good, I am sure he can handle it from here. I want you to make that delivery.”
“And then come all the way back?”
Carver looked at his watch. He knew Mizzou was angling for the rest of the day off. Little did he know that Carver already knew that he wouldn’t be returning-not on this day, at least.
“Fine,” he said as though he were frustrated about being cornered. “Take the rest of the day. Just go. Now, before I change my mind.”
Mizzou left the office, closing the door behind him. Carver watched anxiously on the cameras, waiting to track him once he got on his beloved motorcycle in the parking lot. He seemed to be taking forever to get out there. Carver started humming. He went to his old standby, the song that had pervaded all corners of his life for as long as he could remember. Soon he quietly sang his two favorite lines and found himself repeating them faster and faster instead of continuing the lyrics of the song.
There’s a killer on the road; his brain is squirming like a toad
There’s a killer on the road; his brain is squirming like a toad
There’s a killer on the road; his brain is squirming like a toad
There’s a killer on the road; his brain is squirming like a toad…
If you give this man a ride…
Finally, Mizzou entered the camera frame and started securing the cardboard box to the small cargo rack behind the seat. He was smoking a cigarette and Carver saw it was almost burned down to the filter. This explained the delay. Mizzou had taken the time to go to the bench at the back of the plant and maybe visit with his fellow smokers.
Finally the box was secured on the motorcycle. Mizzou flicked away the butt of his cigarette and put on his helmet. He straddled the bike, started the engine and rode out through the open front gate.
Carver tracked him out the whole way and then turned the camera toward the Public Storage center down the street. He saw that McEvoy and Walling had seen the box and taken the bait. McEvoy was pulling out to follow.
SIXTEEN: Dark Fiber
We had found a shaded spot next to the front wall of a Public Storage center and had just settled in for what might be a long, hot and fruitless wait, when we got lucky. A motor-cyclist pulled out of the Western Data entrance and headed west on McKellips Road. It was impossible to tell who was on the bike because the rider wore a full-mask helmet, but Rachel and I both recognized the cardboard box that was lashed to a rear rack with bungee cords.
“Follow the box,” Rachel said.
I restarted the car and quickly pulled onto McKellips. Following a motorcycle in a tin can rental car wasn’t my idea of a good plan but there was no alternative. I pinned the accelerator and quickly pulled within a hundred yards of the box.
“Don’t get too close!” Rachel said excitedly.
“I’m not. I’m just trying to catch up.”
She leaned forward nervously and put her hands on the dashboard.
“This is not good. Following a motorcycle with four cars trading off the lead is difficult; this is going to be a nightmare with just us.”
It was true. Motorcycles were able to slip through traffic with ease. Most riders seemed to have a general disdain for the concept of marked lanes of travel.
“You want me to pull over and you drive?”
“No, just do the best you can.”
I managed to stay with the box for the next ten minutes through stop-and-go traffic and then we got lucky. The motorcycle cut into a freeway entrance and got up on the 202 heading toward Phoenix. I had no problem keeping pace here. The motorcycle stayed a steady ten miles over the speed limit and I hummed along two lanes over and a hundred yards back. For fifteen minutes we followed him in clear traffic as he transitioned onto I-10 and then North I-17 through the heart of Phoenix.
Rachel began to breathe easier and even leaned back in her seat. She thought we had disguised our tail well enough that she told me to pull up in our lane so she could get a better look at the man on the motorcycle.
“That’s Mizzou,” she said. “I can tell by his clothes.”
I glanced over but couldn’t tell. I had not committed to memory the details of what I had seen in the bunker. Rachel had and that was one of the things that made her so good at what she did.