“Look, he didn’t come right out and admit it,” Kirsten said, “but it feels like Tim really wants to take Lesley away from you.”
Rob snorted. “That’d be impossible.”
“Why?”
“Because she’s not mine anymore. Lesley and I had a big fight this morning, right after she had to sit in court and listen to some FBI agent tell everyone all the nasty things I’m supposed to have done. She ended up throwing the diamond ring at me and running away.”
Kirsten’s eyes widened in surprise. “You were engaged?”
“For all of three days.”
Kirsten shook her head in frank wonderment.
“Maybe Tim’s wish is coming true,” she said.
The bottom seemed to drop out of Rob’s stomach. How could this day possibly keep getting worse?
Landry got out of the Buick when he saw the car pull up to the curb behind him and douse its lights. He walked to the passenger door of the Lexus and got in.
“So where is he?” Dysart said.
“He wasn’t in the store. He was hiding across the street and saw me first. I chased him a ways but then he hopped in a cab and got away.”
Dysart slammed the steering wheel with the heel of his hand. “Dammit!”
“You should have told him to wait inside the store.”
“And you should have held on to him to begin with. Now he’s spooked so badly he probably won’t turn up for days.”
“Oh, we can flush him out. We know where his car is and I can get some help to watch his apartment. And,” Landry said, “I got the number of the cab.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Landry parked beside two idle taxis. Both cabs had the words Hanover Taxi painted on their sides, along with the phone number to call for Fast, Friendly Service. Landry checked the taxi numbers displayed on the rear of the vehicles. Neither was the one he was looking for.
The offices of Hanover Taxi were in a long, low industrial strip mall that also contained a transmission repair shop, a discount tire outlet, an outfit that rented portable toilets, plus several other enterprises that Landry couldn’t make out in the darkness. A series of lamps atop metal poles cast dull pools of light in the parking lot. The only other light shone from the window that fronted the premises of Hanover Taxi. Landry walked to the solid metal door and tried the knob. It was locked. He pounded on the door.
One of the most obese people Landry had ever seen opened the door. Landry flashed his fake ID.
“Special Agent Labadie,” Landry said. His hair was died pure black and gelled to lay flatter than usual. He had affixed a matching mustache and goatee. A small amount of cotton stuffed under his cheeks altered slightly the shape of his face. Oval wire-rimmed glasses completed his latest transformation. “I called earlier.”
The obese guy nodded and stood aside so Landry could enter. The man wore a plain black sweatshirt and a pair of blue polyester work pants roomy enough to house an average-sized family. His stringy brown hair looked like he had chopped it himself. A gold cross earring dangled from one ear. He wore a telephone headset with a microphone curving around in front of his mouth.
“You understand,” the guy said, “we can’t just give out information over the phone. We need to see some ID or something.”
“Of course,” Landry said.
The reception area, if you could call it that, contained a cluttered desk, a couple of vinyl chairs separated by an end table heaped with tattered magazines, and a potted floor plant that was too dilapidated to be fake — someone’s attempt at a homey touch. A pair of doors in the back wall led into two tiny offices.
A phone trilled. The guy touched a device hooked to the waistband of his pants. “Hanover taxi,” he said into the headset as he lumbered into one of the offices. “And where you going?” A pause, then, “Okay, be there in fifteen minutes.” He hung up and sat down in front of a large wooden desk that occupied most of the room. Landry thought the chair was a metal folding type but the guy’s bulk obscured it to such an extent that he wasn’t sure.
After a bit of typing on a computer keyboard, the guy turned to face Landry.
“We haven’t got radios in the cabs any more,” the guy said. “It’s all computerized now. I just type in where they want to go and it shows up on a little screen in the car.” He was obviously proud of Hanover’s leap into the computer age.
“How nice for you,” Landry said. “Now what about cab number 62911?”
“Yeah. That’s Bert’s car.”
Landry waited a moment but the guy showed no sign of providing further details.
“I need to—” Landry began, but the phone interrupted. He waited while the guy sent two more cabs off to pick up fares.
“I want to ask Bert a few questions,” Landry said when he had the guy’s attention once more.
“What about?”
“None of your business. Just tell me how I can talk to him.”
“Gonna be a while. He took a fare from Logan out to Cape Cod. It’ll be a few hours before he’s back in the city.”
Landry glared at him. “Why didn’t you tell me that on the phone?”
“Not allowed to do that. The boss would’ve skinned me alive.”
“You couldn’t even tell me he was unavailable for a few hours?”
The guy looked up impassively at Landry, who was doing his best to remain calm.
“All right,” Landry said, “then I need to talk to him as soon as he’s back.”
The guy shook his head. “Bert’s shift will be over before he’s back. He’ll be going straight home, won’t be on again until dinnertime tomorrow.”
“Then give me his home phone number and his address. I’ll talk to him there.”
“I don’t know.” The dispatcher looked doubtful. “Bert don’t like to be bothered at home.”
“Look, you idiot. He’s a material witness in an FBI investigation. I can talk to him any time and any place I choose, including arresting him and dragging him into our offices if that’s what I feel like. And that’s what I’m about to do to you if you don’t hurry up and tell me where he lives.”
The dispatcher’s eyes widened. He fumbled open a drawer, pulled out a clipboard and leafed through the papers. Apparently not all aspects of Hanover Taxi’s operations were computerized.
“It’s right here,” the guy said. He turned the clipboard toward Landry and pointed with a pudgy index finger to the spot that showed the home phone and address of one Bertram O’Brien.
“Now that wasn’t so hard, was it?” Landry said.
Rob stepped out of the shower and toweled himself off. The turquoise towel was embroidered with the same pattern as the fluffy turquoise toilet seat cover, which matched the bath mat, shower curtain, window curtain, soap dish and toothbrush holder. The toilet paper was white. Rob didn’t know how Kirsten could stand the contrast.
He winced when he raised his arms high enough to dry his shoulders. Wiping some of the steam from the mirror, Rob looked at the emerging bruises on his face. Man, he was going to be some kind of sight come morning.
Rob started to hang the damp towel on the shower curtain rod, then remembered whose apartment he was in and dropped it instead into the wicker laundry hamper next to the linen closet. Kirsten had given him some clothes to put on while his bloody ones were in the washing machine. There was an old pair of gray sweat pants, a Chicago Bears T-shirt and some blue and white striped boxers. They were folded neatly, smelled slightly of laundry softener and fit him perfectly, which made sense given that they used to be his. He felt more than a little weird putting them on again after all this time.
“I can’t believe you still have these clothes,” Rob said as he walked into the kitchen.