Tim Ingram sat at the end of the bar, slugged down a single malt, and ordered up another. The television was off, the bar almost empty, and the silence deafening. It was too damn quiet and genteel. He needed a raucous dive that would force him to stop thinking — He rubbed his head and twisted his trunk in an attempt to loosen up the muscles in his back. He'd failed to call in a report on Sara Brannon, hadn't put her hotel room under electronic surveillance, and hadn't told anyone that his cover had been partially penetrated.
That still needed to be done. But not until he could think of an untraceable, safe way to warn off Lieutenant Colonel Brannon. She deserved that much consideration.
He decided on a plan, asked the bartender for a phone book, and paged through it until he found what he wanted.
Ingram left the La Fonda Hotel. Molina paralleled him from one street over to the courthouse. He got to the minivan just in time to see Ingram's vehicle with the broken license-plate lights cruising away from downtown toward St. Francis Drive. He hauled ass through a red light to keep Ingram in range.
Traffic lights showed green down the quiet thoroughfare that led to the Interstate, and Molina grouchily wondered if Ingram was heading back to Albuquerque. He didn't relish the prospect of making the drive.
Ingram turned off on St. Michael's Drive and stopped at a twenty-four-hour-a-day franchise copy service and print shop.
Molina took some blank property receipt forms off his clipboard, went inside, ran them through a self-serve copier, and watched Ingram fill out a form and hand it to the clerk. The clerk fed it into a fax machine and rang up the charges. Ingram paid the clerk, shredded the paper, and walked out.
Molina waited until Ingram left the parking lot. The vehicle tracking monitor and Global Positioning System would give him a fix on his travel direction.
He went to the clerk and flashed his shield.
"Did you see who that fax was sent to?" he asked.
"We're not supposed to look," the kid said, wide eyed.
"Did you look?"
The kid, no more than eighteen, shook his head.
"No."
"Can you call the fax number up on the machine?"
"I guess so."
"Well, do it," Molina said.
The kid came back with the number. Molina dropped a five dollar bill on the counter, went to the minivan, and got a fix on In gram's direction from the state police agent manning the tracking devices. He was heading back downtown.
Molina cross-checked the phone number in the city directory. It didn't show, but the next number down listed a downtown hotel.
Molina hung a turn onto the street, called the hotel night clerk, and identified himself.
"You just received a fax. Who was it for?"
"Colonel Sara Brannon. It's being delivered now."
Lights ran red up and down St. Francis Drive. Molina busted through them and picked up Ingram passing by the last downtown turnoff. He slowed and watched Ingram pull into the parking lot of Applewhite's hotel on the north side of town.
He found Sloan staked out in the Blazer, eased the minivan up next to him, and opened his window.
"I was just gonna give you a call, LT," Sloan said.
"Do you know a Colonel Sara Brannon?" Molina asked.
"Isn't the chief married to an army officer? I think that's her name.
What's up?"
Molina dialed Kerney's home phone. It rang unanswered.
"In gram just faxed her a message at a downtown hotel. I'm going there now. If he moves, switch off and follow him. I'll come back and baby-sit Applewhite."
"Ten-four. Why would the chief's wife be staying at a hotel?"
"Maybe they checked in together."
"Must be nice," Sloan said.
"I can't even afford to buy my wife dinner at one of those places."
Applewhite opened her door. Wrapped in a hotel robe, she stared up at Ingram from under heavy eyebrows. Indentations from a pillow ran across her cheek. Her sleepy face showed no signs of softness. She looked damn ugly without any makeup.
Ingram sucked breath mints. He told Applewhite about Sara Brannon's arrival on the scene, where she was, and her subsequent activities.
"Not good," Applewhite said.
"How did you get made?"
"I have no idea."
"Do you have listeners in place at the hotel?"
"They're setting up now. Give it thirty minutes."
"Why is it taking so long?"
"Everybody was tasked. I had to free up some people."
"Did you bring hard copies?"
Ingram dropped a file on the dresser.
"This is what she's done so far. It's all Internet surfing. I think we should go at this cautiously."
"What do you have in mind?"
"Find a way to have Brannon's weekend cut short. Let's get her back to Leavenworth and take her out of the picture."
"I'll run the idea by the ambassador," Applewhite said.
"Did you know that bitch made light colonel?"
A spiteful, jealous expression on Elaine's face almost made In gram flinch.
"Yeah, I know," he said, stepping to the door. He couldn't resist pushing Applewhite's buttons.
"And she was decorated with the Distinguished Service Medal. I heard they wanted to give her the Silver Star, but that would have meant admitting that she'd been in a hostile action with North Korean troops.
Isn't that something?"
"She's an ass-kissing bitch," Applewhite said.
"That's what got her the DSM and the promotion."
Sara fell asleep on the couch. She woke up to a knock, saw that a piece of paper had been slipped under the door, and looked through the peephole, expecting to see a bellhop waiting for a tip. Instead, she saw a man holding up an SFPD shield. Kerney wandered out of the bedroom groggy eyed and in his underwear as she picked up the piece of paper and unlatched the door.
Molina held up his clipboard with an attached piece of paper that read:
YOUR ROOM IS BUGGED.MEETME IN THE LOBBY.
Sara nodded, closed the door, and glanced at the paper. It was a handwritten fax message to her that read:
Go BACK To Your post.
A five-digit number followed the message. They dressed and hurried to meet Molina.
"Who wants you to go back to your post?" Kerney asked as they walked down the corridor to the elevators.
"And why?"
"I don't know," Sara replied in a troubled voice.
The elevator doors slid open on the ground floor to reveal Molina pacing impatiently. The night manager behind the guest check-in counter looked on with unabashed interest.
"How did you locate us?" Kerney asked Molina.
"Ingram faxed your wife a message," Sal said, holding up an office key.
"I've got a place where we can talk. What did the message say, Chief?"
Sara answered.
"Basically, it said get out of town."
Molina took them into the general manager's office and slipped a minicassette into his pocket tape recorder.
"This was just picked up from Agent Applewhite's room," he said.
"I recorded it off my handheld radio, so the sound quality isn't great, but you can still make it out."
Sara and Kerney listened to the tape of Ingram's conversation with Applewhite.
Molina glanced over Ingram's fax message. When the tape ended Sal asked,
"What do the numbers in the fax message mean?"
"Each West Point graduate is assigned what's known as a Cullen number,"
Sara said.
"It's named for the general who began chronicling biographies of every graduate in 1850. The numbers are assigned alphabetically and in sequence starting from the first graduate through the most recent class.
Everyone has a unique number. I'm betting this one is Tim's.
He wanted to make sure I'd know who sent the message."
"So that you'd take it seriously," Kerney added.
"He also gave Applewhite a suggestion on how to ease you out of the picture."