Harry. It couldn’t be true.
“What can I get you?”
She looked at the bartender. She had the photo of her father out, ready to ask if the man had seen him, if he knew where he’d gone. Instead, she shook her head and slipped the photo back into her pocket. She couldn’t chance him recognizing Harry and sounding the alarm.
“Nothing. I just remembered… Sorry.”
She turned and quickly left, aware of the bartender’s gaze on her. As she strode past the desk again, she glanced the attendant’s way. He was on the phone; when he saw her looking his way, he quickly averted his eyes.
If those goons had what they wanted, they wouldn’t have paid her the little visit in the hospital. That was the good news.
The bad news. Harry was wanted in connection with the murder of a cop. That part of the “agent’s” story had been legitimate.
By now, the police knew who he was, where he worked and lived. Where she lived. They were amassing the names of friends and coworkers. He wouldn’t be able to use his credit cards or cell phone. His car would be off-limits, as would his home.
He had two groups after him-the fake police and the real ones.
Her husband was waiting for her at the hotel entrance, expression tight. “Any luck?”
“He was here. He’s not now.”
“Look, I was listening to the news and-”
“I know,” she said, cutting him off. “I saw it on the TV. In the bar.”
They hurried up the block to their BMW and slid inside. “Maybe those guys were real agents?”
“No way,” she replied. “Mother lives close by. Maybe she’s heard from him.”
“Sylvia and your father hate each other.”
Hate was a strong word, but she certainly wouldn’t call them friends. A more mismatched union she couldn’t imagine. Plus, her mother had never forgiven Harry for Charlotte liking him more than her. And for turning her only child into what she called a “do-gooder, spy-in-training.”
The marriage’s final straw had been the brief affair he’d had with one of his fellow Volunteers-Leonora Tesla.
“Let’s try there anyway. At the very least, I can borrow a change of clothes.”
Her mother would ask about the baby. They’d have to explain. She brought a hand to her empty belly. She didn’t want to talk about it. She couldn’t.
Falling apart was a luxury she couldn’t afford right now.
They made her mother’s upscale Georgetown neighborhood in less than 20 minutes. Easing to a stop in front of the two-story colonial, they climbed out of the car and hurried up the walk.
Her mother’s Mercedes sedan was parked in the drive. The porch was dark, though light glowed in several of the windows.
Charley rang the bell. From inside came the frenzied yapping of Bella, her mother’s Pomeranian.
“Mother!” she called, ringing again. “It’s me!”
Maybe she’d gone out with a friend who had picked her up. Or she was on a date.
No. This wasn’t right. She felt it in her gut.
Beside her, Perez dialed his mother-in-law’s number. It rang twice, four times, six times.
Heart thundering, she dug in her purse for her key ring. She kept one of her mother’s spares in case of emergency. She found it, fitted the key in the lock and eased the door open.
“Mom!” she called. Bella came running from the kitchen, across her mother’s bright white carpeting. Leaving a trail of perfect little paw prints.
Red prints.
A cry slipped past her lips. With an order for her to “stay put,” Perez started for the kitchen. She followed.
They stopped at the kitchen entry. Her mother lay on the tile floor. Face up, eyes open. Vacant. Seeping blood had formed wing shapes on either side of her torso. Bella had run around and around her mistress, through the blood, creating a bizarre, almost floral pattern on the white tile.
Her mother had been dressed for bed. She wore a teal-colored silk robe. The robe’s flap had fallen open, exposing her legs and an edge of lacy lingerie. One hand rested on her chest, as if she had grabbed at her heart, the other at her side.
“Oh Mother.” Whimpering, she took a step forward, then stopped, lightheaded, and grasped the counter for support.
Her husband inched toward his mother-in-law’s body, careful to avoid the blood. He squatted and checked her pulse.
Struggling to come to grips with what had happened, she shifted her gaze. It landed on an item peeking out from under the cabinet. She blinked, focusing. A candy-bar wrapper. With the toe of her shoe, she nudged it out. Milka, a European brand, one difficult to acquire in the states. She tilted her head. This one was from Poland.
She stared at it, blood thundering in her head. Her father’s favorite chocolate. His secret passion. One that they shared.
“She’s dead, Charley.”
“We’ve got to get out of here. Now.” She snatched up the candy wrapper and stuffed it into her pocket.
“What are you doing? Charley, that could be evidence. We’ve got to call the police.”
“They’re going to try to pin this on Harry.”
“Have you thought that maybe he did-”
“Never, not Dad. He sent me that text message because I’m in danger too. Mother was as well. I don’t know why this is happening, but I trust him.”
“With your life? With mine as well?”
“Yes.” She pressed her lips together as the full meaning of what was happening set in. “We’ve got to find him.”
“How?” Perez dragged a shaking hand through his hair. “We’re not wanted by the police, but I’m sure they’re looking for us.”
She looked back at her mother, fighting back despair-and the urge to crawl into her husband’s arms and sob. She was Harold Middleton’s daughter. She would hunt down whoever had done this. And make him-or her-pay.
In the distance came the sound of sirens. “The lake house,” she said, starting for her mother’s bedroom and a change of clothes. “Eventually, Harry will look for us there.”
6
In the Dulles parking lot, FBI Agent In Charge M. T. Connolly watched homicide detectives process a policeman’s corpse. A deep ligature mark around the murdered cop’s neck and blossoms of red in the white of his eyes made cause of death obvious, the same way the security videos made just as obvious the identity of the man who killed him, stole his uniform and stuffed him into the back of a Jeep, where he now lay.
The detectives had arrived in response to the shooting of a state trooper in the concourse. Despite early reports to the contrary, Trooper George was still alive, but in grave condition. Three bullets had deformed against his bulletproof vest and one had gone high and deflected against the collar and severed an artery. He wasn’t expected to live. If he did, he could have serious brain damage from blood loss.
Accompanied by homicide detectives, Connolly had gone from the parking deck to the security offices to view the video surveillance. She got a good look at the fake cop who’d fired at the passenger identified by customs as Harold Middleton. Middleton had taken away the assailant’s gun and subsequently fired in self-defense. Trooper George assumed the cop was in the right and his target a felon-an understandable mistake. Initially, she had jumped to the same conclusion in the melee, but she had been shackled to her idiot prisoner and couldn’t give pursuit until it was too late. She’d assumed that the fake cop had chased Middleton to capture him, but it was now clear he’d run away from her and other security officers who’d come rushing at the sound of gunfire on the concourse. It was also apparent that the fake cop had drawn his gun on Middleton right after Middleton seemed to recognize him.