James Patterson - Gone

“So what now?” I said.

“Now we call the bosses in to see how quickly they can spin our gold into straw,” Emily said.

“Ouch,” I said with a smile as Emily started texting people. “That sounds like something a burnt-out, jaded NYPD detective would say after a bottle of twelve-year-old Irish wine.”

“You’re a bad influence on people, Bennett,” Emily said, smiling broadly without looking up. “You should seriously think about talking to somebody about it.”

All the bells and whistles started going off after Emily and I sent the info up both the civilian and military chains of command. Wiretap subpoenas for all Scanlon’s phones were immediately put into motion, as well as round-the-clock surveillance for Scanlon’s boat and his house in Brentwood. The head FBI honcho working with the CIA and military folks up at the air base seemed especially excited, as the Tijuana tip they’d been following had dug a hole as dry as the Mexican desert.

A massive task force meeting was called for eight the next morning. It would be teleconferenced with the military folks at the air base. In the meantime, Emily’s immediate boss, the assistant special agent in charge of the FBI’s LA office, Evaline Echevarria, ordered us to Scanlon’s house for the first shift of surveillance.

Though we’d been running pretty hard since the a.m., we both leaped at the assignment. I know I was pretty jazzed. After being out of commission, out in the sticks, I had a deep store of untapped adrenaline to run on.

As we drove over to the FBI HQ to get a better surveillance vehicle, it was my turn to start laughing.

“That’s a real personal gigglefest you’re having over there, Mike,” Emily said. “You losing it on me already? If you want, I could swing you back to Metro State Hospital for an eval. I noticed the rubber room next to Scricca was free.”

“Not yet,” I said, finally getting myself under control. “It’s just that I pictured Bassman’s face when he heard the news about our little gold strike. That obnoxious bozo is going to be so freaking pissed.”

Scanlon’s house was in Brentwood, on Chaparal Street, a quiet, high-hedged lane behind an all-girls private school. It was an old, tasteful brick Tudor house hidden behind a lot of shrubbery, with a wrought iron gate across its driveway.

There weren’t too many parked cars on the secluded street, and, even with the silver Mercedes crossover we were using for an unmarked, it definitely wasn’t the best setup for surveillance.

“Nice crib for a chum chopper,” I said from where we parked, a couple of houses down.

Parker nodded. “That house easily goes for a million, maybe a million and a half.”

There was a security light on above the garage when we got there. We scanned the windows with binoculars, but there was nothing. No movement anywhere, even after another half an hour. There was no way to tell if Scanlon was home.

Parker fixed that, and quick. She made a phone call, and about twenty minutes later, a plain, white panel van pulled onto Chaparal. It passed us without acknowledgment and then slowed to a brief stop in front of Scanlon’s house before pulling away.

Parker’s phone dinged a couple of minutes later.

“It’s clean,” came a voice from the speaker, “but there’s a dog, Parker. A big son of a bitch. Good luck.”

“Gee, thanks,” Parker said, hanging up.

“Infrared?” I said.

“Close,” Parker said. “That was the LA office’s portable X-ray van. We use it at the ports sometimes, and on presidential visits. Two techs in the back of it work equipment that can see right through just about anything.”

“Like a TSA team on wheels? I take it that’s a pretty much all-male detail. Tell me, Parker. Can federal contractors apply for the job, and what’s the waiting list like?”

Parker raised one of her auburn eyebrows.

“You’d be surprised how many female agents are in the unit, Bennett.”

I blinked at her.

“Well, in that case, remind me to head to the supermarket before we go back to the hotel. I need to make a supply of tinfoil boxers for my stay here in LA.”

Though Parker tried to hide it, I noticed she actually laughed a little at that one. My war of attrition was taking its toll. As usual, I was wearing her down with my charm.

“Now, if Scanlon isn’t home trying not to let the bed-bugs bite at this time of night, where do you think he is, Mike?”

“That’s the sixty-four-million-dollar question, isn’t it?” I said. “If I were an international fugitive sneaking into an unfriendly country, I’d probably want to keep everyone who knew about it on a tight leash. At least until I left. If I were a betting man, I’d put my money on it that Scanlon is chilling with the big boss for the duration of his trip.”

“Which means, if we find Scanlon, we find Perrine,” she said.

“We can only hope and pray,” I said.

After it was determined that Scanlon wasn’t home, phase two of the operation was put into play.

Parker got on the horn again, and then, twenty minutes later, a beat-up Dodge Ram pickup with a camper bed pulled up behind us.

“More friends of yours, Parker?” I said. “What does this truck do? Test your cholesterol?”

As she shushed me, I noticed that the two men who got out of it were dressed head to toe in black. I also noticed that the cabin light in the pickup failed to go on when the men opened the doors.

Parker zipped down her window as they approached. One of the agents was stocky and older, with a dark mustache. The other one was blond and looked like he’d just started shaving. I thought they looked like a father-and-son team of American ninjas.

“Which is it?” Junior wanted to know.

“The one with the gate,” Parker told him. “There’s a dog, apparently.”

“No problem,” said Senior, patting the bag he was holding with an evil grin. “We love puppies.”

Junior kept his eyes on the house as he put a chaw of chewing tobacco between his cheek and gum. There was a light jingle of metal on metal when he tightened the knapsack on his back. He checked his watch.

“We’ll call you in … seven minutes?” he said, cocking his head at his partner.

“Six,” the older partner said with a nod before they walked off.

“The wheels of justice are moving so much faster than I remember. This must be some sort of land-speed record for a search warrant,” I said, watching the FBI agents scale the driveway gate like squirrels.

Parker ignored me. I’d only said it to tease her. This was an illegal, unauthorized black-bag job if there ever was one.

One I thoroughly approved of, actually. Following the letter of the law when Perrine was out there wiping out families and cops would be like obeying the traffic laws while driving a dying relative to the emergency room. In a word, stupid.

We needed information, the faster the better. We needed to be on Scanlon, on his phone, neck deep in his life, before he had the slightest inkling of what was what. My eyes were locked firmly on the prize, namely, a world without Manuel Perrine. I’d cut more corners than a miter saw to take out the son of a bitch who was still out there on the loose, trying to kill my family.

It was actually only five minutes from when the FBI Watergate plumber guys hopped the fence until it slowly started opening. The older agent opened the door formally, like a butler, as we came up the drive.

“Where’s Fido?” Parker asked.

“Out like a light. After we picked the lock and tossed him a treat, he got real sleepy all of a sudden. Funny, huh?”