Michael Prescott - Deadly Pursuit

Drury buzzed again, briefly. Moore had the impression that he might be on the verge of losing his notorious cool.

Lovejoy remained calm enough. “My understanding, sir, is that there were two cars stolen from long-term parking in the appropriate time frame. Why are we assuming that the Dodge is the one he took? From what I gather, Latent Prints hasn’t even dusted it yet, and of course we both know that an eyewitness identification is always problematic. It’s possible Fort Myers is a blind alley. Islamorada, on the other hand, is where he and his father used to vacation every August… Yes, August. It’s my belief that he’s come back to a place he’s familiar with, a place he associates with safety… I understand, sir… I’m willing to take that chance… Yes, sir… Yes, sir.”

A click as Drury broke the connection. Lovejoy handed the phone back. Despite the air-conditioned chill, his forehead was suddenly measled with sweat.

“What?” Moore prompted when he remained silent for too long.

“He wants us in Fort Myers. Insists it’s the investigation’s best lead.”

“And?”

“I made no commitment.”

“No commitment?” Moore was torn between newfound admiration for her partner and trepidation at where his recklessness might lead. “Peter, for God’s sake, we can’t refuse an order.”

“He didn’t issue an order. Said he’d let us pursue the Islamorada angle if we choose to. But if it doesn’t pan out-well, let’s just say he’s not in the mood to cut us any slack.”

“He’s out to get you, isn’t he?”

“It would appear so.” Lovejoy swallowed, his composure faltering slightly. “Look, forget about me. I blew the arrest. Violated the unwritten first rule of the FBI: Never embarrass the Bureau. If I’m lucky, they’ll transfer me out of Denver, post me at a resident agency in the Ozarks or someplace equally out of the way. If I’m not lucky, they’ll simply put me on unpaid administrative leave. Management’s subtle way of suggesting that possibly I should consider another line of work.”

“Maybe you’re overreacting.”

“Uh-uh. I understand bureaucracy, remember? I know how these people think. The higher-ups will hang me out to dry in order to save themselves.” He showed her a half smile. “The simple fact is-in my estimation-I’m finished.”

“Peter, I’m sorry…”

He brushed off her sympathy. “Given my own penchant for rearguard action of the CYA variety, I can hardly criticize Drury for doing the same thing. But here’s my real point, Tamara.” He rarely used her first name; the sound of it was mildly startling to her. “As far as I can determine, you’re pretty much okay so far. Not being the team leader, you can’t be blamed for the screw-up in L.A. In all probability, you can maintain your Denver post and keep your career on track. Unless…”

“Unless”-Moore completed his thought-“we stay here in Islamorada and Dance surfaces in Fort Myers.”

“Correct.”

“Then I’m up shit creek. Without a paddle.”

“Without even a canoe. Drury is certain to punish you for your bad judgment. Field duty in Alaska and a black mark next to your name in your personnel folder-something like that.” He turned to her, his face blushing in the red glow of sunset. “So I’m not the one who should be deciding this. How do you want to play it? I’ll leave it as your call.”

Moore sat back in her seat, thinking first of her long climb from the Oakland slums to graduation day at Quantico, then of Jack Dance.

“Potato chips,” she said finally.

Lovejoy nodded. “Lay’s.”

“And ice cream.”

“Store brand. One quart.”

“What flavor?”

“Vanilla.”

“You’re right. Doesn’t sound like Jack. Jack’s not a vanilla man.”

Lovejoy studied her, caught the beginning of a smile at the corner of her mouth, and answered it with a grin of his own. “Not vanilla. Of course.”

“More like rocky road.”

“Extremely rocky.” His smile faded. “You shouldn’t feel obligated to do this. You’re risking a great deal more than I am.”

“We’re partners. We share the risks.”

“You’re certain?”

“Just drive.”

Low over the horizon, the sun was a crimson smear, garish in death, its long horizontal rays bloodying the blue-green shallows of Florida Bay.

Steve found Kirstie in the kitchen, peering into the oven, squinting against a wave of heat.

“Where’s Jack?” she asked without looking up.

“Bathroom.”

He leaned over her shoulder and breathed in dinner’s spicy aroma, a blend of garlic, chicken, and cheese.

It occurred to him that after tonight he would never again taste his wife’s cooking, set the table, help her clean up afterward. These mundanities of domestic life seemed suddenly more important than any grand romantic moments.

“Smells good,” he said, holding his voice steady. “What is it?”

“Chicken breasts Parmesan.”

“Fancy.”

“Quite practical, actually.” She shut the oven door. “There were a lot of odds and ends I needed to use up.” She moved away from him, to the counter, and began serving a tossed salad into three porcelain bowls. Red sunlight, filtering through the bottle-glass windows, glimmered in her hair like a nimbus of fire. “And speaking of odds and ends…”

“Yes?”

“When is Jack leaving?”

“Tonight.”

“After dinner. Right?”

“Dinner and… coffee.” He fingered his pants pocket, feeling the shapes of six small capsules, then withdrew his hand with a stab of shame.

“He’s not sleeping over,” Kirstie said firmly.

“Of course not.”

“I don’t want him here when we’re in bed.”

“Why not?” Steve tried to be funny. “Afraid he might join us?”

Kirstie turned to him. “To be honest, I can’t say what I’m afraid of. I just don’t trust him.” She held up a flour-stained palm. “And please don’t tell me he’s a great guy. I’m tired of hearing it.”

Steve hadn’t been planning to say it, anyway.

“He’ll be gone soon,” he replied simply. We both will.

Her gaze flicked to the nylon jacket he still wore. “You’re not worried about sunburn now, are you? It’s nearly dark.”

“Guess I just feel more comfortable with it on.”

“You sure you’re not coming down with something?”

“I’m fine.”

“You keep saying that. How come I don’t believe you?”

“Because you’ve got a suspicious nature.”

Smiling, he kissed her lightly on the mouth. As their lips met, he wondered if he would ever again be this close to the woman he loved.

Jack left the bathroom quietly, checked to be sure he was unobserved, and crept down the loggia into the master bedroom.

The bundle of scuba gear had to be somewhere. Steve had hidden it after returning from the reef. This afternoon Jack had searched most of the house without success. But he hadn’t looked here.

The bedspread was wrinkled, the bed still indented with the imprint of Steve’s body; he had lain there for hours, dispirited and fearful. Jack smiled. Conscience was such a weakness. Fortunately, he had never suffered from it. To him, the moral sense he’d glimpsed in others was as utterly alien as the weather patterns of Jupiter, and as remote from his own concerns.

In the middle of the room, he stopped, quartering the area with his gaze. What was the most obvious hiding place? Under the bed? No, not enough clearance for the bulky carrying case.

The closet, then. He looked inside.

Clothes on hangers. Suitcases on the floor. Nothing else.

Wait.

A small pool of water ringed the largest suitcase.