Tess Gerritsen - Whistleblower

That pesky FBI agent was ringing his doorbell again.

Sighing, Jack opened the front door. “Back already?”

“Damn right I’m back.” Polowski stamped in and shoved the door closed behind him. “I want to know where to find ’em next.”

“I told you, Mr. Polowski. Over on Union Street there’s a studio owned by Mr. Hickman-”

“I’ve been to Von Whats-his-name’s studio.”

Jack swallowed. “You didn’t find them?”

“You knew I wouldn’t. You warned ’em, didn’t you?”

“Really, I don’t know why you’re harrassing me. I’ve tried to be-”

“They left in a hurry. The door was wide open. Food was still lying around. They left the empty cash box just sitting on the desk.”

Jack drew himself up in outrage. “Are you calling my ex-wife a petty thief?”

“I’m calling her a desperate woman. And I’m calling you an imbecile for screwing things up. Now where is she?”

“I don’t know.”

“Who would she turn to?”

“No one I know.”

“ Think harder.”

Jack stared down at Polowski’s turgid face and marveled that any human being could be so unattractive. Surely the process of natural selection would have dictated against such unacceptable genes?

Jack shook his head. “I honestly don’t know.”

It was the truth, and Polowski must have sensed it. After a moment of silent confrontation, he backed off. “Then maybe you can tell me this. Why did you warn them?”

“It-it was-” Jack shrugged helplessly. “Oh, I don’t know! After you left, I wasn’t sure I’d done the right thing. I wasn’t sure whether to trust you. He doesn’t trust you.”

“Who?”

“Victor Holland. He thinks you’re in on some conspiracy. Frankly, the man struck me as just the slightest bit paranoid.”

“He has a right to be. Considering what’s happened to him so far.” Polowski turned for the door.

“Now what happens?”

“I keep looking for them.”

“Where?”

“You think I’d tell you? ” He stalked out. “Don’t leave town, Zuckerman,” he snapped over his shoulder. “I’ll be back to see you later.”

“I don’t think so,” Jack muttered softly as he watched the other man lumber back to his car. He looked up and saw there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. Smiling to himself, he shut the door.

It would be sunny in Mexico, as well.

Someone had left in a hurry.

Savitch strolled through the rooms of the photo studio, which had been left unlocked. He noted the scraps of a meal on the four-poster bed: crumbs of sourdough bread, part of a salami, an empty pickle jar. He also took note of the coffee cups: there were two of them. Interesting, since Savitch had spotted only one person leaving the studio, a squat little man in a polyester suit. The man hadn’t been there long. Savitch had observed him climb into a dark green Ford parked at a fifteen-minute meter. The meter still had three minutes remaining.

Savitch continued his tour of the studio, eyeing the tawdry photos, wondering if this wasn’t another waste of his time. After all, every other address he’d pulled from the woman’s black book had turned up no sign of her. Why should Hickman Von Trapp’s address be any different?

Still, he couldn’t shake the instinct that he was getting close. Clues were everywhere. He read them, put them together. Today, this studio had been visited by two hungry people. They’d entered through a broken window in the dressing room. They’d eaten scraps taken from the refrigerator. They (or the man in the polyester suit) had emptied the petty cash box.

Savitch completed his tour and returned to the front room. That’s when he noticed the telephone message machine blinking on and off.

He pressed the play button. The string of messages seemed endless. The calls were for someone named Hickey-no doubt the Hickman Von Trapp of the address book. Savitch lazily circled the room, half listening to the succession of voices. Business calls for the most part, inquiring about appointments, asking when proofs would be ready and would he like to do the shoot for Snoop magazine? Near the door, Savitch halted and stooped down to sift through the pile of mail. It was boring stuff, all addressed to Von Trapp. Then he noticed, off to the side, a loose slip of paper. It was a note, addressed to Hickey.

“Feel awful about this, but someone stole all those rolls of film from my car. This was the only one left. Thought I’d get it to you before it’s lost, as well. Hope it’s enough to save your shoot from being a complete waste-”

It was signed “Cathy.”

He stood up straight. Catherine Weaver? It had to be! The roll of film-where the hell was the roll of film?

He rifled through the mail, searching, searching. He turned up only a torn envelope with Cathy Weaver’s return address. The film was gone. In frustration, he began to fling magazines across the room. Then, in mid-toss, he froze.

A new message was playing on the recorder.

“Hello? Hello, Cathy? If you’re there, answer me, will you? There’s an FBI agent looking for you-some guy named Polowski. I couldn’t help it-he made me tell him about Hickey. Get out of there now!”

Savitch stalked over to the answering machine and stared down as the mechanism automatically whirred back to the beginning. He replayed it.

Get out of there now!

There was now no doubt. Catherine Weaver had been here, and Victor Holland was with her. But who was this agent Polowski and why was he searching for Holland? Savitch had been assured that the Bureau was off the case. He would have to check into the matter.

He crossed over to the window and stared out at the bright sunshine, the crowded sidewalks. So many faces, so many strangers. Where, in this city, would two ter rified fugitives hide? Finding them would be difficult, but not impossible.

He left the suite and went outside to a pay phone. There he dialed a Washington, D.C., number. He wasn’t fond of asking the Cowboy for help, but now he had no choice. Victor Holland had his hands on the evidence, and the stakes had shot sky-high.

It was time to step up the pursuit.

The clerk yelled, “Next window, please!” and closed the grate.

“Wait!” cried Cathy, tapping at the pane. “My bus is leaving right now!”

“Which one?”

“Number 23 to Palo Alto-”

“There’s another at seven o’clock.”

“But-”

“I’m on my dinner break.”

Cathy stared helplessly as the clerk walked away. Over the PA system came the last call for the Palo Alto express. Cathy glanced around just in time to see the Number 23 roar away from the curb.

“Service just ain’t what it used to be,” an old man muttered behind her. “Get there faster usin’ yer damn thumb.”

Sighing, Cathy shifted to the next line, which was eight-deep and slow as molasses. The woman at the front was trying to convince the clerk that her social security card was an acceptable ID for a check.

Okay, Cathy thought. So we leave at seven o’clock. That puts us in Palo Alto at eight. Then what? Camp in a park? Beg a few scraps from a restaurant? What does Victor have in mind…?

She glanced around and spotted his broad back hunched inside one of the phone booths. Whom could he possibly be calling? She saw him hang up and run his hand wearily through his hair. Then he picked up the receiver and dialed another number.

“Next!” Someone tapped Cathy on the shoulder. “Go ahead, Miss.”

Cathy turned and saw that the ticket clerk was waiting. She stepped to the window.

“Where to?” asked the clerk.

“I need two tickets to…” Cathy’s voice suddenly faded.

“Where?”