Jeffery Deaver - Edge

Loving and other expert lifters managed liberal access to data-mined information.

“Bill,” Joanne said suddenly.

“Who?”

Ryan said, “William Carter. He’s a family friend. He was in the department with me. Retired about ten years ago. She could stay with him.”

I wondered if Loving could track him down because of his past association with Ryan. “Was he your partner, were you ever assigned together? Is he Amanda’s godfather?”

“No. Just a friend. We were never on the same detail. He’s got this place on a lake in Loudoun County, near White’s Ferry. They could go there. Amanda likes him. He’s sort of her uncle.” He reiterated, “And he’s a former cop.”

“You’re absolutely sure nobody could place you two together? You don’t own anything together, a fishing boat, a car? Ever loaned each other money that was part of a public filing, bought property from each other?”

“No. Nothing.”

“Can he be here in ten minutes?”

“Five. He lives a neighborhood away. He was going to the game this afternoon but he’ll change his plans on a dime for something like this.”

I opened my bag and withdrew my laptop. I booted it up and began typing commands into a new window. I examined the information scrolling past on our organization’s secure database. Nothing about William Carter or his career or life circumstances gave me any concern. My next search was about the girl. Amanda Kessler was a typical teenager, active on Facebook, MySpace and blogs but the personal information was minimal. I was relieved at that. Social networking sites have made our jobs as shepherds nightmares, given all the personal details people threw out into the ozone. I noted too that Amanda had never posted anything about William Carter or his vacation house or Loudoun County.

I was satisfied that it would be virtually impossible for Loving to find any connection. “Call him.” I handed Ryan a mobile, a flip phone, black, a little larger than your standard Nokia or Samsung.

“What’s this?”

“A cold phone. Encrypted and routed through proxies. From now on, until I tell you otherwise, use only this phone.” I collected theirs and took out the batteries.

Ryan examined the unit-Joanne stared at it like it was a poisonous snake-then he made the call and had a conversation with Carter.

He disconnected. “He’s on his way.” Then the detective paused for a moment, framing what he was going to say, and turned toward the doorway, calling, “Amanda? Come on down here, honey. We want to talk to you.”

A moment later a shadow appeared in the doorway and their daughter entered the kitchen. The girl was wearing red-framed glasses, her dark hair long and moppy. She had her father’s physique: narrow hips and broad shoulders. A basketball player.

Her eyes were quick, and though she’d probably heard something about what the agents were doing outside she seemed unafraid. She looked me over carefully.

Her stepmother said, “Amanda, this is Agent Corte. He works with the government. Like the FBI.”

“Hi, Amanda,” I said easily.

“Hello.” She seemed more interested in my impressive laptop than me personally.

Telling children they’re in danger is an art (girls, I’d found, do better with the bad news than boys). I’m skilled at having the discussion but I generally prefer to let the parents talk to them first. Ryan took over. “Mandy, we’ve got a little problem.”

The girl nodded, eyes growing sharper yet.

“Looks like somebody’s not too happy about a case of mine and some of the boys at the department and the FBI are going to arrest him. But until they do, we’re going to get out of the house for a while.”

“Somebody you busted?” Amanda asked matter-of-factly.

“We’re not sure.”

“You said you weren’t working many cases lately.”

Ryan paused before saying, “It could be from the past. We don’t know yet.”

I told the girl, “We aren’t sure what he’s up to but we know he’s dangerous.”

“Your mom and I are going with Agent Corte to talk about the case. Try to help them figure out who’s behind it.”

“A lockdown?”

Ryan smiled. I wondered what TV show she had gotten the term from.

“Not quite, but it’s better if we leave the house. While we’re helping out the feds you’re going to spend a few days with Uncle Bill at the lake house.”

“Dad, come on,” she whined. Her pretty, round face, dusted with a bit of mild acne, screwed up in disappointment, which seemed exaggerated to me. “I can’t miss school.” She recited the reasons: the first quiz of the term in her biology class, basketball practice, her assignment at a student counseling center hotline, a homecoming parade committee. She shot them out fast, hoping one would stick. “I mean, I just can’t.”

Children… invulnerable, immortal. And, by their own reckoning, the center of the universe.

“You’ll be out of school for a few days, tops. Like a vacation.”

“Vacation? Aw, Jo, come on.”

“Go pack some things. Now.”

“Now?”

I gave her a cold phone too and collected hers. She was reluctant to part with it. I added to the girl, “And until I say it’s all right, I’m afraid you can’t go online.”

“What?” To a teenager, the worst deprivation possible.

“It won’t be for very long. But this man probably knows how to trace your computer.”

“That, like, sucks.”

“Amanda,” her father said sternly.

“Sorry. But I have to go online. I mean, Facebook and Twitter, at least. And I write my blog every day. I’ve never missed-”

Joanne said, “Not until Agent Corte says it’s okay. You can rough it at Uncle Bill’s. Watch TV, read, play games. You can go fishing. You like to fish.”

“Oh, that totally…” The teen’s face crinkled into well-honed exasperation.

“You’ll have fun. Now go pack. Bill’ll be here any minute.”

“Fun,” she muttered sarcastically. As the daughter left, I asked the Kesslers, “Any other close relatives in the area?”

Joanne blinked in surprise. “Oh, my God. My sister. I forgot about Maree.” It was an odd name, Marr-ee . “She’s been staying here for the past month. She’ll have to come with us.”

“Is she out?” I asked. I’d seen no other signs of life in the house.

“No, she’s still asleep.”

“My sister-in-law’s a night owl,” Ryan explained.

“Wake her up,” I said. “We have to leave… Oh, and don’t let her use her mobile.”

Joanne blinked at the urgent instructions. She nodded to a tray on the island. “That’s her phone there.” I shut it off, removed the battery and slipped it into my bag. Joanne stepped into the hall and I heard her footfalls on the stairs.

Ryan went into the den and began filling a large briefcase and a shoulder bag with paperwork. The Metropolitan Police logo was on many of the documents. I continued my inquiry about other relatives who could be used as an edge. Ryan’s parents had passed away. His brother was in Washington state. Joanne’s father and his second wife-he was a widower-lived in the area but they were on vacation in Europe. Maree was her only sibling. Joanne had never been married before.

“Does Joanne have children?” I asked.

He hesitated for a weighty second. “No.”

The Kesslers would have friends, of course, but lifters usually had little success using people who weren’t blood kin for edges.

Another glance outside, across the backyard. Two doors down a man coiled up a green garden hose, wrapping it leisurely under his elbow and between finger and thumb. Another neighbor was taking down screens. One house nearby was quiet, though a window shade moved slightly.