Jeffery Deaver - Edge

Freddy said, “Hold on, just getting something… Funny you asked, Corte. Got some details from the team at the motel. Okay, he’s in a light-colored sedan. No year, no make, no model that anybody saw.”

Henry Loving stimulates the amnesia gene. But it’s also true most people are simply extremely unobservant.

Freddy continued, “I say at least three hours before he’s even in the area. And he’s going to spend some time staging before he gets to the Kessler place.”

I said, “Are you owed any favors-the Virginia State troopers?”

“No, but I’m such a lovable guy, they’ll do what I ask.”

I have trouble with Freddy’s flippancy. But whatever gets you through the day in this difficult business.

“Can you get his picture to the state police? Have it sent to all the cars between here and West Virginia on an orange notice.” The officers on patrol would get a flash on their computers and they’d be on the lookout for light-colored cars and a driver who fit Loving’s description. The orange code meant he was dangerous.

“I’ll do it but I know you’re a math wizard, Corte.”

“And?”

“Divide a million cars by forty troopers. Whatta you get?”

“Thanks, Freddy.”

We disconnected and I called Ryan Kessler.

“Hello?”

I told him who I was and that I’d arrived. I’d be at his door in a moment or two. I wanted him to call Freddy and check on my appearance. This was a good security measure but I also did it to increase his paranoia. I knew Kessler, as a cop-and a decorated street cop at that-would be a reluctant principal and I wanted him to sense the reality of the danger.

Silence.

“Are you there, Detective Kessler?”

“Well, sir, I told Agent Fredericks and those men outside… I see you out there too, Agent Corte. I told them this isn’t necessary.”

“I’d still like to talk to you, please. If you don’t mind.”

He made no attempt to mask his irritation. “It’s really a waste of time.”

“I’d appreciate it,” I said pleasantly. I tend to be overly polite-stiff, many people say. But a calm, structured attitude gets people’s cooperation better than bluster, which I’m not very good at anyway.

“All right, fine. I’ll call Agent Fredericks.”

I also asked him if he was armed.

“Yes. That a problem?” Testy.

“No,” I said. “Not at all.”

I would rather he wasn’t, but as a police officer he was entitled, and asking a cop to give up his weapon was a battle rarely worth fighting.

I gave him some time to call Freddy, while I considered the house.

Nearly all single-family residences are indefensible.

Visibility, permeable construction, susceptibility to fire. They’re naked to thermal sensors and have limited escape routes. Tactical cover is a joke. A single bullet can take out the power. A proudly advertised five-minute response time by central station security companies simply means the lifter knows he has a guaranteed window for a leisurely kidnapping. Not to mention that the paper trail of home ownership, automobiles and financial documents will lead the perp directly to even the most reclusive citizen’s front door in no time at all.

Principals, of course, always want the security blanket of their homes but I remove them from their beloved residence as fast as possible.

Seeing Ryan Kessler’s house I was determined to spirit him and his family away from the insubstantial two-story colonial as soon as I could.

I walked to the front door, checking windows. Ryan opened it. I knew what he looked like from personnel files and my other research. I glanced past him at the empty downstairs and moved my hand away from the small of my back.

He moved his from the holster on his hip.

I introduced myself. Shook his hand. I showed him my ID, which has my picture, name and a federal government logo on it, eagle included like the Justice Department’s but our own brand of bird. There’s nothing specific about our organization. I’m described simply as a “United States officer.”

He took a fast look and didn’t ask the questions I would have.

“Did you call Agent Fredericks to check on me?”

“No.” Maybe he felt his cop’s intuition could verify my credibility. Maybe it didn’t seem very macho.

Ryan Kessler was a solid man, broad shoulders and black hair, looking older than his years. When he tilted his head down, which he had to do because I was shorter and a step below, a double chin rolled outward. A round belly above tapering thighs and hips. His eyes were inky and focused. It was as hard to imagine a smile on his face as on mine. He’d be good at interrogation, I surmised.

“Well, Agent Corte-”

“Just Corte’s fine.”

“One name? Like a rock star.”

My ID has two initials but I never use them or anything more than Corte. Like some people, Ryan seemed to consider this pretentious. I didn’t explain to him that it was simply a wise strategy; when it came to my business, the rule was to give people-good people, bad or neutral-as little information about myself as possible. The more people who know about you, the more compromised you are and the less efficiently you can do your job protecting your principals.

“Agent Fredericks is on his way over,” I told him.

A sigh. “This is all a big mixup. Mistaken identity. There’s nobody who’d want to threaten me. It’s not like I’m going after the J-Eights.”

One of the most dangerous Latino gangs in Fairfax.

“Still, I’d like to come in if I could.”

“So you’re, what, like protection detail?”

“Exactly.”

He looked me over. I’m a little under six feet and weigh about 170, a range of five pounds plus or minus depending on the nature of the assignment and my deli-sandwich preference of the month. I’ve never been in the army; I’ve never taken the FBI course at Quantico. I know some basic self-defense but no fancy martial arts. I have no tattoos. I get outside a fair amount, jogging and hiking, but no marathons or Iron Man stuff for me. I do some push-ups and sit-ups, inspired by the probably erroneous idea that exercise improves circulation and also lets me order cheese on my deli sandwich without guilt. I happen to be a very good shot and was presently carrying a Glock 23-the.40-in a Galco Royal Guard inside-the-pants holster and a Monadnock retractable baton. He wouldn’t know that, though, and to Ryan Kessler, the protection package would be looking a little meager.

“Even them.” His eyes swung toward the FBI car across the street. “All they’re doing is upsetting my wife and daughter. The fact is, they’re a little obvious, don’t you think?”

I was amused that we’d had the same observation. “They are. But they’re more a deterrent than anything.”

“Well, again, I’m sorry for the waste of time. I’ve talked it over with my boss.”

“Chief of Detectives Lewis. I spoke to him too on the way over here.”

Ronald Lewis, with the District of Columbia’s Metropolitan Police Department. Squat, with a broad face, dark brown skin. Outspoken. I’d never met him in person but heard he’d done a good job turning around some of the more dangerous neighborhoods in the city, which was one of the more dangerous cities in the country. He’d risen high in the MPD from street patrol in South East and was a bit of a hero too, like Ryan Kessler.

Ryan paused, registering that I’d been doing my homework. “Then he told you he doesn’t know any reason I’d be a target. I really will have to ask you to leave now. Sorry you wasted your time.”

I said, “Mr. Kessler, just do me a favor? Please. Let me come in and lay out a few things. Ten minutes.” I was pleasant, not a hint of irritation. I said nothing more, offered no reasons-arguments held in doorways are hard to win; your opponent can just step back and close the door. I now simply looked up at him expectantly. My eyes never left his.