Jeffery Deaver - Watchlist

“Mrs. Perez,” her husband corrected, voice tight. “As I said, this is not a good time. Either tell us why you’re here or leave.”

Agent Smith looked Perez in the eyes. “Perez is a well known name down in Louisiana.”

Perez frowned. “Meaning what?”

“It’s a name we’re familiar with, that’s all.”

Jack August Perez. His family, descendants of the original Spaniards that settled the New Orleans area, wielded both political and economic influence. In the era of Huey P. Long, they had exerted that power with an iron fist, nowadays with business savvy and brilliant connections.

Angry color stained Perez’s cheeks. “What are you getting at?”

Don’t let him get to you, she thought. Emotions lead to mistakes. Ones that could prove deadly. Another of Harry’s pearls.

What the hell was going on?

She touched her husband’s clenched hand. “It’s all right, sweetheart. It’s just a couple of questions.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Perez. Has your father contacted you in the past twenty-four hours?”

“No. I expect his flight was delayed. I’m used to that sort of thing with Harry.”

At her response, she felt her husband’s startled glance. She didn’t acknowledge it. “How did you know I was here, Agent Smith?”

He ignored the question. “I’m afraid your father’s in some trouble.”

She noticed that while Agent Smith spoke, his partner studied her reactions. She also noticed that every so often he rubbed the back of his hand against his leg, as if scratching at a bite or wiping at a stain.

Most un-fed like. Feds were trained to be as robotic as possible. Nervous twitches were not an option.

“Trouble? I don’t understand.”

“He was questioned in Warsaw concerning three murders in Europe.”

“Harry?” That incredulous retort came from Perez. “You have the wrong Harold Middleton.”

The agent’s gaze flickered to Perez, then settled on her once more. “Your father was able to catch an Air France flight out of Paris several hours later. He arrived at Dulles-then he shot and killed a police officer.”

She who couldn’t hold back. “Impossible!”

“I’m sorry.”

“That’s not my father.”

“I understand how you must feel. It’s a shock, but we have witnesses-”

“My father couldn’t have shot anybody. First off, Harold Middleton has spent his life fighting for what’s right. Hunting down and bringing to justice the sorts of monsters who terrorize and murder. That said, where did he get a gun? He’d just gotten off an international flight. Who was this cop? Why would my father want to kill him?”

She held his gaze; the tense silence crackled between them. After a moment, the agent broke the contact, inclined his head. “Those are all questions only your father can answer. We need to speak with him.”

The last thing she was about to do was help them find Harry.

The Feds were like buzzards on road kill-once they made up their mind someone was guilty, they’d move heaven and earth to “prove” it.

“What can I do?” she asked, sounding annoyingly earnest to her own ears.

“Let us know the minute you hear from him.” Agent Smith handed her his card. She gazed down at it, adorned with the Bureau’s familiar red, white, blue and gold seal.

He handed one to Perez. “That’s my cell number. Call anytime, day or night.”

“I will.” She ran her thumb across the business card, heart pounding. “And if you find him-”

“You’ll be the first to know.”

“This is all a mistake. You’re looking for the wrong man.”

“For your sake, I hope so.” As the two crossed to the door, Smith turned, meeting her gaze once more. Something in his expression made her skin crawl. “Thank you for your cooperation.”

The moment the door shut behind them, she swung her legs over the side of the bed. “We’re getting out of here. Now.”

“Charley, what-”

“This whole thing stinks. And I’m going to find out wh-” She stood and a wave of dizziness swept over her.

Perez grabbed her arm, steadying her. “Harry’s in some trouble, no doubt. But there’s nothing you can do about it right now-and certainly not in your condition. I’ll get the nurse to call Doctor Levine and find out when you’re being released, and we’ll plan from there.”

She shook off his hand. “You don’t get it. I’m not going to lie around here and do nothing when I know Harry’s in danger.”

“For God’s sake, Charley. You’re in more danger than he is. You just had a miscarriage. Doctor Levine said to expect discomfort and bleeding. That you’d be weak. He advised taking it easy for a couple days. I’m not letting you walk out of here without his okay.”

“Try to stop me.” She took a deep breath and looked her husband squarely in the eyes. “Those guys weren’t FBI.”

Without waiting for a response, she crossed to the room’s version of a closet, a press board armoire. Her panties and trousers were bloodstained. The panties were ruined, she decided, so she would have to make do with the pads the hospital had provided. If she tied her jacket around her waist, her dark-colored trousers would do until she could replace them.

She glanced at her husband as he watched her. “Those cards ‘Agent Smith’ handed us were bogus,” she said. “Take a good look. Cheap stock. Laser jet printing. Run your finger over it. The Bureau’s cards are engraved. This one could’ve been printed from any home computer.”

She stepped into the stained trousers, a lump in her throat. She swallowed past it. There would be a lifetime to mourn their loss. Right now, Harry needed her.

“The only number on Smith’s card,” she continued, “is a cell number.”

Perez frowned, struggling to come to grips with what she was proposing. “So where’s the Bureau’s number?”

“Exactly.”

He rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Charley, have you considered that you might be a little emotionally unstable right now? You’ve suffered a loss… It’s been a shock. I think taking a step back and a deep breath might be a good idea. I’ll check you out, we’ll go home. See if Harry’s there or left us a message. You need a change of clothes, something to eat. We’ll sort everything out.”

“Do you trust me?”

“Of course.”

“Then help me. Please.”

In the end, she wore him down. Worried that one of the bogus agents was watching the front of the hospital, she refused to allow him to officially check her out. The hospital would insist on a wheelchair-standard policy-and a front-door exit. Instead they took the stairs and slipped out the delivery entrance.

She waited while he brought the car around. Once they were both buckled in, he looked at her. “What’s the plan?”

“We find Harry.”

He smiled at her. “Good plan. How do y-”

The faint sound of a digitized version of the song “Brown-Eyed Girl” interrupted him.

Her cell phone’s ring tone.

“It’s in your purse,” he said. “I locked it in the-”

“Trunk.”

He shifted into park, threw open his car door and climbed out. A moment later he returned with her purse, cell clipped to it, message light blinking frantically.

A number she didn’t recognize-perhaps her father had bought a prepaid for security. She quickly scrolled through a half-dozen missed calls and one text message waiting. All from Harry.

She returned the last call first, and it was answered on the first ring. “Dad, it’s me. Thank God! I was so worried.”

“Charlotte! Where are you?”

“Jack and I-”

She bit the words back, realization crashing in on her. Not her father. Her father hadn’t called her Charlotte since the second grade.”