John Locke - Lethal People

After I snapped a close up of that area, she began collecting her clothes. I noticed her purse on the desk and brought it to her.

“Are we finished here?” she wanted to know.

“We are.”

While she dressed, I moved to the balcony to signal the saxophone player, the monstrous man with severely deformed facial features named Augustus Quinn. I watched my giant pack up his instrument and walk away, knowing he was making his way around the hotel to the waiting sedan. Quinn and Coop would follow Jenine for a couple of hours, find out where she lived, who her friends were. Then they’d come back and pick me up and we’d drive to the airfield for the return flight to Virginia. The only negative was the time difference. By the time we got back, I’d be too tired to test the ADS weapon.

Reentering the parlor, I found Jenine standing in the center of the room, fully dressed, attempting to make eye contact. There’s an art to saying good-bye in these situations, a sort of silent protocol. You don’t kiss, but a hug is nice. There’s the verbal dance you both do when neither of you want her to linger but neither wants to be rude, either.

You don’t want to be too abrupt, so you tell her it was great and you’d love to see her the next time you’re in town. She reiterates she doesn’t really do this sort of thing, but for you she’ll make an exception.

My cell phone performed a dance of its own, vibrating on the desktop. “I need to get that,” I said.

She flashed a shy smile. “Okay … thanks?” It was almost a question. I gave her a slight frown to imply I wished she didn’t have to go. She shrugged and offered a cute little pout to express the same sentiment. Then she blew me a kiss, let herself out, and closed the door behind her.

When she did that, something clicked inside my head. I thought about Kathleen Gray and felt a wave of sadness wash over me.

CHAPTER 22

The cell phone call that caused Jenine to leave had been prearranged. It was Quinn calling to let me know he was in position. I donned my jeans, pocketed the camera phone, poured myself a double whisky from the wet bar. I sat on the edge of the bed with my drink and propped my free hand on the sheets we’d rumpled moments earlier.

The scent of Jenine’s youth hung in the air, and I inhaled it fully, savoring her essence. Maybe Kathleen needed four hundred and ninety calories to de-stress, but not me.

I felt a vibration in my pocket, slid the phone open, put it to my ear.

“It’s me,” said Callie.

“You need to get a butterfly tattoo on your ass,” I said.

She paused for a beat. “Donovan, if this is how you normally start conversations, I think I may have isolated your problem with women. No wonder you can’t find a nice girl to marry.”

If Callie Carpenter had been born three inches taller, she wouldn’t have to kill people for a living. With her spectacular looks, she’d be a one-name supermodel by now. I drained my glass and placed it on the end table. I stood and walked back through the parlor to the balcony and chose the chair that angled toward the Santa Monica Pier.

“What’s up?” I asked.

“Reach over the naked whore and fl ip on your TV.”

I sighed. “How little you think of me. Truth is, I’m here all alone on a hotel balcony, enjoying the unseasonably warm February temperature. Which channel?”

“Take your pick.”

I went back to the parlor, found the remote control, and pressed the power button. The words Breaking News flashed below the live feed of an interview in progress. The man being interviewed was telling reporters that the event that had just occurred was unprecedented. The electronic runner at the bottom of the screen flashed the words Homeland Security confirms unauthorized spy satellite breach .

The man identified himself as Edward Culbertson, head of Research Operations for Skywatch Industries. He said Skywatch had a government contract to provide artificial intelligence applications to enhance radar imaging. He said, “This is one of the five so-called Keyhole-class satellites that fl y above us every day. The exact specifications are classified beyond top secret, but we know a few things about them.”

“For example?” a reporter said.

“We know they travel one hundred miles above the Earth at a speed of Mach 25,” Culbertson said. “We know they cover every inch of the Earth’s surface twice a day, taking digital photos of specific locations that have been programmed into their tracking mechanism.”

“Is that what happened in this case?” the reporter asked. “Did someone hack into the satellite computer and direct it to take the pictures we just showed on live television?”

“That’s the current speculation.”

Another reporter spoke: “Dr. Culbertson, there’s a lot of argument regarding the accuracy of spy satellite imaging. What’s the truth? For example, can they effectively display a car’s license plate?”

“Under normal conditions, they have a resolution of five inches, meaning they can accurately distinguish a five-inch object on the ground.”

On the phone, I said to Callie, “Did you know that?”

“No, but if I did, I wouldn’t be telling the whole world about it.”

A different reporter asked if the surveillance satellites could be tapped by authorities to help solve other crimes.

“No,” he said. “The odds are probably impossible to one.”

“Why’s that, doctor?”

“Because,” he said, “the crime scenes would have to be programmed into the satellite’s computer at least an hour in advance of the crime.”

“So what you’re saying is, whoever’s responsible for the kidnapping—they’re the ones who breached the satellite’s security?”

“That’s what we believe, yes.”

“To what end, sir?”

“My best guess? Someone wanted to watch the kidnapping from a remote location, someone who knew ultra-secret details about the satellite’s orbit path in advance.”

“Do you suspect terrorists?”

The expert suddenly looked uncomfortable and backed away as an FBI spokesperson took over the mic. “At this time, we are unable to confirm whether the satellite breach or the abduction were terrorist events. I’m afraid we don’t have time for further questions, but we’ll keep you informed as future details develop.”

Now, back at the TV studio, the newswoman said, “For those of you who just tuned in, Homeland Security has confirmed an unauthorized breach of one of their so-called spy satellites. This particular satellite had been tracking over the Southeastern Seaboard this past Tuesday when the following images were viewed remotely by an unknown person or persons.”

On the screen behind the newswoman, they showed about forty photos in rapid sequence. For me, the pictures would have been riveting even if the abduction hadn’t involved Monica Childers, the woman Callie and I killed for Victor four days ago.

Callie said, “Do we get to keep the money for the hit?”

That was Callie, always good for a smile.

The news reporter said, “As most people in the Jacksonville area already know, Monica Childers has been the focus of one of North Florida’s most extensive searches.” Behind her, they displayed a picture of Monica’s husband, Baxter. The newscaster identified him as one of the most prominent and widely respected surgeons in North America.

“Baxter’s a big shot,” I said to Callie.

“Baxter? What channel are you watching?”

“I don’t know, one of the big three.”

“Flip till you find CNN.”

“Why?”

“They’re talking about us.”

CHAPTER 23

The station I’d been watching had shown photos that chronicled the entire event, starting with the two women jogging out of the resort entrance and ending with pictures taken from the opposite angle, as the satellite moved out over the Atlantic. The final photo showed the van turning left onto a narrow overgrown path.