stopped and whirled to face them. “Anyone else?”
Habib waved his hand. There was a strip of gauze around his palm. “He met that reporter from New York. They spoke for only a few minutes. If he did say anything to her, she won’t be talking.”
“Ah, so you eliminated her, too. Good work.”
Gus cleared his throat. “We weren’t able to kill her. We gave her a warning instead. It scared her spitless. She took off so fast—”
“You made a mistake,” Benedict said. “You should have killed her. Melina Becker is becoming more of a nuisance than the FBI. Where did she go? Where is she now?”
“Habib was driving,” Gus said. “He lost her.”
“The truck we stole couldn’t keep up with her friend’s Jeep,” Habib said. “And they left so fast we didn’t have time to pick up another car.”
Benedict spoke through his teeth. “What friend? Don’t make me drag the story out of you piece by piece.”
“The reporter had a man with her,” Habib said. “He was tall, dressed all in black. He had a black ponytail like one of those martial arts guys. I’m not sure, but I think he’s got some kind of earring, too. He didn’t look like a cop.”
Benedict stared at Habib. As he sorted out the disjointed description of the reporter’s companion, his anger transformed to excitement.
A tall man who wore his dark hair in a ponytail and who had a gold earring. The description matched the one that two of his late confederates had given him several months ago. They had tried to acquire Anthony for him in Philadelphia and had failed.
Could it be true? Could the oldest of Deanna’s children already be this close?
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