enough cop shows to know what would happen. At the thought she started to shake, teeth chattering. Madison drew the blanket up to her neck and tucked the corners under her heels so her whole body was covered. But it did nothing to stop the uncontrollable shivering.
Jake rolled his head to work out a kink in his neck. He didn’t generally mind flying, but the only seat available on such short notice had been in coach, and his body wasn’t designed for middle seats at the rear of the plane. His knees were jammed against the seat back in front of him, high enough that they prevented him from lowering the tray table. He’d tried to work on his laptop, but the kid on the aisle was playing a handheld video game that bleated nonstop, and the woman in the window seat issued a heavy sigh every few minutes. Another kid hung over the seat in front of him, staring at him while she picked her nose. All in all, the experience was making him seriously reconsider starting a family. Maybe he and Kelly could get a puppy and call it quits.
As they taxied to the gate, the flight attendant announced information for connecting flights, and the woman beside him grumbled something unintelligible. Jake hunched over, waiting for the slow file off the plane to proceed far enough for him to grab his carry-on. Once out of the Jetway he glanced at his watch and flipped open his cell phone.
“Frank? Yeah, sorry about that. My connecting flight at O’Hare was delayed. Where am I meeting you?”
Five minutes later, Jake was stationed in front of a bank of monitors. Frank, an old Agency buddy of Syd’s, shifted nervously at his elbow. Apparently he’d done something bad enough to get shuffled down the ranks of Homeland Security to airport detail. Jake couldn’t imagine what kind of heinous act would result in such a reassignment. Screwing the president’s dog, maybe. Hard to believe anything less would matter to the CIA.
“I can give you a few more minutes, man, but that’s it.” Frank’s eyes shifted from the screens to the door in a constant cadence, like he was watching a tennis match. “Shift change is in a half hour, and I got plans tonight.”
Jake jabbed a finger at the screen. “That’s her right there. Pause and rewind five minutes, then go forward slowly.”
Frank obliged, working the elaborate controls. A few other men were scattered around the room. After their initial appraisal they’d pointedly ignored Jake, which was fine by him. Although it didn’t instill much faith in airport security, he thought, watching them peck away at phones and BlackBerries, periodically casting a token glance at the monitors.
They watched in silence as Madison Grant made her way from a restroom near the gate to baggage claim. The angle changed as Frank shifted from camera to camera. Jake had to admit, he was good at this. Had the tapes cued up and ready to go when he arrived, and despite the employees, the technology itself was state-of-the-art, HD quality.
“Pretty girl,” Frank said. “What’d she do?”
Jake eyed him, not liking his tone. Maybe that’s what the CIA had found so offensive. Syd had fed Frank some backstory about a CI they were tracking. Not very plausible, but then Frank obviously wasn’t the type to ask questions when enough money changed hands. That level of pliability was also not a good sign for air travel, Jake thought. Maybe he should take the train home.
“Zoom in,” Jake said, as Madison approached someone. Big guy, looked yoked even from this angle, six-five easy. A cap obscured his eyes, and the hands holding the sign were large and meaty. Jake frowned as they exchanged a few words, then watched Madison follow him out of the building. The film switched to a line of cars stacked at the curb. Madison climbed into the rear of a sedan. Jake frowned as it drove off.
“Can you get me a printout of that guy, and of the plate?”
Frank shrugged. “Yeah, no problem. Technology is a beautiful thing.”
Jake didn’t respond. He leaned back against an empty console as Frank shuffled to the printer. So Madison Grant hadn’t been snatched, she’d been lured. Not surprising, he’d done plenty of dumb shit himself at that age. And whoever she was meeting must have money, curbside limo service didn’t come cheap. He’d have Syd run the plates, but he doubted that would give them anything. This smelled professional. Someone had spent enough time developing a relationship with the girl that she didn’t hesitate to jump on a plane. And if Syd was right about the dad’s job, there were high stakes involved. Jake shook his head. He was liking this less and less by the minute.
“Here you go.” Frank handed over a stack of pictures.
Jake flipped through them quickly. It didn’t look like there was enough of the guy’s face to run through facial recognition software, but there was a nice close-up of Madison. She was a pretty girl, light hair, big smile. She appeared sweet and trusting and more than a little naive. And right now, she was probably in some shit-hole, scared to death.
“Crap,” Jake said, shifting the photo to the bottom.
“What?” Frank asked.
“Nothing. Thanks for your help.” They shook hands and Jake walked out, blinking in the fluorescent glare. Even without looking at it he could still picture the photo. It was as if Madison was challenging him to try and forget about her. Jake tucked the stack into the outside pocket of his carry-on and headed for the car rental courtesy shuttle. He already knew there was no walking away from those eyes.
Four
Kelly adjusted the surgical mask over her mouth. Rodriguez was growing progressively paler as the medical examiner peeled the skin back from the senator’s face. And she had to admit, she was enjoying his discomfort. Kelly had sat in on more autopsies than she could count. It wasn’t the sort of thing you got used to, exactly, but she’d developed coping mechanisms. Plus this wasn’t a victim that inspired the warm fuzzies. Kids were still tough, she preferred to come in at the end for those results. But this guy, the more she found out about him the less she liked. Not that he deserved to be hacked up, but Duke Morris didn’t inspire a lot of sympathy.
The ME had arranged him on the table like a jigsaw puzzle. Morris’s feet were splayed out, arms and legs canted at angles that would have been impossible were his skeleton intact. A disassembled mannequin, Kelly thought. And an ugly one at that.
Under the glare of the overhead lights his skin was pale, suggesting he spent more time on the Beltway than in his home state. A protruding gut attested to plenty of pricey dinners, and his body was covered with an alarming amount of hair. His eyes and mouth were closed, and the hair plugs along his forehead stood out in stark relief. Kelly flipped open the file. On top was a professionally taken photo of Morris in front of an American flag, robust and strong, grinning obsequiously at his constituents. He possessed that air of smug satisfaction common to men who took money and power for granted.
“So officially, gunshot wounds were the cause of death?” Kelly finally asked. Over the years she’d learned that MEs came in all shapes, sizes and levels of ability. This one didn’t seem half-bad, but whether it was the pressure of working on such a high-profile corpse or his own habitual pace, this autopsy was taking a hell of a long time. She pulled back the sleeve of her surgical smock to check her watch: nearly 5:00 p.m. Her stomach growled, reminding her that they’d missed lunch.
The ME peered up at her. “Yes, I’d say so. Two to the back of the head, fired at a downward angle.”
“Execution style,” Rodriguez noted faintly.
“Any
