the aisles. No fucking sign.
There was a doorway leading out back, behind the meat section. Oliva pushed his way through. It led to an alley that fed onto Eighth Street, a whole other block. The alley was empty. A kid in an apron was stacking crates and boxes.
“Where the hell did she go?” Oliva shouted at him.
The kid pulled out his iPod earpiece. “Where’d who go, man?”
Freddie Oliva closed his eyes. How was he going to explain this? Someone was trying to kill this girl. Her father may have murdered a fellow agent. He slammed his palm against the brick wall.
Kate Raab was gone.
Luis Prado pulled his black Escalade to a stop halfway down the street from the blue-shingled house in tree-lined Orchard Park, New York, outside of Buffalo. He cut the lights.
It was quiet here, Luis reflected. Kids, familias … basketball hoops over the garages. Not bent, rusted ones on dirt fields like where he grew up. Nothing bad would ever happen here. Right?
He reached for his binoculars and through the night-vision lenses spotted two slumping shapes in the unmarked Ford parked directly across from the blue-shingled house.
The one behind the wheel looked half asleep. The other was smoking a cigarette, probably contemplating just how unlucky he’d been to have drawn this assignment. Luis scanned the block. No vans or delivery vehicles, the usual stakeout bases where more agents might hide. Other than the federales in the Taurus, he didn’t see anyone else around.
A laundry truck turned onto the street. It pulled to a stop in front of a neighboring house. A deliveryman hopped out and dropped a bundle on the front stoop. He rang the bell.
Luis Prado understood that the next time he came back here, it would be messy. Just like with that pretty federal agent back in Chicago. That one had been cruel. She’d been very well trained, and it had taken all his acquired skills and stomach. But in the end it had been helpful. In the end they’d gotten the things they needed to know. It had brought him here.
Luis’s attention was grabbed by the garage door opening. A woman stepped out—middle-aged, pleasant-looking, gray hair tied in a bun. She had a dog on the leash, a white Lab. He seemed to be chipper, nice. She placed a trash bag in one of the garbage bins, let the dog do his thing. One of the agents in the Ford got out and walked a short distance up the driveway. The two chatted for a moment, the woman staying in the safety of the garage. Luis looked closely. He didn’t see anyone else inside.
The laundry truck lumbered down the street, passing him.
The two in the Taurus wouldn’t prove to be much of a problem. He’d dealt with this before.
Fraternidad esto destino. Luis sighed. It was fated. The choice had already been made. He would wait, watch, until he saw his target. He covered the Sig nine-millimeter on the seat across from him with a newspaper.
Next time he’d be doing his thing.
Two days later Kate’s taxi pulled up in front of the stuccoed, Spanish-style building tucked behind the Arby’s in a strip mall in Mill Valley, California, across the bay from San Francisco.
“This it, ma’am?” the driver asked, checking the yellow stuck-on numbers over the building’s glass doors.
Kate tried to read the sign. This was the fourth location she’d been to that day. She was starting to get a little jet-lagged and discouraged, starting to think maybe her brainstorm wasn’t such a flash of brilliance after all, but just some crazy wild-goose chase that would land her in a lot of trouble later on.
“Yes, this is it.” She cracked open the door.
The name over the entrance read GOLDEN GATE SQUASH.
Kate had decided to start out with the Bay Area. She knew she couldn’t rent a car—that was traceable, so she stuck with cabs. Yesterday she’d driven down to Palo Alto and San Jose. Earlier today to the Athletic Club downtown, then across the Bay Bridge to a sportsplex in Berkeley. No one had recognized Em’s picture. Not at any of these clubs. San Francisco was only one city. Kate had three more to go, following the band’s tour. And a lot more clubs.
She’d headed straight to the airport after eluding Oliva. The little escapade with Fergus was the only thing in the past few weeks that had given her a reason to smile. What wasn’t nearly so amusing was the note she’d left for Greg, how she’d had to run out and not be honest with him. She scribbled, “I know it’s going to be hard for you to understand this, Greg, but I’ve got to find something out, no matter how we try to pretend it will go away—and I couldn’t let you talk me out of it and tell me how foolish this is, which I knew you would try to do. It is foolish—it is crazy. Just know that I’m safe and that I love you, and that I’ll think of you every day. Please try not to worry. I’ll call you when I get there. Wherever that is. I love you, but this is something I have to do.
“And don’t forget Fergus’s heart pill before you go to bed!!!”
It was tough, hiding things from him. Kate felt disloyal. He was her husband, her closest friend. They were supposed to share everything. She trusted him more than anyone in her life. She knew she should at least call. Last night at the hotel, she’d picked up the phone to call him to let him know she was safe and had gotten as far as punching in his number. Then she put the phone down. Something held her back. Kate didn’t know what.
Maybe he wouldn’t understand. And she didn’t want to hear it. Maybe she just had to keep this part of her life separate.
Kate opened the door to the squash club. Immediately she heard the sharp, thwacking sound of the ball slamming against the hardwood walls. There were several white-walled courts with clear glass fronts. A couple were in play. Two sweating men, who had obviously just finished up and had towels draped over their necks, were downing fluids, going over their game. Kate walked up to an athletic-looking, red-haired man in a squash shirt, standing behind the front desk.
“Excuse me, I’m trying to locate someone. You mind taking a look?”
“Not at all.”
She handed him Emily’s photo, one taken last year at the junior Maccabean Games. “She’s my sister. I think she plays out here.”
The redheaded pro took a long look. He shook his head. “Sorry, I’m afraid I’ve never seen her before.” He had an English accent and smiled at her, somewhat apologetically.
“You’re sure?” Kate pressed. “Her name’s Emily. She’s seventeen. She’s a ranked player back east. She’s just moved out here with my dad. I know she plays somewhere in town. I just want to surprise her.”
The squash pro shrugged again, handing Kate back the photo. “I run the junior program here. If she played here, I’d definitely know her. Have you checked Berkeley yet?”
