across the top of a box of paperbacks whose bright and torrid covers curled and swelled. The classic was like an old dog in the midst of a pack of pups. He skirted a small, nondescript, collapsed wooden table—more cardboard than wood, the kind purchased in discount box stores—and walked over to a small desk that stood untouched except for the damp soot that clung to it. The desk was different from the other furniture in the room. It looked older and had character. The patina was richer and darker, the legs had deep scrolls carved into them that swirled through the wood. He slipped on a glove and opened a side drawer. There was nothing but a collection of elastic bands, tape, pens and blank notepads. The heat had not gotten to this part of the room. He did a quick take of the other side drawer. This time it opened to a small line of files. His fingers flitted quickly through them, stopped and went back. From the corner of his eye he saw Victor watching. He wasn’t sure how long Victor would allow his surreptitious view of the apartment before demanding that the fire investigative team and police take over. It was a lull in the investigation. The fire had only been out a few hours, and Josh was taking full advantage as he had done in other crime scenes in other countries throughout the world. It was all about speed and timing. He left the files and moved to the middle drawer.
He took out a blue leather folder and pushed the metal release. The folder opened; nothing was inside. He glanced over his shoulder. Victor was not looking. His attention went to the bottom side drawer, and his fingers skimmed quickly through the files.
He flipped through papers in a cardboard file. Empty—except one small sheet and a receipt. Both bore the name Erin and one Erin Kelley.
Tell Mike I took his last advice.
The note was written in a careful script, the letters fine, unlike a more masculine scroll that only confirmed what the signature said. The writer was Erin Kelley, or at least the woman currently calling herself that. The woman who had so recently been Erin Kelley Argon before she’d changed her passport and her last name. A twist of fate twenty-nine years ago had her parents on a business trip in Canada where her mother went into early labor. As a result, Erin qualified for citizenship in that country and when she’d run, she’d taken advantage of it. He took both pieces of evidence, folded them one-handed and slipped them into his pocket. He closed the drawer and opened the middle drawer and retraced the fine line he’d felt earlier. He pushed and something gave. He pulled open the drawer farther to reveal a hidden compartment.
“What do you have?” Victor was beside him. “The authorities only did a cursory look before they took the body away. And I just got here. So anything you can do to make our job easier.” He pulled the thin edge of his moustache with a troubled look. “Although, really, I shouldn’t be letting you do this.”
Josh ignored the man as he took out an American driver’s license and a passport. He flipped open the passport and it only confirmed what the first piece of ID had already told him. “Here’s your identification. Emma Whyte. She had it well hidden against thieves.”
“By jove. Good work, old chap.”
Josh grimaced and rubbed the back of his neck. “Since when did you become a Brit, Vic?”
Victor scowled and glanced at his watch.
“What time is it?”
“Seven o’clock.”
“It’s been a long day. I’ll leave you to it,” Josh said. “She’s obviously not the woman I was looking for.”
“Good luck!” Victor told him genially.
Josh stepped over the threshold, seemingly empty-handed. Once outside, he dialed the number that would be in service for only a few more hours.
“It’s not her,” he said. “But she was here. Whoever the bastard is that they have on her tail, he now knows her last location.”
“What’s the matter? You sound off.”
“Could be the last two years have been pretty much on the road.”
“What, you’re telling me you don’t love it?”
“Not that much. After this, Vern, I need a vacation. I need to go home.”
“To the RV? Josh you’re not a family man and you live in a trailer.”
His hand went into his pocket, his thumb smoothing the worn bead of a dime-store earring. “It’s home, Vern. And family or not, it’s time for me to take a break.”
“Okay, fine.”
He dropped the earring back into his pocket as a door slammed across the street. He walked away from the apartment building and around the corner to where an alley gave him a discreet view of the comings and goings around the apartment. “What gives with this case, Vern? There’s another body. A woman. Every bloody assignment... I’m so damned sick of seeing women dead. At least this time she wasn’t raped. Not that that is any better. Dead is dead.”
“You’re taking it personally,” Vern Ferguson, the director of Josh’s branch in the CIA said.
He turned away from the street and looked down the tight, concrete-bordered alley. Sometimes it was hard not to take it personally. He drew in a breath, held it a few seconds longer than necessary. “You said you have something new? What is it, Vern?” His gaze roamed the area—the overflowing garbage bin, the tiger-striped dog snuffling through the refuse. “I don’t think there’s much time. We could be talking hours, minutes... Who knows?”
“Intelligence has her in Georgetown, Malaysia.”
“Georgetown. Damn it, Vern. Too bad you didn’t have that for me sooner. You know the Anarchists don’t waste time. They’re not just any biker gang. As it is she’s been running for five months.”
“Yeah, I know,” Vern said with a hitch in his voice that was part wheeze, part cough. “She’s tired and with the trial going forward, they won’t stop.”
“Right, and they want her dead, and odds are they’re on their way. Fortunately, no one knows where in Georgetown yet.”
“Then quit wasting time on the damn phone.”
Josh grimaced as he clicked off and tossed the phone into a nearby garbage can.
Georgetown, Malaysia—Monday, October 12
“Give Respect, Get Respect.” Erin Kelley repeated the words as she wrote the phrase on the chalkboard and ended with a sweeping flourish. Her fingers shook and she had to stop. She ran her tongue along her lower lip, her back to the class. But even writing the word respect sent a slight tremor through her. The chalk dust clung uncomfortably to her sweaty palm.
The temperature was unseasonably warm and this early in the morning the heat was already unbearable in the small, cramped room. A finger of light skittered across the blackboard, briefly illuminating the words. She mentally shrank from the light as if under a searchlight, as if they’d found her after all these months. Impossible, she reminded herself as the chalk sweated in her hand, and the children shifted anxiously behind her. And as she had done so many times before, she reminded herself that she was safe, that her trail was cold. Enough time had elapsed. They’d never find her. They were no longer
