Part 10 (1/2)
Pardee's phone started playing ”Tubular Bells,” the theme from The Exorcist. In addition to a certain amount of wit, Pardee also had a keen sense of irony.
”Yes?” Pardee could have communicated with his minions through magical means, but he did not wish to frighten them. At least, not yet.
”It's Kittridge, boss. One of Chastain's credit cards finally showed up online, but by the time we got there, she was in a cab. Took her out to JFK. We had no chance to close the deal.”
”I very much hope you obtained her flight information.” Pardee's voice contained no hit of menace whatever. It didn't have to.
”Sure, boss, sure. No prob. She's on United, Flight 441, nonstop to Chicago. Arrives three forty-five, local-or it's supposed to, anyway.”
”Which airport-O'Hare or Midway?”
”O'Hare. The big one.”
”You're not just guessing about that, are you? Because if you were to guess incorrectly...”
”No, boss, I checked it out, absolutely.”
”Very well.” Pardee thought for a moment. ”I have another a.s.signment for you.”
”Great, glad to hear it.”
”It's in New Jersey. A place called Avon, sometimes known as Avon-by-the-Sea. Do you know it?”
”Nah, but we'll find it, no prob. Winter's from Jersey, he probably knows where it is. If not, we'll score a map, someplace.”
”All right. Your client is one Judith Maloney.” He repeated the name, then provided an address, which he also said twice.
”Got it, boss.”
”You didn't write any of that down, did you?”
”h.e.l.l, no. I'm no amateur.”
”Then make sure you do not act like one when you get to New Jersey. Call me when you've made the sale.”
Pardee terminated the call without any social amenities, then called a number with a Chicago area code. Libby Chastain was one fish he very much did not want to escape his net. Or the gaff to follow.
”Yeah?” It was a man's voice, businesslike and impersonal.
”You know who this is, Strom.”
”Yeah. Yeah, I do.” The voice took on a note of eagerness.
”I have more work for you.”
Libby Chastain came out of the little tunnel that temporarily connected her plane with the terminal and saw Quincey Morris immediately. But before going to him, she made herself scan the other people who were waiting for disembarking pa.s.sengers from her flight. It wasn't always possible to tell who wished you ill just by looking, but Libby's witch sense was finely tuned, and there was always the chance she'd pick up harmful intent in time to do something about it.
But no one seemed to be paying her any attention at all-apart from the tall, dark-haired man in the blue suit, his beard stubble noticeable even this early in the day. She went to him then, and they exchanged a brief hug.
”Quincey, it's so good to see you,” she said softly.
”It's good to be seen, Libby. At least by you.”
As they walked toward the main terminal building, Morris leaned closer and said, ”By the way, I spent the last half hour checking out all the people in the immediate area of your gate. I don't have your infallible instincts, but I didn't see anybody who looked like trouble.”
”That's good, she said. ”I've had enough trouble for a while.”
”Did you check a bag?”
”I had to. Some of my gear might raise a few eyebrows if I tried to take it through one of the security checkpoints, and I have no desire to have my name end up on some watch list.”
”Or witch list.”
”That, too. I just hope my suitcase didn't end up in Omaha, or someplace.”
They entered the terminal and followed the signs to the luggage carousels. Neither of them noticed the man, holding an open copy of Forbes magazine, who was seated in a position where he could watch everyone who came out from that set of gates. Once he determined where the man and the woman were heading, Charlie Strom stood up and followed, pulling a phone/walkie-talkie from his jacket pocket.
Strom was a big man, and he walked aggressively, as if there were people determined to get in his way and he was equally determined that they weren't going to succeed. Apart from the walk, the only thing distinctive about him was his hair, which was white on the sides and dark on top. On someone twenty years younger, it might have been a fas.h.i.+on statement, but in Strom's case it was a genetic quirk that showed up in his family every other generation or so. Being conspicuous was a bad thing in his line of work, but some perverse pride kept him from dyeing it a uniform color. Most of the people who learned what he did for a living didn't usually get much time to ponder his appearance, anyway.
Strom held the device to his ear, his big paw covering it to m.u.f.fle what might come through the earpiece, and pushed the ”Talk” b.u.t.ton.
”Lee.” He made his rough voice as soft as he could.
Another voice, male and a little higher than Strom's, came back almost instantly. ”Yeah.”
”She's heading toward the baggage claim. And she's got some guy with her.”
After a moment, the voice came back. ”Cop?”
”Hard to say. He's too well-dressed for CPD. Could be federal, maybe.”
”s.h.i.+t.”
”Yeah, I know.”
”Well, you weren't gonna burn her in there, anyway. Too many eyes.” Another pause. ”What you gonna do?”
”If he's a Fed, he won't be alone. He'll have somebody in a car waiting. I'm gonna hang back, see where they go once they pick up her bag. Stay loose, kid.”
”Gotcha, Charlie.”
”And be ready to move-fast.”
There is an elegant, expensive apartment building in Philadelphia's Main Line area. It boasts state-of-the-art security-and, unlike many such places, the boast is justified. This is why Hannah Widmark lives there. It is vital to her that her dwelling s.p.a.ce, and its contents, be protected while she is away. When she is at home, of course, no extra protection is necessary.
In contrast to the building's ritzy facade, Hannah's apartment is stark, even Spartan. Her bed is a mattress on the floor. Her desk, which is also where she takes her meals, is a card table, with a folding metal chair behind it. There is no television, radio, or any other form of entertainment to be found there.