Lori came down shortly, dressed in dark blue slacks and a matching sweater. She presented only a ghostly outline in the dark.
"Did Cam leave any kind of hat around here?" he asked.
"I think there's a Scottish style cap on the closet shelf upstairs."
"That ought to do," he said.
She leaned against the bottom of the stair rail. "Are you going to take the bug detector case?"
"No. Stash it away in a closet. We may need it later."
He turned into the kitchen as she headed back up the stairs. As the designated hour approached, the adrenalin had begun to flow. It always made him hungry. But the only thing he could find, rummaging in the glow of digital clocks on the range and microwave, was a fruit bowl. He picked out a banana and began to peel it.
"How's this look?" Lori asked, walking into the kitchen. She had the cap pulled down, the bill just above her eyes.
"Hat's fine, but if you’re going to be me, you're too slim."
"What if I wore one of Dad’s coats. That should make me look bulkier. "
She came back in a few moments wearing a black trenchcoat several sizes too large for her.
"Much better,” he said. “It’s a little much for the current weather, but the length fits so they could think it’s me."
He glanced at the glow of the clock. Three-oh-two. Everything required by the plan had been done. Now it was simply a matter of execution, and of the opposition reacting in the manner he anticipated. That was the only thing he couldn't control.
"Ready to do your thing?" he asked.
She came over and put her arms around him, her face close to his. "Please be careful. I'll probably be a wreck until you call."
"Everything should go just fine." He kissed her firmly. "Let's get moving."
He went into the dining room and opened the door, careful not to make a sound. The patio furniture, sheltered by the tall shrubs, appeared only as a vague outline. He pushed the security door open enough to slip through.
"Okay," he whispered to Lori. "Give me sixty seconds." Then he squeezed past the door, crouching low, and crept cautiously across the patio behind the shrubbery, moving out beyond the tall plants in the direction where his car was parked, hugging close to the brick wall that was shrouded in darkness.
Agent Bravo almost missed his three o'clock check-in. He yawned broadly, accompanied by rapid blinking of his eyes. He hated stakeouts like this. Having grown up in a tough inner city neighborhood, he wasn't particularly enamored of wooded areas either. No telling what kind of slimy creatures would be wandering around on a night like this. Somebody on an earlier shift had dragged a two-foot-high stump up next to the fence as a jumping off point should a quick rush toward the condo be called for. He studied it momentarily in the darkness, then began flexing his knees. A guy could get cramps standing around like this.
The earpiece connected to the box in his pocket suddenly crackled. "Bravo, something's going on here."
He lifted the radio to his mouth and whispered. "What's up, man?"
"Somebody just came out the door. Standing there in the shadows, looking around. Dressed in black, looks like. Long coat. Cap pulled down."
"Is it him?"
"Don't know. Could be. Damned sodium light in the parking lot's too far away to tell for sure."
Rather than keeping his eyes on the long, rambling structure of the condo complex, where an indistinct black shape was moving steadily away from him, Bravo's attention was riveted on the voice in his ear.
"He's walking out toward the cars. Unlocking one, getting in."
"You ready to give chase?"
"Yeah. It's her Corvette, but he hasn't started it. Looks like he's just sitting there."
"What the hell's he up to?"
"I don't know but I'm calling in the troops."
Lori pulled off the cap and squirmed out of the coat, tossing them on the seat beside her. She checked her watch in the pale glow of the light farther up in the parking area. Three-seventeen. Burke had been gone for eight minutes. He had said to wait fifteen. She decided to add on a few more for good measure.
Her watch showed three-twenty-five when she heard a car coming up the street, moving fast. It skidded to a stop just beyond the parking area. Looking in the mirror, she saw two figures jump out. Almost before she could turn around, the door on her side was suddenly jerked open and powerful flashlight beams from each side struck her eyes. She held up her arm to shield them.
"Don't move!" A sharp voice sounded beyond the door.
She could make out a gun next to the flashlight, pointed in her direction. "What is this, a holdup?"
"Shut up." The voice changed to a hoarse whisper. "It's the girl," he said to his partner, bewilderment tempering his tone.
The light on the other side shut off as the second man started around the car.
"What are you doing out here?" the first man asked, still holding the gun on her.
She looked up, scowling. "This is my car and that's my house," she said, pointing. "I couldn't sleep and I came out here. I was trying to decide whether to go find an all-night restaurant."
The indistinct figure put away his pistol. "Sonofabitch."
"Let's get the hell out of here," his partner said.
And in little more than the bat of an eye, they were gone. Lori looked at her watch again. Three-thirty. Burke should be well away by now. She got out of the car, locked it, and walked back into the house.
Chapter 31
Burke's flight arrived at Moisant Field just after nine. He walked out to the street to find a long line of taxis with engines rumbling, reminding him of speedway drivers awaiting the pace car. And considering the driving habits of most big city cabbies, he didn't find the analogy too far-fetched. He took the first available cab and directed the driver to a fixed base operator whose sign he had spotted as the plane was landing.
Instead of entering the building beneath the welcome sign at the doorway to the operations office, he walked out beyond the hangar toward the parking apron. A man dressed in smudged coveralls, a dark grease spot on his cheek, was climbing onto a bright yellow towing vehicle. Burke hurried over.
"Do you know if there's a Piper Cherokee Lance parked out here?" he asked.
The man looked around. "There's one over there," he said, pointing.
Burke's eyes followed his arm. "That red and yellow plane?"
"Yeah."
"Wrong color."
"Sorry, that's the only one I've seen lately."
Burke found the taxi driver waiting for him. He climbed back in and told him to head for the next FBO.
When he had struck out at the last place, he asked a plump, balding operations clerk if there was another airport in the area that he might check.
"Yeah, there's a couple of 'em. Westwego is across the river off the West Bank Expressway. Then there's Lakefront, up on Pontchartrain. You might try it first. It's a bigger operation."
The driver, whose smile grew wider as his meter clicked ever higher, took him back across town and up to the shores of the big lake that flanked the city on the north. At Lakefront Airport, he strolled out to the ramp and looked about for a blue Cherokee Lance. Still no luck. Discouraged, he walked across to the nearby hangar and entered the operations office.
"Can I help you?" a thin, black-haired man asked, his smile showing a mouthful of shiny, white teeth.
"I'm looking for Robert Jeffries, flies a blue Cherokee Lance out of Kansas City."
"You missed him by a couple of hours," the man said.