Through the zoomed lens of her digital SLR camera, she had an unobstructed view of the house and the man entering it. He was average height, she guessed, had a muscular build, and carried himself with confidence. He was a good-looking man in his early thirties. She snapped pictures of his every move. As she sized him up she could tell he was alarmed by something he saw in the window. The drawing of the gun was her first clue. Her second clue was when he kicked in the front door. Clearly the man knew what he was doing. She inspected her camera; she'd taken 57 photos of the man since he'd arrived.
Who was this man and what was he doing at Ashley Regan's house? He didn't look like a cop. At least no cop she'd ever met. He approached the house in a tactical military style, disciplined and decisive. She recognized his gun — a Glock. What was this man's connection to Regan? More important, does he know about the blackmail attempt on the President?
Then she remembered that Evan Makley told her President Rudd was sending someone to Charleston. Maybe this was that man.
She'd found two good photos of the man's face and emailed them to Evan Makley along with a short message. After the man had been inside for ten minutes she started getting curious. Was he questioning Regan? If he was, then she stood to lose a lot of money. Evan Makley's money. She reached under her seat and pulled out her Smith and Wesson M & P .40 caliber Shield subcompact pistol. It was lightweight with a smaller grip than its Glock counterpart. She double-checked her pistol to ensure a round was chambered and tucked it in the small of her back. Time to see what the man inside was up to.
Just as she cracked open her car door she heard the sirens. Flashing lights from police cruisers rounded the street corners. Two in front, one from behind, all stopping in front of Regan's house.
One armor-vested cop from each car ran toward the house while the other cops stood behind car doors pointing their weapons at the residence.
Love closed the car door and melted into the leather seat. She removed the gun from her waist and slipped it back under the seat. This was an unfortunate turn of events. She could only assume the taxi driver called the cops. In less than a minute, the police brought out the blond haired man shackled in handcuffs, pushed him into the backseat of one of the cruisers, and drove off. He was out of the picture, for now, but it left her with a conundrum. Follow the cruiser to the police station or wait and try to gain access to the house after the police left.
From the nonchalant posture of the Charleston Police she reasoned they had no intention of leaving the scene anytime soon. Which meant an investigative team was on the way. The house would be sealed off and guarded for quite a while and her only lead was just hauled away in the cruiser.
She chose to follow the cruiser. She started her black BMW 750 Li, pulled away from the curb avoiding a van parked next to the curb, and accelerated around the corner in pursuit of the police car.
He watched the commotion in front of him with amusement. When the man entered the home, Scott Katzer called 9-1-1 and reported seeing the break-in. The police hauled the man from the house in handcuffs and all three officers that went in came back outside leaving no explanation other than Ashley Regan wasn't at home. No way would they have left her alone. Alive or dead.
The young man was evidently in search of one of two things, Ashley Regan or the book. Perhaps both. Something they shared in common. Now Katzer had a lead. All he had to do was follow and wait. Sooner or later the man would be released from jail. It wouldn't take long before the cops figured out that the man hadn't had time to ransack the house between the 9-1-1 call and the time they arrived at the scene.
Katzer was familiar with police procedure. Over the course of his forty years in the funeral home business, he'd been summoned on numerous occasions to crime scenes to remove dead bodies. Not so often anymore. Crime scene procedures were more sophisticated these days with an ever-increasing emphasis on forensics.
As soon as he saw the taxi let the man out, Katzer knew another party must be interested in the book. He'd already ascertained that Regan had the book and kept it a secret from her roommate. Mistaken identity had cost her her life. Needlessly, in his opinion. His mother had acted irrationally. The woman didn't need to be killed. And in the end, it was all for naught. He was no closer to obtaining the book now than he was before. Maybe even further, as Samantha Connors could've been used as a bargaining chip to get the book from Regan. That chip was gone.
Connors admitted that Regan was staying with a friend, but his mother had been too hasty trying to extract the information and the woman died before revealing the identity. Which is what brought him back to her house. He wanted to go through Regan's belongings to find something that might suggest who her friend might be. Now, with the presence of the Charleston Police, that wasn't going to happen either.
He put the van in gear and started to pull out to follow the police cruiser when the black BMW parked behind him pulled out cutting him off. He slammed on the brakes to avoid a collision. After the BMW passed him, he pulled into the street and proceeded to stay far enough behind the police cruiser to avoid being detected.
Two blocks before the police station, Katzer realized something odd, the other car was still in front of him. At the police station, the cruiser pulled into the secured lot. The black BMW parked in front of the station.
Keeping several parked cars between them, he parked the van close enough to allow optimal viewing of the police station and the mystery car and hopefully far enough away not to be noticed. Now he knew there were at least two other parties interested in the book, the man in the police station and whoever was in the BMW. He also knew he had to get to it first.
25
Jake hated riding the bull. That's what they called being hit by a Taser at The Farm, the CIA's tradecraft training facility. A mandatory part of every agent's training. Thank goodness Wiley didn't require it of his emissaries. There was nothing fun about it.
His solitary cell was small, eight feet by eight feet, three windowless concrete walls and the fourth all bars with a door. Fluorescent lights outside the bars droned a continuous hum. He hadn't been questioned, just tossed in the cell, and told to wait. He guessed he'd been in there thirty minutes but he didn't know for sure. They stripped him of all his personal belongings, his belt, and his shoes.
The Charleston police never let him talk. And when he tried to offer an explanation, he got a truncheon to the ribs. His repeated demands for a phone call landed on deaf ears. The longer he was stuck in this cell, the further ahead Ashley Regan got. And perhaps, closer to danger. He needed to call Wiley and let the old man do what he does best, pull some strings to get him the hell out of there.
He heard a metal door clang and footsteps walking down the hall. Two linebacker-sized uniforms stood at the door to his cell, one holding a Taser, the other a pair of handcuffs.
"Turn around, hands behind your back." The man holding the handcuffs said.
Jake did as the man said. No sense in making things worse. Cooperation was likely the quickest way out of jail.
"Now back up to the bars."
Jake stepped backwards and felt the handcuffs clamp around his wrists.
"Forward five steps." The man ordered.