She nodded curtly. “Fits his profile. He say where he’s been, where he’s staying in town?”
“He said he’s been bouncing around, following work, but didn’t name anywhere specific that he’s been, and he didn’t mention where he’s staying. I didn’t ask.”
She scowled as if she’d bitten something sour. “Anyone else with him?”
“There was some huge guy, maybe six foot five, weighed about two seventy-five, three hundred pounds. A light-skinned black man, tall Afro, probably in his late twenties. He seemed sort of off.”
“Off?”
“You know, like his elevator didn’t go all the way to the top floor. That was my initial impression of him, anyway. I didn’t get the guy’s name, but he bought Leon a pack of cigarettes. I don’t think Leon ever went inside the store.”
“Using Lurch as the front man.” She scribbled notes. “You guys got any other old pals from the neighborhood living here?”
“I don’t keep in touch with anyone from Detroit.”
The answer came out more defensive than he’d intended. Falco frowned slightly.
“Is this coincidental meeting at the gas station the only time you spoke with Sharpe?” she asked.
He paused. “Unfortunately, no.”
Her dark eyebrows arched. “No?”
“Without really thinking, I gave him my business card. I’m co-owner of Gates-Webb Security.”
“Ah, I thought the little sign in your flower bed out front looked familiar. I’ve seen those signs in yards all over the city. Business must be going well.”
“I can’t complain. But Leon came by my office yesterday evening as I was leaving. He insisted on grabbing a beer.”
“He a pushy guy?”
“He can be. We went to a bar called Shooters, about a mile down the road from my office.”
“What time?”
“I’d guess about five-thirtyish.”
“What happened there?” she asked.
Her gaze challenged him to lie.
“He asked me for money,” he said.
“He asked you for money?”
He licked his dry lips. “Yeah.”
“Why did he ask you for money, Mr. Webb?”
“He said he’d fallen on rough times. He knew about my business, so I guess he figured I had cash to spare.”
“Did you give him any?”
“I gave him the cash I had in my wallet.”
“How much was that?”
He rubbed his mouth, strained to remember. So much had happened since then it felt like two weeks ago. “About a hundred and twenty dollars, I think.”
“Was Sharpe grateful for your generosity?”
Lie to me, those dark eyes of hers said. I dare you.
“Actually, he got angry. He wanted more-for old time’s sake, he said. When I refused, he threw a beer mug against the wall and stormed out.”
She blinked. “You kidding me?”
“I wish I were.”
“I mean, gosh, the nerve of him to react like that when he’s the one asking you for a handout. He’s a piece of work.”
“Leon was never one for tact.”
“How much more money did Sharpe want you to give him?”
“A few thousand.”
“He hasn’t seen you in sixteen years, yet he expects you to give him thousands of dollars?” She cast a sidelong glance at her partner. “I’ve been paired up with this guy here for eighteen months, work with him daily, and he’s never bought me more than a hamburger.”
Silent, Agent March shrugged.
“Well, that’s Leon for you, expecting the world to do him favors.” Corey cracked his knuckles. “What’s he done this time? He must’ve done something, or else you wouldn’t be here asking me questions.”
Falco crossed her legs, eyes sharp as nails. “You don’t know?”
“Knowing Leon, I’m sure it involves a robbery or something.”
“You ever watched America’s Most Wanted?”
“I’m familiar with the show, but I haven’t seen it recently. I don’t watch much TV.”
“Lucky for us one of the bartenders working at Shooters last night is a big-time fan,” she said. “He positively ID’d Sharpe after Sharpe pitched a fit-pardon the pun.” She smiled.
“What? Leon was on America’s Most Wanted? Are you serious?”
He hoped that his manufactured shock appeared genuine.
“We put him on our Ten Most Wanted Fugitives List about six months ago. Three years prior in Detroit, Sharpe robbed an armored vehicle, gunned down the two couriers, got away with about thirty-five thousand.”
“That’s terrible.”
“Those two men he killed had wives, children. Hardworking, honest men like yourself.”
“Tragic,” he said, and meant it.
“The bar had your credit card receipt from last night on file,” she said. “That’s what brought us to your door this morning.”
“Oh, I was wondering about that.”
“There are records of everything these days, Mr. Webb,” she said. “It’s getting harder and harder for the bad guys to slip the net. Sharpe’s been ahead of us for a while, but eventually he’ll make a mistake. Maybe he already has. Scumbags like him always do sooner or later.”
“I hope you catch him. He shouldn’t be on the streets.”
“We would appreciate your cooperation in bringing him into custody.”
Corey swallowed. That word, cooperation, stuck in his mind like a thumbtack. What else did they know? Or did they know anything?
If I see a cop on my tail, if I even suspect. .
Suddenly, the phone rang: the house landline. Nevertheless, Corey jumped as if pinched.
Falco raised an eyebrow. “You going to answer that?”
“I’ll be right back,” he said.
The nearest phone was in the kitchen. Caller ID displayed his office number.
It was Todd. “Hey, partner. Are you coming in today? We’ve got a conference call in fifteen minutes, nine A.M. sharp.”
“I’m in the middle of something, Todd. Can you handle it?”
“No problemo. Everything okay? You sound stressed.”
Corey choked back a laugh, thinking Stressed? You can’t even imagine.
“It’s cool. I’ll be in shortly.”
He hung up and returned to the living room. Falco had picked up one of the photographs of Simone and Jada that stood on an end table, and March was checking out another picture, one of Jada at a ballet recital.
Such a powerful bolt of anguish struck him that he almost broke down and told them everything. The old, terrible thing Leon was holding over his head, what Leon had done to his family. Corey almost spilled it all, almost gave in to the urge to let these people shoulder his burden and do the tough, dirty work of somehow bringing his family home safe.
But his knowledge of Leon’s ways kept his lips sealed. If he confessed to the agents, he would, in effect, be signing his wife and daughter’s death certificates.
The agents looked up at his return.
“That was someone from my office,” he said, standing behind the chair. “I have a meeting I need to sit in on.”
“Of course, you’re a busy person, as we all are.” Falco returned the photo to the table. “You have a beautiful family. Your little girl looks a lot like you.”
Corey pinched the bridge of his nose, hiding his pain. “Thanks. But I really need to get to work.”
“In a minute, sure. What does your wife do for a living?”
“She’s a therapist.”
“Is that so? Where?”
“She has a private practice on Roswell Road.”
“I was a psych major at NYU. The education comes in handy out in the field.”
“I would imagine it does,” he said. “But listen, I haven’t seen or spoken to Leon since last night. If I knew where he was, I’d tell you.”
“Was he driving a vehicle?”
“A blue Ford pickup. Looks brand new. It’s probably stolen.”
“Stolen?” She cocked her head. “Why makes you say that?”
“I. . I just know how he is.”
“You know a whole lot about your old friend.” She smiled thinly.