“Yes, sir, I’ll e-mail you later this evening with the revised terms of the agreement. I apologize for the inconvenience. We sure appreciate your business, sir. Bye now.”
Todd hung up. Corey lowered the phone, bewildered.
The answer hit him: the FBI was checking out Todd, too.
And why wouldn’t they have? They might have watched Corey drive from the bank earlier that day to meet Todd at his condo. Besides, as Corey’s business partner and friend, Todd would have been on their short list for questioning, anyway.
He hoped Todd didn’t tell them what was really happening. Based on Todd’s loathing of cops and his own shady activities, he’d assume that Todd would keep his mouth shut.
Later, perhaps when the heat cooled a bit, they could touch base again.
As Corey deliberated his next step, yellow light strafed over him. Pulse kicking up, he whipped around in his seat and saw an unmarked white sedan cruising in his direction, a beacon spinning on the roof.
Not a police officer-a rent-a-cop. Residents of a neighborhood as pricey as this one would have retained a private security force.
The sedan crawled past him and moved on down the block, but Corey interpreted the security vehicle’s appearance as a forewarning. He shifted into Drive and peeled away from the curb.
The next step was obvious. He had to find new transportation.
38
A few minutes past six o’clock, Corey parked around the corner from Otis Trice’s house, sliding the sedan under the dripping boughs of a hickory tree.
Otis lived in East Point, a southwest Atlanta suburb, in a quiet neighborhood of ranches and split-levels with large, well-tended lawns, huge leafy trees, and gentle hills. It had taken nearly an hour to drive there from Buckhead in the evening’s rainy, rush-hour traffic, but he had been determined to endure the hellish trip.
The truth was, he had nowhere else to go.
He couldn’t go home. The FBI might be watching his house. Likewise, Todd was out. Ditto his mother-in-law-he could not even begin to imagine telling her what was going on.
With the princely sum of twenty bucks in his wallet, a hotel of any kind was impossible, and with the FBI presumably monitoring his financial accounts, he couldn’t use any of his debit or credit cards for risk of giving up his location.
How the hell had Leon managed to elude the Feds for three years? He had been on the run for less than three hours and felt his wires unraveling. The only thing keeping him glued was the hope of holding Simone and Jada in his arms again.
He checked the prepaid cell for at least the tenth time. It was still on, the battery at three-quarters strength. But Leon hadn’t called, and the prolonged silence worried him.
Before getting out of the car, he scanned the rearview mirror and the street ahead. Although he hadn’t noticed a tail during the drive, he didn’t want to lead the cops straight to his friend’s front door, either.
He got out and dashed around the corner, rain leaking under his collar, one hand pressed against the gun riding his hip.
Otis lived in an immaculately maintained brick ranch with an attached garage. The square lawn was as neatly trimmed as the greens on a golf course, bordered by a bed of white hydrangeas that bobbed in the rain. A silver Cadillac was parked in the driveway, and warm golden light glowed at the front windows.
Corey rang the doorbell. He hadn’t called ahead, not trusting himself to explain his situation on the phone.
Otis answered the door. He wore pastoral clothing: a long-sleeve black shirt with a white clerical collar, black wool slacks, oxfords with a mirror-shine. A silver crucifix pendant hung from his necklace.
Corey remembered that it was Wednesday night. Otis would be preparing to lead Bible study at his church.
“Brother Webb,” Otis said, as gracious as ever, as if he had been expecting Corey’s visit. “Come inside, please. It’s so good to see you this evening, indeed it is.”
Corey tapped off his wet shoes on the doormat and shook Otis’s hand. “I’m sorry for dropping in without calling ahead. If this is a bad time-”
“Nonsense,” Otis said, ushering Corey inside. “My door is always open to you, son. It always has been and always will be.”
Corey followed Otis into the living room. As always, the interior of the house was as orderly as the outside, everything in its precise place, a habit held over from Otis’s years in the army. The aromas of spaghetti sauce and garlic bread spiced the air. Corey hadn’t eaten all day and felt a pang of hunger, but he was so keyed up he doubted he could keep anything in his stomach.
“Please have a seat,” Otis said. “Would you like supper? I prepared my world-famous spaghetti and meatballs.”
“No, thanks. Smells good, though.”
Otis pushed up his wire-rim glasses on his nose and scrutinized him. “How about a drink then? You look as if you could use a strong one.”
You don’t know the half of it, man.
“A drink would be great.” Corey moved to the sofa, looked around. “By the way, is Anita here?”
Otis paused at the kitchen doorway. “Mrs. Trice is at the church this evening, facilitating a women’s auxiliary meeting.”
Nodding, Corey sat on the couch. Otis’s wife was a good woman, trustworthy to a fault, but Corey had been hoping to talk to Otis in private.
Otis returned from the kitchen and handed him a tumbler full of ice cubes and a quarter-inch of an amber beverage. Corey sniffed it; the strong odor opened his nostrils.
“Whiskey?” Corey asked.
“Crown Royal,” Otis said with a sheepish smile. “I thought it might help you relax.”
“Thanks.” Corey took a small sip. The liquor slid down his throat like simmering lava, warmed his heart, and spread outward through his bloodstream, burning much of the tension out of his muscles.
Otis eased into a nearby armchair. His Buddha-calm gaze rested on Corey, brown eyes glimmering behind his lenses.
“So, Brother Webb, how may I be of service?”
“Don’t you have to be at Bible study tonight?” Corey asked. “I’m not sure there’s time for me to get into this with you.”
“My assistant pastors are immensely capable of filling in for me.” Otis smiled. “You and I can hold a church service of our own here in this living room, if need be.”
Corey smiled sourly. “For certain legal reasons, I don’t think it would be a good idea for me to go into details. I’m sorry, but the less you know, the better.”
A frown creased Otis’s features.
“But I haven’t done anything wrong,” Corey said quickly. “Well. . put it this way, the questionable things I’ve done the past couple of days, I’ve had a good reason for them. It’s complicated.”
Otis stroked his beard. “What do you need, son?”
Corey placed the whiskey on a coaster on an end table and stared at the rug under his feet. His head felt as if a ten-pound stone lay across the back of his neck.
Finally, he looked up and met Otis’s patient gaze.
“I really hate to ask you this, but I need to borrow your car,” Corey said. “And money, too. . whatever you can spare.”
39
When Leon tore into the bedroom, Simone immediately knew she was in trouble.
As she pushed away from the wall, where she had been pulling vainly at the boards on the window, he came at her like a cyclone. Shadow swirled around him, but could not hide his drastically altered appearance. He was clean-shaven, the beard shorn away. Bald-headed, no more dreadlocks. Instead of the tattered denim overalls and T-shirt, he wore what looked like a police officer or security guard’s uniform, right down to the walkie-talkie and gun nested in a utility belt.
She had no idea why he was wearing this costume-but those predatory eyes of his were the same. They flashed with fury.