‘He hasn’t exposed us yet.’
‘You have to stop him before he does.’
‘All right.’
Quantrill jerked his head at the crowds heading toward the church. ‘You see these people? Flocking toward dirt that, if you buy the freaking hype, cures every ill. Faith and hope are just commodities, and everyone buys them. And they’ll buy Frost if you and I can silence Kendrick and his friends. We’ll have a world where trauma never leaves its footprints.’
‘You’re wrong about faith,’ Groote said.
‘I’m not.’
‘Everyone needs faith. In people if not God.’
‘Profound talk from a killer.’ Quantrill couldn’t hide his smirk.
‘You’re not better than me, Oliver. I do what you’re not willing to, what you’re afraid to do. So don’t talk down to me.’
‘I won’t.’ The smirk tried to evolve into a steel-eyed stare, but Quantrill couldn’t make it work.
‘Here’s what you need to do,’ Groote said. ‘Change medical records to show that Nathan Ruiz was released from the hospital by Doctor Hurley the day before Allison died. Then go back to California and put the brakes on the new auction.’
‘All right,’ Quantrill said. ‘I’ll have to report Hurley missing when he doesn’t show for work on Monday. Hopefully drag it out until Tuesday. Plant an idea with the cops that Hurley was distraught over Allison’s death – he fits the part of the heartbroken loner – and left town. You’re sure they’ll never find his body?’
‘They won’t.’
Quantrill crossed his arms. ‘Good. So now for our other problem. Kendrick’s got two loony tunes under his wing. He probably can’t get far. He may even still be in town. Draw him out. Use Ruiz’s family. They might be the first people Ruiz contacts.’
‘When this is all said and done,’ Groote said, ‘my daughter gets Frost. First.’
‘Of course, Dennis,’ Quantrill said, ‘but I can’t do that, can I, if Kendrick stays a problem.’
‘He won’t. We done?’
Quantrill nodded.
Groote walked back to his car. He drove toward Santa Fe, starved for sleep – which he didn’t see in his immediate future – for food, for a clear head. He had reserved a hotel room near the Plaza.
His cell phone rang. It was the computer technician at the hospital, who was examining Celeste’s computer. ‘I found evidence that files large enough to be the Frost research files were uploaded to a remote server via Celeste Brent’s computer.’
‘Where’s the server?’
‘I traced it to a location in Fish Camp, California, a server belonging to a man named Edward Wallace.’
The name meant nothing.
‘Compare the files with Hurley’s files. See if they’re the same name, the same size.’
‘I did already. She uploaded one extra file Hurley didn’t have in his Frost database.’
‘What’s the other one?’
‘It’s a simple text file… it’s called BuyList.’
BuyList. Buyers’ list? Allison had gotten a list of the people lining up to buy from Quantrill, the under-the-table consultants who could filter Frost into a research department.
But why would that be in the research files? The buyers were Quantrill’s business – not Hurley’s.
‘Get me an address for Edward Wallace.’ He hung up. He dialed Quantrill.
‘Before you run back to California,’ Groote said, ‘did Hurley have your list of contacts for your sale?’
‘No, of course not. Why?’
Either Quantrill was lying or Hurley had the list and Quantrill didn’t know it, or, scariest possibility, Allison had gotten the list from somewhere else. Someone else.
‘Groote?’ Quantrill asked.
‘Nothing. Just curious.’ He hung up.
So she had uploaded the stolen data. Why? Why not simply hand it to Kendrick if he was her partner?
Because Allison was hiding the data from Kendrick. As insurance. She had good reason.
The second auction. She’d gotten the names of the buyers for the second auction, somehow, from Quantrill. How and why?
And his confusion over this angle brought forward a question that had nagged him through the night: Why would Sorenson even mention the second auction to him? Why risk alerting him?
Because he wanted to win your confidence, lure you in, get access to Nathan Ruiz, kill Ruiz, kill you. He can tell you anything if he’s pretty sure you’re going to be dead in ten minutes.
He didn’t know why Sorenson wanted Ruiz dead, but, hey, it didn’t matter, facts were facts.
He parked at the hotel lot, got out of his car, exhaustion making his head spin, his nose throbbing from the break. He needed sleep and a painkiller, but first he had to call Nathan’s family, back up Quantrill’s story about Nathan’s release, see if the family knew where Tin Soldier was.
The cell phone chirped. ‘I found your address for Edward Wallace.’ The technician gave Groote the address.
Groote clicked off the phone, tented his cheek with his tongue while he considered this new data. He believed Kendrick had come to Celeste Brent’s computer specifically to get this information. He could be racing to California to get Frost.
It was a chance Groote couldn’t take. He could sleep on the plane.
He headed for the hotel and then he saw them, federal agents, he knew the stance, standing near the door’s lobby on the inside, a blond talking on a cell phone, a bald man with his back to Groote.
Pitts must have logged in, mentioned that he was tracking down Hurley, following Groote from the hospital. And now Pitts hadn’t checked in for hours. It wasn’t a hard matter to call local hotels, find a room rented to Dennis Groote.
He couldn’t let the officers stop him for questioning. Giving a statement might burn hours he couldn’t lose – especially if Pitts had mentioned any suspicions of Groote’s honesty to his team members. He retreated toward the car, walking normally, praying with each step that the men didn’t spot him. If he drove to the Albuquerque airport and took a flight to California, the Bureau would quickly know where he went; and if he hid it would seem, well, like he was hiding. Neither was an appealing prospect. He needed to lie low, find Frost, then resurface back in Los Angeles, where he could claim that, his contract with the hospital having expired, he’d simply come home; he’d had no idea anyone was interested in talking to him.
Santa Fe, a wonderful city he would have loved to share with Amanda, had gone very bad for him.
You get Frost first, and no matter what, he told himself as he slid behind the wheel. You get it for Amanda, even if they catch you.
He got back into his car, started the engine, and the fingers tapped against the window.
‘Mr. Groote?’ The man had the clean-scrubbed, earnest face of an eager Bureau agent. He’d been the blond talking on the cell phone near the hotel entrance.
‘Yes?’ Groote powered down the window, put a polite yet questioning expression on his face. Start lying, he told himself, and make it a great one and forget about the DNA traces the two dead men left in the trunk of the car, don’t you sweat even a drop. So this bastard can’t slow you down any more than necessary.
‘Hello,’ Groote said, with the politeness of recognizing a colleague.
The man was equally polite; almost apologetic. ‘Hello, sir. FBI. We need to talk to you for a few minutes.’
THIRTY-NINE
‘“The Mental Defective League – in formation!”’ Nathan said. ‘Name that movie.’
Miles, having driven for the past twelve hours, didn’t want to play. Celeste, sitting low in the backseat, wearing a heavy pair of sunglasses, wrapped in a blanket, and with a dose of Xanax in her, didn’t answer. It was late Saturday night, the galaxy of lights of greater Los Angeles spread out on both sides of Interstate 5.
‘ One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. After Nicholson gets bzzzzzzt, the shock treatments.’ And he leaned into the backseat, jabbed Celeste’s head with his finger, saying, ‘Bzzzt, bzzzt, bzzzt.’