He had the computer booted up and, while Karen and Lockwood were walking the room looking for evidence, and while the two Atlanta cops standing behind him were looking at their watches, Malavida logged in to the host, triggering his pirate program. His escape plan was now fifteen seconds from activation. He had no wristwatch to keep track of the seconds, so slowly he began to count them, being careful not to let his adrenaline speed him up. If he went early, it could end in disaster. One thousand one, one thousand two, he counted in his head.
"We gotta get outta here. We're gonna miss EOW," the tall cop said, referring to his shift's end-of-watch. "Is this gonna take much longer?"
"I'll be damned. Look't this, I found something," Malavida said to the two patrolmen, who, after a second, moved forward sluhly and looked at the screen without interest.
"What?" they said simultaneously, both staring blankly at a monitor crowded full of time logs.
One thousand seven, one thousand eight, one thousand nine…
The cops were on both sides of him now, looking at the gibberish on the screen. Lockwood and Karen were walking back toward him, only fifteen feet away. One thousand ten, one thousand eleven, and Malavida suddenly lunged to his right, hitting the tall cop with his shoulder, shoving him into a file cabinet. Then he lunged left, knocking the other startled policeman off balance. He turned and bolted for the door. One thousand twelve. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Lockwood going for his gun, but Malavida already knew he was a free man. One thousand thirteen. Once out of the file room, he grabbed the metal door. One thousand fourteen. He slammed it shut. "One thousand fifteen!" he shouted and he heard the electronic security locks buzz shut. Then Lockwood was pounding on the door. "Get fucked, asshole," Malavida shouted through the thick metal; then he moved quickly to the elevator. He went back down to four, into Cavanaugh and Cunningham, and over to Candice's computer. While the startled employees looked on in disbelief, with cuffed hands he picked up Karen Dawson's purse, pulled out her wallet, and removed several hundred dollars in cash plus one credit card. Then he looked at the roomful of openmouthed employees.
"I'm sorry about your friend," he announced. "Somebody will catch the animal who killed her."
They murmured back at him in stunned agreement; then he leaned down and typed a message on the screen, sent it into the building's computer net, shut off the computer, picked up his cracking kit, and left.
In the file room, Lockwood had given up on the door and turned back to the computer. Karen slammed down the phone in disgust. "Phone's off," she growled.
"That son of a bitch lured us up here and set those locks to go off.
Damn," Lockwood said. But for some reason, he felt no anger. He knew that his career at U. S. Customs was over. He had missed his IA review and now, more importantly, he had lost a prner whom he'd released illegally. It was a simmering pork stew, and he had the apple in his mouth. From now on, it would turn into a familiar feast where his bones would be picked clean, like carrion. Internal Affairs Inspectors would all march solemnly to his final trial board. Waiting at the end of this sit-down dinner would be certain dismissal and disgrace. Old friends would stare expressionless, while the music of defeat played.
Lockwood could not manage to feel anything. Was this what he'd been hoping for?
Then the computer gave off a series of beeps. On the screen, in irritating bold caps, came Malavida's message:
LOCKWOOD:
.
YOU SHOULD NEVER
.
Lockwood looked up. "Cute kid," he said to nobody.
Chapter 15
It took exactly one hour before the phone in the file room was turned back on and Karen dialed out. Minutes later, a sixty-year-old building security cop let them out. Lockwood felt lower than whaleshit and, looking back, it still turned out to be the high point of his day. He called Harvey Knox to tell him Malavida wds in the wind.
"This is a joke?" the little Assistant U. S. Attorney asked, his voice in a strange no-man's-land between humor and consternation. "I've been working all night… You're joking, right?"
"I wish I was," Lockwood said apologetically.
"So he's running around in Lompoc. Did you tell the sheriff up there?"
"No."
"NO?" Harvey shouted the word through the receiver. "Why the hell not? Listen, John, that Special Circumstances Release I wrote is vacuum bag dirt. We both know it won't hold up. I'll have to eat it page by fucking page. My bosses up at DOJ are gonna pound on my nuts for this."
"I know, Harvey. I'll take the hit… I'll tell 'em it was my idea." "You gotta get him back in custody, John. Call the sheriff in Lompoc. Get a dragnet out."
"It wouldn't snag him."
"Why not?"
" 'Cause he's not in Lompoc." Lockwood sighed.
"He's not in Lompoc," Harvey repeated, deadpan.
"Right, he's not in Lompoc."
"Where is he? Santa Barbara?"
"Atlanta."
"Atlanta?" Harvey's voice said he could barely comprehend it. "You took this guy to Atlanta?"
Lockwood said nothing. The silence on the line was long and meaningful and crackled with Harvey's disbelief. "There's no witness protection case, of course. We both knew that was bullshit from the beginning. Right, John?"
"Right. Look, Harvey, I'm gonna get slaughtered for this anyway… so I'm gonna tell 'em I forged your signature. Okay? You just say I came by asking for the SCR and you threw me out. Okay? There's no need for us to go into this coffin together."
Another long silence.
"Atlanta?" Harvey said in disbelief. "Why the fuck is he in Atlanta?"
"Harvey, hold your dirt on this. I'll take the torpedo. Just don't go soft and admit to anything. You threw me out… You're pissed I stole the forms. I'll back your story." There was a long, empty, friendship-ending pause from the attorney. "I'm sorry," Lockwood said and hung up. Karen had been strangely silent, watching him while he talked.
"I was actually beginning to like him," she finally said. "He used me, didn't he?"
"Yep," Lockwood said, "but I'm the dummy who let him get away…"
They headed back to Washington on the three P. M. Delta flight. People chattered and sawed on cardboard steaks. Lockwood called his boss, Laurence Heath, on the Airfone and was greeted by long, awkward pauses. Heath finally cleared his throat. "John, I'm going to have a car meet you at Dulles."
From Heath's voice he could sense foreboding.
"Look, Larry, I'm sorry I missed the IA hearing. I got grounded by fog in Atlanta and I-"