“That you gave up your dream?”
She shakes her head. “That I can leave at any time.”
As I study her, she scratches at the freckles on her cheek.
“It’s still different,” I insist, turning back to the window. “My goal is to walk down the street and not be noticeable. You’re at least the same person you always were.”
She shifts in her seat as the leather crunches below her. “My dad used to say that God puts cracks in everything. That’s how the light gets in.”
“Yeah, well, your dad stole that from an old Leonard Cohen song.”
“Doesn’t make it any less true.”
Through the window, I stare down at the river of grass, its muted green and brown strands braided across the water like a head of wet hair. About a hundred feet down, a small flock of white birds glides through the sky.
“Those herons?” Lisbeth asks, staring out her own window.
“Egrets,” I reply. “Beaks are blacker and pointier.”
Staring downward, I think of my own bird, Lolo, and how much she’d enjoy the view. Then I remind myself that she can’t fly. Not while her wings are clipped.
For the second time, I turn away from the window and look over my shoulder at Lisbeth. She’s got caramel freckles along her neck. “You really that miserable with your job?” I ask her.
“Last month, I didn’t go to my ten-year high school reunion because the little bio of me in the program listed me as ‘gossip queen.’ I know it’s so seventh grade, but I just… I couldn’t show my face there.”
“Imagine that,” I tease, turning my head so she gets a good look at my scars.
“Oh, jeez, Wes, you know I didn’t—”
“I know,” I tell her, flashing the best full smile I can offer. As always, the right half of my mouth doesn’t move. But for once, as the left half rises toward the roof of the helicopter, it actually seems like enough.
58
What about phone records?” O’Shea asked, sitting in the passenger seat as Micah steered through the lunch-hour traffic that clogged I-95.
“Goose egg,” Paul Kessiminan replied through O’Shea’s phone in a fat Chicago sausage accent. As a student of applied mathematics and a dropout from the U.S. Naval Academy, Paul wasn’t a scholar. As a senior associate in the FBI’s Investigative Technology Division, he was a genius. And rarely wrong. “Kid hasn’t made a cell call since late last night.”
“Credit cards?”
“I ran it all — cards, ATM withdrawals, airline reservations, even his Blockbuster card. Whoever he is, this Wes’s no schmuck. Kid’s quieter than a caterpillar.”
“Then track the phone itself,” O’Shea said into his cell as their Chevy came to a short stop just shy of a black pickup. Tapping the dashboard with his fist, he pointed to the far left shoulder of the road, pantomiming for Micah to keep moving. “He should be pinging off some nearby cell tower as we speak.”
“Really? I’d totally forgotten how GPS and, indeed, my entire job worked,” Paul said.
O’Shea didn’t laugh. “Don’t fuck with me on this, Paul.”
“Hey, hey… easy with the mouth. You didn’t say it was that important.”
“It’s that important. Now is he pinging or not?”
“He should be,” Paul began as O’Shea heard the clicking of computer keys through the phone. “But if his phone’s issued by Manning’s office — which according to this it is — they cloak all their GPS so our former Presidents can get some privacy.”
“So you can’t track it?”
“Of course, we can track it. You really think we let these guys run around without protection? The annoying part is, I’m not getting anything traceable.”
“Why? He’s got his phone off?”
“Even if it’s off, GPS should still be transmitting,” Paul explained as Micah cut back into traffic, finding an opening in the center lane. “Which means he’s in the air, underground, or otherwise out of range.”
“He’s in the air,” O’Shea said to Micah, pointing to the exit ramp for Palm Beach Airport. “Get off here!”
Without even hesitating, Micah swerved the blue Chevy across two lanes of traffic, ramming toward the exit. Angry car horns faded behind them. “Maybe Wes is using someone else’s phone,” Micah said, his eyes locked on the road. “Ask him to trace Dreidel’s calls.”
“Paul, do me a favor and run those other three names — the two guys and the girl,” O’Shea said as they curved along the off-ramp. “Call you back in a minute.”
“What’re you doing?” Micah asked as O’Shea ended the call. “We need that info now.”
“Which is why I’m getting it,” O’Shea said, his thumb pounding at a brand-new phone number. “If Wes isn’t using credit cards or his own ID, he’s not getting on a plane without some heavyweight help.”
“It’s a beautiful day in President Manning’s office,” the receptionist said through the phone. “How can I help you?”
“Hi there, this is Agent O’Shea calling from the FBI. We’re doing some work on the current Nico investigation. Can I speak to the person in charge of the President’s transportation? We need to make sure he’s aware of all the recent precautions we and the Service have put in place.”
“Of course,” the receptionist replied. “Let me transfer you to Oren.”
There was a quick click followed by two sharp chirps.
“This is Oren.”
“Oren, Agent O’Shea calling from—”
“Wow, I’m getting popular — two in one day,” Oren interrupted.
“Pardon?”
“You’re calling from the Service, right? Just spoke to your buddy — left here a minute ago.”
“Absolutely,” O’Shea said without even a stutter. “So you already spoke to Agent…”
“Egen… Roland Egen? I say that right?”
“He’s the one,” O’Shea replied, squeezing his phone in his fist. “Pale skin and black hair, right?”
Micah turned at the description, his jaw almost hitting the steering wheel. “Wait, is he—?”
O’Shea put up his hand, cutting Micah off. “So you gave him the quick update on Wes?”
“Of course. Though all I had was his flight to Key West,” Oren explained. “We really appreciate you looking out for him, though. I mean, he’s always been a little more, y’know, jumpy since the accident, but with Nico suddenly on the loose, I could hear it in his voice — he sounded pretty torn apart.”
“Who could blame him?” O’Shea asked, anxious to get off. “Oren, you’ve been a lifesaver. Thanks for all the help.”
As O’Shea shut his phone, Micah could read the look on his partner’s face.
“Motherf—”
“Please tell me The Roman was just standing in his office,” Micah demanded.
“Enough,” O’Shea said. “Either we just hit the lottery or we jumped face-first on an even bigger land mine.”
Nodding in agreement, Micah punched the gas and pointed with his eyebrows at a billboard offering daily charter flights to Key West. O’Shea was already dialing.
“Hi, I’d like to rent one of your seaplanes,” he said into the phone. “Think you can have it ready in the next five minutes?”
59
You sure he didn’t call?” Dreidel asked from the passenger seat as the car idled in the stranglehold of traffic that regularly gripped Miami’s US-1. “Do me a favor and just check your phone.”
Tapping his thumbs against the steering wheel, Rogo didn’t bother checking his phone. “He didn’t call.”
“But if something happened… if he didn’t get to Key West—”
“Wes is smart — he knows they’ll trace it if we call. If there was a problem, we’d know.”