Finally, Stone said, “All right, here’s what I want each of you to do.”
After laying out his plan, Stone put on an old hat he pulled from his backpack, placed Goff on a leash and got out of the car. Milton’s spare cell phone was in his pocket. Reuben and Caleb would stay in the car and keep watch, while Milton walked on the other side of the street toward Johnson’s home. His task was to note anyone who was paying Stone too much attention. Milton had been chosen for this role because he had remained in the bottom of the boat while they were being pursued, making it nearly impossible for the killers to have seen him. If Milton spotted anyone, he would ring Stone’s cell phone.
Stone strolled slowly along the street, stopping to bag some waste that Goff deposited next to a tree. “Good dog, Goff,” Stone said, petting him. “That’s very helpful in keeping up our cover.” When he reached the front of Johnson’s residence, a man wearing an FBI windbreaker came out carrying a large box wrapped with police evidence tape.
“A terrible tragedy, Officer,” Stone said in an inquiring tone to the man. The man didn’t answer, however, hurrying past Stone and handing the box to a woman who sat in one of the Suburbans. Stone let Goff sniff around a tree in front of Johnson’s house. While the animal did so, he was able to take in many details of the house and the adjacent properties. As he continued down the street, he passed a sedan that was idling at the curb. He managed not to even flinch when he saw who was sitting in the driver’s seat.
Tyler Reinke’s gaze bored into Stone briefly before returning to his surveillance of Johnson’s house. He obviously didn’t recognize the man he had come close to shooting the night before. Stone inwardly said thanks for his prescience in radically altering his appearance. Now the question became, where was the other man?
Stone continued down the street, turned left at the next corner and immediately called Caleb, relaying what he’d just seen. He then phoned Milton, who joined him a minute later.
“You’re sure it’s him?” Milton asked.
“No doubt. Now I want to know where the other one is.” His cell phone buzzed. Caleb’s voice was taut.
“Reuben just spotted the other man.”
“Where is he?”
“Speaking with one of the FBI agents outside of Johnson’s home.”
“Come and pick us up,” Stone said, relaying to Caleb where he and Milton were. “Don’t come down the street you’re on. I don’t want you to pass the house or the car he’s in. Turn left at the next corner and then make a right. We’ll meet you on the next block.”
As the two men were waiting at the arranged spot, Stone watched as Milton picked up a page from a newspaper that had blown across the street. He folded it neatly and deposited it in a trash can that sat in front of a driveway.
Stone said, “Milton, did you touch the note in Patrick Johnson’s pocket last night?”
Milton didn’t answer right away. However, his embarrassed look was all the response Stone really needed.
“How did you know, Oliver?”
“Those men knew we were there somehow. I don’t think it was because they saw us. I think they must have come back to the body for some reason and noticed that the note had been disturbed or was in a different place.”
“I . . . I . . .”
“You just wanted to check it, I know.” Stone was deeply worried for a very simple reason. Damp paper held fingerprints extremely well. Were Milton’s prints on any database anywhere? He didn’t want to ask him that question right now, for fear of sending his already upset friend into a panic attack.
When the Malibu pulled up, Stone and Milton climbed in. Caleb drove ahead a bit, found a parking spot on the crowded street and wedged in.
“Do we risk following them?” Reuben asked.
“Unfortunately, Caleb’s car rather sticks out,” Stone said. “If they pick up that we’re following them and run the license plate, they’ll be at Caleb’s house waiting before he even gets back there.”
“Oh, dear God,” Caleb said as he gripped the steering wheel and looked like he might be sick to his stomach.
“So what do we do?” Reuben asked.
Stone replied, “You said one of them was talking to the FBI. But the FBI wouldn’t be talking to just an ordinary citizen. I know. I tried. That could very well mean they’re law enforcement.”
“Which means they could be with NIC,” Milton chimed in. “That’s where Johnson worked.”
“A thought that had occurred to me,” Stone replied. “Carter Gray,” he muttered.
“Not a man you take on lightly,” Reuben commented.
Oh, shit!” Caleb whispered. He was staring in the rearview mirror. “That might be their car coming up behind us.”
“Don’t look in that direction,” Stone commanded sharply. “Caleb, take a deep breath and calm down. Reuben, slump down a little in your seat to disguise your size in case they look this way.” As he was talking, Stone took off his hat and slid forward in his seat until he had disappeared from view. “Caleb, can they see your license plate from the street?”
“No, the cars parked in front and back of us are too close.”
“Good. As soon as they pass, I want you to wait ten seconds and then pull out, and turn in the opposite direction from them. Milton, you’re pretty well hidden from view in the backseat. I want you to very carefully glance over and see if they look at us. And I want you to get a good look at them.”
Caleb took a deep breath and then held it as the car passed by slowly.
“Don’t look over, Caleb,” Stone whispered again from his hiding place.
As the car headed on and turned left at the next intersection, Stone said, “Milton?”
“They didn’t look over.”
“Okay, Caleb, go ahead.”
Caleb slowly pulled his car out and turned right at the next corner as Stone sat back up. “Everyone keep a sharp lookout to make sure they don’t return,” Stone said.
Stone looked back at Milton. “What did you see?”
Milton gave a fairly complete description of both men as well as the Virginia license plate number of the car.
Reuben looked at Stone. “I say now we go to the cops. We’ll back each other up. They’ll believe us.”
“No!” Stone said sharply. “We have to get them before they get to us.”
“How?” Reuben asked. “Especially if the killers are the authorities?”
“By doing what the Camel Club used to do very welclass="underline" seek the truth.”
Milton broke in. “We can start by running their license plate number. It wasn’t a government plate, so we might just have lucked out, and it’s his personal car.”
Reuben said, “Do you know someone at DMV who can run the tag?”
Milton looked offended. “If I can hack into the Pentagon’s database, Reuben, DMV should prove no challenge at all.”
CHAPTER
25
AT NIC HEADQUARTERS THERE was a state-of-the-art gymnasium in the lower level that virtually no one used for lack of time. However, in a small room off the main area there was one person working out.
Tom Hemingway wore only a pair of loose-fitting shorts and a white tank shirt, and his feet were bare. He sat cross-legged on the floor with his eyes closed. A moment later he rose and assumed a martial arts stance. Most people watching him would have concluded that Hemingway was about to start practicing kung fu or karate. These same people would probably be surprised to learn that “kung fu,” literally translated, meant a skillful ability attained through hard work. Thus, someone could be a baseball player and be deemed to have good “kung fu.”