“I’m in a bit of a hurry,” the target — Boyer — said, handing the man a ticket.
“I’ll have your car brought up right way.”
As the man picked up a phone, Boyer started to turn back to the lobby.
There was no time for Daeng to get out of his way, so he smiled and said, “Excuse me, is this where we arrange for a taxi?”
Boyer couldn’t have looked less interested if he tried. “I wouldn’t know,” he said, barely even looking at Daeng.
Daeng watched him move near the doors to wait.
The man at the podium returned his phone to its cradle and said to Daeng, “How may I help you, sir?”
“Taxi?”
“Of course. I can signal one. If you’ll head outside, it should be there in a moment.”
“Thank you,” Daeng said, handing the man a tip.
The promised taxi pulled to the curb a moment after Daeng stepped outside. As he got into the back, the driver said, “Where to?”
“Hold on a moment,” Daeng said, pulling out his cell phone. “I need to check something.”
“Hey, I can’t just sit—”
Daeng dropped a twenty-dollar bill into the front seat. “Let’s not be in too much of a hurry, shall we?”
The cabbie grabbed the bill. “This isn’t part of the fare.”
“Of course not.”
The bill disappeared into the driver’s pocket.
Daeng switched his phone to camera mode and looked out the window. Less than a minute passed before a dark blue Maserati Ghibli pulled to the curb in front of the taxi. A few seconds later, the door to the building opened and Boyer walked out.
Daeng shot a picture of the car and zoomed in on the license plate.
Expensive clothes. Expensive car. Whoever this Boyer was, he had access to cash — a lot of it.
Daeng texted the pictures to Orlando and Quinn, and then leaned forward and said to the cabbie, “A hundred-dollar tip if you do this right.”
“Do what right?” the driver asked, more than a bit wary.
“Follow that car.”
Though Orlando had started to think the photo of Tessa would be the only thing of interest on Eli’s computer, she wouldn’t know for sure until she could finish a complete examination of the drive, a process being hindered by the pictures Quinn kept sending her.
The first set had been nearly useless — photos shot from a moving car, at angles far from desirable. The only one she could get enough data points on to feed through the facial recognition database was of the man sitting in the backseat. So far, an alarm hadn’t gone off to tell her she had a match.
The next group was better. The woman and two men, neither of whom was the guy she was already checking out. The pictures of the woman and the younger man were also profile shots, but much clearer and showing more of their features. The pic of the older man was full face. With graying hair and more weight than he needed, he looked to be in his late fifties to early sixties. None of the three were familiar to her. Since she was almost done with Eli’s computer, she decided to hold off on putting the photos through the recognition process until she finished. Fifteen minutes, tops.
Before she even got halfway to that point, her phone dinged again.
She cursed under her breath as she grabbed it.
She was expecting to see more photos from Quinn, but the two new pictures were from Daeng. These were different from the others, not pictures of people but a Maserati — one a wide shot of its back, and one a close-up of its license plate.
Curious, she ran the license number through the DC motor vehicles database. The car was not registered to an individual, but to a corporation called McCrillis International.
The name was vaguely familiar, which annoyed her.
Her memory had always been something she could count on, but lately it had begun to fail her on occasion.
“What’s wrong?” Abraham asked.
She blinked and looked at him. She hadn’t realized her frustration was noticeable. “Nothing,” she said. “Sorry.”
She returned her attention to the computer and searched for information about McCrillis International.
The first link that came up cleared the fog from her mind.
Quinn and Nate followed the sedan through heavy traffic east to Connecticut Avenue NW. There the others traveled only half a block north before pulling up in front of the Mayflower Renaissance Hotel. Bags were removed from the back and keys were given to a valet. Apparently the Renaissance was where they would stay.
Quinn had just told Nate to find a place to park when Orlando called.
“You get a hit on one of my pictures?” he asked.
“Not yet,” she said. “But I did on Daeng’s.”
He had seen the pictures of the Maserati a few minutes earlier. “The license plate.”
“Yeah. It’s registered to, get this, McCrillis International.”
“McCrillis?” he said, surprised.
McCrillis’s public front was that of an international law firm that specialized in business partnerships and joint ventures. It did generate quite a bit of business in that area, but its lesser known private side was what brought in the bulk of the company’s income. In effect, it was to the business world what the Office had been to the intelligence community, an agency that specialized in doing the things businesses themselves couldn’t — industrial espionage, undercover smear campaigns, sabotage, and even the occasional target elimination. Since the skill sets needed for most of the company’s projects were similar to those used in the secret world, some freelancers dabbled in both arenas, but the majority tended to keep to one sphere or the other.
And while it was true that intelligence agencies would often find it necessary to make incursions into the corporate world, it was nearly unheard of for industrial intelligence organizations to make a move in the other direction. When the latter did, they usually received more than a hand slap. So, having a company like McCrillis even tangentially connected to the death of a CIA analyst was highly unusual. And yet Quinn had witnessed a meeting that apparently connected McCrillis to the people who had been searching Eli’s home less than twenty-four hours after the man’s death.
“Do we know who the old guy is yet?” he asked.
“Just a second, I’m…” Her voice trailed off, and he could hear her working on her computer. After a moment she said softly, “Ah. There you are.”
“There who is?”
“I’m on McCrillis’s website. It has pictures and biographies of all their top executives. Our friend in the Maserati is one Ethan Boyer, Executive Vice President, Special Projects.”
“Ethan Boyer,” Quinn said, letting the name hang in the air for a moment. “Never heard of him.”
“Me, neither,” she said. “But how much you want to bet your other friends work for McCrillis, too?”
Finding a cab driver who was skilled at the art of following another car was a hit — or-miss proposition. Unfortunately for Daeng, his driver fell into the latter category.
While the cabbie was able to keep the Maserati in view, that was more due to the heavy evening traffic and some erratic driving than any talent on his part.
“Careful,” Daeng said. “If he sees us, the hundred is off the table.”
“I’m doing everything I can,” the cabbie said angrily. “Do you want me to stop and just let you out here?”
Daeng was tempted to say yes, but a call from Quinn put it on hold.
“The guy in the Maserati’s name is Boyer,” Quinn said. “Give you the details later. Right now, go ahead and break off.” Quinn told him where the SUV was parked. “We’ll wait for you here.”
As Daeng pushed his phone back into his pocket, he said, “Change of plans.” He repeated the address Quinn had given him. “Quick as you can.”