When Charlie came back on the phone, LuAnn told him to just listen. She filled him in on the latest events including Riggs’s plan and his real background.
Charlie could barely contain himself. “I’m pulling over at a rest stop in two minutes. Call me back.”
When LuAnn did so, Charlie’s tone was heated. “Are you crazy?”
“Where’s Lisa?”
“In the rest room.”
“Is it safe?”
“I’m right outside the door and the place is packed with families. Now answer my question.”
“No, I don’t think I’m crazy.”
“You let Riggs, an ex — FBI agent, walk into the Hoover Building and cut a deal for you. How in the hell do you know he’s not selling you down the river right now?”
“I trust him.”
“Trust him?” Charlie’s face turned crimson. “You barely know him. LuAnn, this is a big mistake, darling. A damned big one.”
“I don’t think so. Riggs is playing straight. I know he is. I’ve learned some things about him in the last few days.”
“Like he’s an experienced undercover agent who’s an expert at lying.”
LuAnn blinked for a second as these words sank in. A small seed of doubt suddenly grew, invading her confidence in Matthew Riggs.
“LuAnn, are you there?”
She gripped the phone hard. “Yes. Well, if he did sell me down the river, it won’t be long before I find out.”
“You’ve got to get out of there. You said you’ve got the car. Get the hell out of there.”
“Charlie, he saved my life. Jackson almost killed him while he was trying to help me.”
Charlie was silent for a minute. He was having an internal conflict and was highly uncomfortable with it. From everything LuAnn had just told him, Riggs probably was going to bat for her. Charlie thought he knew why: The man was in love with her. Was LuAnn in love with him? Why shouldn’t she be? And where did that leave him? The fact was, Charlie wanted Riggs to be lying. He wanted the man out of their lives. That thought was skewing his whole mental process. But Charlie did love LuAnn. And he loved Lisa too. He had always put his own interests behind theirs. And with that thought his inner conflict disappeared. “LuAnn, I’ll go with your instincts. Riggs is probably okay, now that I think about it. Just keep your eyes open, will you?”
“I will, Charlie. Where are you?”
“We headed through West Virginia, then into Kentucky, skirted the edge of Tennessee, and now we’re floating back toward Virginia.”
“I’ve gotta go now. I’ll call later today and fill you in.”
“I hope the rest of today isn’t as exciting as the last two were.”
“You and me both. Thanks, Charlie.”
“For what? I haven’t done anything.”
“Now who’s lying?”
“Take care of yourself.”
LuAnn hung up the phone. She would be meeting Riggs soon if everything went according to plan. As she walked back to the car, Charlie’s initial reaction came back to her. Could she trust Riggs? She slid into the front seat of the Honda. She had left it running because she had no keys and didn’t share Riggs’s skills at hot-wiring automobiles. She was about to put the car in gear when her hand stopped. This was no time for doubts, and yet she was suddenly overwhelmed with them. Her hand refused to move.
Chapter fifty-one
Riggs walked slowly down Ninth Street, looking casually around, as if he had all the time in the world. A gust of freezing air hit him. He stopped, gingerly slipped off the sling, and put his injured arm in the sleeve of his overcoat, buttoning it all the way up. As the bitter wind continued to blow down the street, Riggs pulled up the collar of his overcoat, took a knit cap emblazoned with the Washington Redskins logo from his pocket, and pulled it tightly over his head so that only the lower part of his reddening face was visible. He entered a corner convenience store.
The two teams of agents that were following him, one on foot, the other in a gray Ford, swiftly moved into position. One team covered the front of the store, the other the rear. They knew Riggs was an experienced undercover agent and they weren’t taking any chances.
Riggs appeared carrying a newspaper under his arm, walked down the street, and hailed a taxi. The agents quickly climbed into the sedan, and it followed the taxi.
Moments after the sedan disappeared, the real Matt Riggs, wearing a dark felt cap, emerged from the store and walked quickly in the opposite direction. The key had been the brightly colored knit cap. His pursuers would have focused on the burgundy and gold colors like a ship’s beacon to pinpoint their man and would not notice the subtle differences in the overcoats, pants, and shoes. He had called in a favor last night from an old friend who had thought Riggs long dead. The FBI was now tailing that old friend to his job at a law firm near the White House. The man lived near the FBI building, so his being in the vicinity would not be difficult to explain. And a lot of Washingtonians wore Redskins knit caps this time of year. Finally, the FBI couldn’t possibly know of the long ago connection between the two men. The agents would question him briefly, realize their mistake, report back to Masters and the director, and get their heads handed to them for their morning troubles.
Riggs climbed in a cab and gave an address. The car sped off. He ran a hand through his hair. He was glad to get that one under his belt. He and LuAnn were a long way from being home free, but it felt good to know he still had it, at least in small doses. As the cab stopped at a red light, Riggs opened the newspaper he had purchased at the store.
Staring back at him from the front page were two photos. One person he knew, the other was a stranger to him. He quickly read the story and then looked at the pictures again. With a press badge dangling around his neck and a small notepad and pen peeking out from his shirt pocket, a sleepy-eyed Thomas Donovan looked like he had just climbed off a plane from covering some major news event on the other side of the world.
The woman in the photo next to his could not have struck a greater contrast to the reporter’s disheveled image. The dress was elegant, the hair and makeup obviously professionally done and thus impeccable, the background almost surreal in its abundant luxury: a charity event where the rich and famous caucused to raise money for the less fortunate. Roberta Reynolds had been a longtime participant in such events and the story said her brutal murder had robbed the Washington area’s charitable community of a great benefactor. Only one line of the story recounted the source of Reynold’s wealth: a sixty-five-million-dollar lottery win ten years earlier. She was apparently worth far more than that now. Or, at least, now her estate was.
She had been murdered — allegedly, the story reported, by one Thomas Donovan. He had been seen around the woman’s home. A message from Donovan requesting an interview was on the dead woman’s answering machine. Donovan’s prints had been found on a carafe of water and a glass in Reynolds’s home, which indicated the two had indeed met. And, finally, the pistol apparently used to slaughter Roberta Reynolds had been found in a wooded area about a mile from her home, along with her Mercedes, with Donovan’s prints all over both of them. The murdered woman had been discovered lying on her bed. Evidence indicated she had been bound and held for some period of time, so that the crime was obviously premeditated, the paper said. There was an APB out on Donovan and the police were confident they would soon apprehend him.
Riggs finished reading the story and slowly folded up the newspaper. He knew the police were completely wrong. Donovan hadn’t killed Reynolds. And it was highly likely that Donovan was dead as well. Riggs took a deep breath and thought about how he would break the news to LuAnn.