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  “Well, so—I just stopped by to grab something,” says Petty, hitching the duffel-bag strap higher on his shoulder.

  “You’re not staying? You usually stick around on Thursdays.”

  And then disappear Friday through Sunday. Just like Lieutenant Wagner.

  “No, I can’t stay,” says Petty. “Just need to grab something.” He looks at the gun in Books’s holster again, then up at Books, as if seeking permission.

  “Sure, no problem,” says Books.

  Petty walks over to his corner of the room, looks at his neatly made bed, the two stacked crates he uses as a nightstand, the glass vase full of fake flowers that Books had taken out of the main room and put back here in storage.

  Petty reaches under his pillow.

  Books takes a step back and gets ready to draw his weapon. He’s out of practice, hasn’t been to a range in months—

  Petty turns, holds up a Bible, then shoves it into his already overstuffed duffel bag, which gives Books time to move his hand away from his holster.

  “Don’t know how I forgot this yesterday,” Petty says. “So…guess I’ll be on my way. Hope you find your bad guy, Agent Bookman.”

  He looks in Books’s direction but avoids eye contact.

  “Me too,” says Books.

  Petty goes out the back door, which closes with a thud. Books exhales, shaky from adrenaline. He looks up at the live video of the closed-circuit camera trained on the alley outside and watches Petty hobble along with that heavy bag.

  He calls Emmy. “He just left,” he says. “I’m going to follow him.”

  “Please be careful. You want backup?”

  “Definitely not. He’s careful. I’ll be lucky if he doesn’t make me. Add in other agents, and it could be a disaster.”

  Petty disappears from the screen, and Books calculates how much longer it will take Petty to clear the alley. He gives it that much time and a bit more, for good measure. Then he pulls open the door and closes it as quietly as he can manage.

  Books reaches the end of the alley and slowly looks out. He spots Petty easily enough, crossing the street. Holding up a key remote. Opening the door of a navy-blue sedan and climbing inside.

  His homeless friend has a car.

  106

  “SORRY TO rush you,” I say to Louise Hall, the rehab facility’s administrator. “But I need to stay in contact with one of the agents, and I can’t get reception in here.”

  “Right, you can only get it on the second floor,” she says, opening the door to the staff room. “This won’t take long. Michelle’s locker is the last one on the left.”

  I walk down the row of employee lockers and stop at hers. I use my shirt to lift the latch. I’m not sure what to expect, but all I find is a hand mirror, a hairbrush, and a tube of lip balm.

  Any of them could work. Michelle would have held these in her hand, leaving some nice fingerprints.

  I lift up each item with a tissue and drop it into a brown evidence bag, one of many that Books brought along today.

  “You have some reason to suspect…Michelle?” Louise asks.

  “Oh, it’s probably nothing. Now, if you don’t mind, I have to get outside and back on the phone. An agent’s picking me up.”

  We walk quickly toward the reception area. She says, “I’m sorry that we don’t have a patient named Petty, but you think he might have used a different name?”

  “Possibly,” I say. “Or he might be one of those veterans who hung out in the courtyard when Lew gave his political speeches.”

  “I wouldn’t know about that,” says Louise. “I’m usually back in the administrative offices. But Tom said he saw those people. If you could get him a photo?”

  “Working on it,” I say. At the reception area, I stop and shake her hand. “You and Tom both have my cell phone number. Call me if anything comes up.”

  I head outside and dial Books just as my ride—one of the agents from the search of Wagner’s home—pulls up in a Crown Vic.

  Books picks up. “Hey,” he says. “I’m driving, so you’re on speakerphone.”

  “What’s going on?” I ask.

  “Turns out Petty has a car.”

  “He does? And you’re following him?”

  “Yeah, but he’s way ahead of me. He got through a light I missed. I’m rusty at surveillance, apparently. But I see him up ahead.”

  “You get a license plate?”

  “No. But I will. I’ll start breaking traffic laws if I have to.”

  “You want me to pull up a map?”

  “Only if I lose him. I won’t lose him.”

  “Okay. What’s your plan?”

  “I want to see where he goes. If he has a home, he assumes nobody knows about it. Talk about a treasure trove.”

  “Don’t do anything stupid,” I say.

  “What would I do without your advice?”

  “I mean don’t confront him. Not by yourself.”

  “I got it, Em. How did you do?”

  “They don’t know Petty by description, and he’s not listed as a patient. I need a photo. But I did get some fingerprint samples that should work.”

  “Great. Remember, when you get back to Wagner’s apartment, talk to Agent Rudney. Best fingerprint guy in the Bureau.”

  “Okay. Try to get a photo of Petty, would you?”

  “I will. I have to go now. It’s too hard to talk and drive and watch him.”

  “Okay, go. And be careful.”

  “Yep.”

  “Books, wait,” I say quickly, suddenly full of worry, suddenly realizing how much danger I’ve placed him in, suddenly overwhelmed by missed opportunities and lost second chances and…tears brim in my eyes. I can’t say anything; my throat’s too choked with emotion.

  “Me too, Emily Jean. Me too. I’ll be fine,” he says. And the phone goes dead.

  We reach Morningside Lane a few minutes later. As Books suggested, I find the lead agent on the forensics team, Rich Rudney, a friendly-looking guy with gray curly hair. I gave him a quick summary of our progress.

  “So this might be a murder scene now,” he says. “Well, there isn’t any blood, I can tell you that. But we’re doing a full work-up.”

  “And there’s some prints I need you to pull,” I say to Rich, reaching into my pocketbook for the brown evidence bag. “A rush job. It’s probably nothing, but…”

  “Probably nothing,” he says, “is sometimes something.”

  107

  BOOKS HITS the brakes, managing not to rear-end the car in front of him, which has stopped for a red light. Up ahead, Petty’s navy-blue sedan is driving on. Books keeps his eyes trained on it.

  His phone is in his left hand—he’s hoping that, if nothing else, he can get a photo of the license plate of Petty’s vehicle.

  Petty’s car eases into a left-turn lane at the next intersection, a red light. The light controlling Books turns green. He’s stuck behind a car moving much slower than he’d like. At the next intersection, Petty executes the left turn and disappears from Books’s view, heading north. The left-turn signal changes to a solid green.

  Even if Books can reach that intersection before the light turns red, he’ll have to wait through a glut of traffic before he can turn. It will be too late.

  Books makes a quick left turn into the parking lot of a hardware store, drawing objecting horns from oncoming cars but not caring. If his attempt at a shortcut doesn’t work, Petty will be gone.

  He drives through the parking lot to the back of the store and takes an alley toward the road onto which Petty turned left. He looks ahead and spots Petty’s sedan. Good.

  Books noses his car out onto the street against traffic, drawing more horns, but the cars he’s obstructing, however annoyed their drivers may be, stop and let him pass. He completes the left turn, speeds up, and finds Petty’s sedan in the right lane. Then Petty’s right-turn signal starts blinking. His sedan turns into the drive of some building.

  Books slows his vehicle as
he nears the spot where Petty turned. It’s a high-rise apartment building, faded yellow brick, something like twelve stories. Books takes the turn, which probably leads to a parking lot in the back. This must be where Petty lives.

  He can’t believe he’s thinking those words—where Petty lives. Where Petty lives. Where Petty parks his car. What, does he have a wife and three kids too?

  He stops halfway along the side of the apartment building. If he comes roaring into that parking area in the rear, Petty will almost surely see him. But if he doesn’t, he’ll lose Petty, who will presumably walk into the building and disappear.

  Well, not disappear. He’ll be in a building. Books won’t know which apartment, but one step at a time.

  Books kills the engine. Gets out of the car. There’s a door right by him and a sign on the wall saying ABSOLUTELY NO PARKING. He stays close to the wall as he approaches the rear of the building.

  He listens. All he can hear is a humming noise, the low buzz of an outdoor air-conditioning condenser unit. He peeks around the corner and retreats. Peeks out again.

  He sees the blue sedan Petty was driving, parked down the way. No brake lights. Nothing coming from the exhaust pipe. Seems like the car’s turned off. Petty must have hustled into the building through the back door.

  The lot is filled with vehicles, all parked nose in. Petty’s is more than halfway down, not far from the back entry to the building, covered by a blue awning.

  He walks slowly toward the car, looking to his right and seeing the rear door to the apartment building and the AC condenser that’s making all that noise while it transports cool air into the high-rise. The residents will need that AC; it’s growing more suffocatingly hot by the minute.

  Well, at least he’ll get a make and model and license plate. The car probably won’t be registered to Petty, at least not in that name. But the circle is closing. With any luck—

  Over the din of the condenser unit, he hears footfalls, urgent, close—

  Books is shoved from behind, hit low so his upper body bends back and his arms flail out. He stumbles forward and his face smacks the asphalt, sending stars and bright colors through his eyelids. Stunned, the wind knocked out of him, lying on his stomach, he reaches for his side holster. A foot is planted on the weapon and his hand.

  He looks up to see Petty, the searing sunlight behind him.

  “How many more are coming?” Petty snarls.

  He turns his head back to the pavement. “Petty—”

  “How many more?” he demands.

  “It’s…over, Petty. You can’t…get away—”

  “It’s not over. It’ll never be over.”

  Books turns toward Petty again and lifts his head a little, just in time to see something dark come crashing down on his skull.

  108

  “THANKS, RICH,” I say to Agent Rudney, the fingerprint guy, at Wagner’s house. “You’ll let me know as soon as you can?”

  “No problem. You and Bonita Sexton,” he says, holding up the card I gave him—one of mine, but I wrote in Rabbit’s name and number too.

  I dial Books. The call goes to voice mail. He’s concentrating on the tail, I assume, trying to stay far enough away that he won’t be noticed while also staying close enough to keep tabs. I send him a text: Check in when u can.

  With all the people here, it almost feels like a party inside Wagner’s small apartment; there are about a dozen FBI agents and techies working it over, bumping into each other, calling out to one another. Someone even made a pot of coffee. I’m too jittery for coffee right now. Call me, Books.

  Outside, a crowd has gathered. We’ve taken over Morningside Lane for the better part of a day now. Neighbors are gathering, then losing interest, then returning, then losing interest again. Agents are going door to door asking questions about Lieutenant Martin Wagner. Traffic along Lathrop has backed up due to rubberneckers. Some reporters are out talking to someone from our office. I imagine their questions are getting a whole lot of variations on No comment at this time.

  An SUV pulls up around the barricade. Elizabeth Ashland and Dwight Ross emerge from the vehicle.

  Elizabeth. Elizabeth, who insists that I’m Citizen David’s mole. Who seems to have an inordinate amount of cash on hand all the time. But who green-lighted my investigation when nobody else would. People have more than one face.

  Is Books’s suspicion correct—are Darwin and Citizen David one and the same? It’s possible, I concede. I can’t put it all together, but I may lack some of the pieces of that puzzle. And is Elizabeth connected?

  “Nothing else of note from the storage shed,” Elizabeth says to me. “We’re processing it. But Wagner’s gone. That much is clear.”

  That much isn’t clear. But I will keep that opinion to myself for the time being. If I don’t trust her, I don’t trust her.

  “The question is how,” says Dwight, always the master of the obvious. “In what vehicle. We can’t send out an alert if we don’t know the vehicle.”

  “Can one of you drive me to my apartment?” I ask. “I’m not far from here. I need my car. I’m going to go back to our offices and start pulling data from the tollway cameras and the license-plate readers in the area and cross-match them against Dodge Caravans and other disabled-plate vehicles. If we work backward, we might be able to identify the vehicle.”

  It’s not a lie. I’ll do that. I don’t think it will produce any helpful information. I don’t think Wagner’s our guy. But I’m not sure. I’m not sure of anything.

  “Where’s Books?” asks Elizabeth.

  “Personal business,” I say. “The bookstore in Alexandria.”

  That statement was true half an hour ago. Books is no longer on personal business. But I’m keeping Elizabeth on a short leash for the time being.

  Dwight makes a face. “Why would an agent at the top of his game throw it all away to run a bookstore?”

  He did it to have a better lifestyle. He did it so he could spend less time on the road and more time with his fiancée, yours truly, who then proceeded to break up with him.

  “We can drive you,” says Elizabeth. “We’re going back to Hoover too. Just let me check in with the agents inside.”

  While Elizabeth and Dwight head into the house, I call Books again. Voice mail again. Damn. I text him again: Just send me a quick note that ur okay.

  A few minutes later, Elizabeth and Dwight walk out. “Let’s go. Nothing left for us to do here. The techies are on it.”

  “Okay,” I say, walking with them to their SUV.

  Call me, Books, I silently pray. Please call me.

  I jump in the back of their SUV, and we drive off.

  109

  “SIR? SIR. Are you okay?”

  Books hears himself moan as he opens his eyes and squints up at an older woman and a child, harsh sunlight behind them.

  “Would you like me to call an ambulance?”

  He quickly pats his side holster. He still has his weapon, thank God. The woman steps back as she sees it.

  “I’m an FBI agent,” he says reassuringly. Though these days, it seems, people don’t always find that reassuring.

  He sits up and regrets it immediately; his head feels like a bowling ball, and laser shots of pain fire back and forth inside his skull. He scans the asphalt around him for his phone. He finds it, thank God again. “I’m all right, ma’am.”

  “Your face is…red.” She touches her left cheek. He touches his own and feels the abrasion he got when his face smacked the asphalt.

  “Did you…see where he went, ma’am?”

  “I just saw him leave in that blue car,” she says. “I saw him hit you too. My granddaughter and I just got back from the grocery store. He hit you with…something, a club or something, and then he saw us pull into the lot. He jumped into a blue car and drove away. I’m sorry I didn’t see more.”

  “No need to apologize,” says Books. You probably saved my life.

  Books tries to get to his feet,
using a nearby SUV to brace himself, but an alarm goes off inside his head, and he sits back down. He landed on the left side of his face, and Petty struck him with the baton, or whatever it was, on the right side of the skull, cracking his head against the pavement a second time in the process. He touches the knot on his head, and his hand comes away from his hair sticky with blood.

  “You should go to the ER,” says the woman.

  “I’m okay.” The physical pain is nothing compared to the stupidity he feels. Petty jumped him. He puts it together now. Somehow, Petty made him; he knew Books was following him. He parked his car, doubled back, and hid behind something until Books passed him on his way to the blue sedan.

  That stupid AC condenser, still chugging along with its loud hum, helping Petty sneak up behind him. But that’s no excuse. I screwed up. “Did you recognize him, ma’am?”

  “I don’t think so, no. He was bald and wearing a camouflage shirt. I didn’t get a good look at his face, but it wasn’t someone I recognized.”

  “What about the name Petty?” Books asks. “Recognize that name? Maybe Sergeant Petty? Someone who might live in this apartment building?”

  It’s doubtful, he realizes. If Petty was suckering Books into an ambush, he wouldn’t have driven him to the place where he lives.

  “It doesn’t sound familiar,” she says. “And I think I know everyone in this building. Sir, you really should see a doctor.”

  “I will, I will. Thank you again, ma’am.”

  “I wish I could be more help.”

  “You interrupted him,” he says. “Who knows what he might have done if you hadn’t come by when you did?”

  That seems to make her feel a little bit better. “I could try to help you up,” she says.

  “No, I think I’ll sit right here for a few minutes, let my head clear a bit.”

  They say their goodbyes. The woman and her granddaughter retrieve their groceries and head into the building. Books calls Emmy.

  “You want the good news first,” he says, “or the bad news?”