Page 66 of Midnight Creed

Now, as she followed about a mile behind, she kept glancing at the monitor. According to Alonzo, Gregory and his Mercedes had been to Jacksonville in October. The dates coincided with the murder of a homeless man inside a tent in the downtown area. His business offices were in Miami, and he’d taken the Amtrak Auto Train all the way down several times.

This time his ticket was for Jacksonville. They had expected him to stay in the area. Or perhaps get on I-95 and drive the rest of the way to Miami. Kuszak told her to watch when he stopped at gas stations, fast-food restaurants or rest areas. Then the lab tech gave Maggie step-by-step instructions on lifting fingerprints or bagging discarding items.

They all knew that was a long shot. It was hard enough to get decent fingerprints at a cordoned off crime scene. An interstate gas station or fast food place? Next to impossible. Maybe if and when he finally checked into a hotel.

But it didn’t look like he’d do that anytime soon.

Now, Maggie stared at an approaching thunderstorm in the distance. They’d been on the road for a good two hours. Signs started to appear, signaling upcoming exits for Tallahassee. Gregory hadn’t stayed in the Jacksonville area, and he wasn’t heading south to Miami. Instead, he was going west. She watched as the black car icon on the monitor ignored every single exit to Tallahassee and continued on I-10.

Just at that moment, her cell phone started ringing in the holder on the dashboard. She tapped the screen to take the call.

“Where the hell is he going?” Alonzo asked. The speakerphone amplified the irritation in his voice.

“Aren’t you supposed to be telling me?”

“This guy’s a ghost. Major investor and executive in a business, but definitely keeps a low profile. No Linked accounts. No memberships. No home address. No credit cards.”

“Unless he uses an alias.”

“I can usually find those. I’m still looking.”

Maggie glanced at the time. It was long past midnight. “Wherever he’s going, he’s not going to stop for the night.”

“Of course, not. He probably slept on the train for fourteen hours. He’s charged and ready to go.”

She scrubbed a hand over her face, fingers stopping to dig the exhaustion out of her eyes. Alonzo was right. Gregory’s trip had refreshed him, while her trip left her frayed around the edges. She had hardly slept after racing around the streets of D.C. and spending every waking hour since looking for information and details.

“You could probably stop and catch a few winks,” Alonzo told her, as if reading her mind. “With the tracker we’ll know where he ends up.”

Just then, she noticed the car icon leaving I-10. But it was well after all the major exits for Tallahassee.

“Here we go,” Alonzo said, obviously watching his own monitor.

Maggie tapped the screen to zoom in and see the exit marker. There were no icons for hotels or food. Only a lone gas station that Gregory blew right by. When Maggie finally took the exit, the car’s icon had taken another turn down a winding road.

“Alonzo, there’s no way I can follow him without being noticed.”

“I’m looking at a satellite view. It’s wooded. Not marked as a highway. Probably a back road. Yes, you need to stay away. Drive on by. Let’s see what he does.”

There was no other traffic. All she could see in the headlights was her own two-lane with asphalt crumbling edges and faded white lines. She didn’t even slow down at the intersection where he’d turned. Dense woods prevented her from seeing any signs of his vehicle. Not even his taillights. After a safe distance, she stopped, did a three-point turn, and headed back to the gas station near the interstate ramp.

“I’m going to get gas,” she told Alonzo.

“Good idea. But stay on the phone with me. Do you have the charger plugged in?”

“Yes.” She smiled at his reminder. “Maybe he has a house or cabin out here.”

“I don’t see any signs of property lines. No roofs. No driveways. I’m checking another satellite view.”

It wouldn’t matter how many satellite views he brought up. There were no real-time ones here in the middle of nowhere. She listened to him in her ear as he described the area, and while she pumped gas, grateful for the twenty-four-hour automatic pumps. The clerk inside of the shop barely looked up from the glow of a television on the wall. There were no other vehicles, but she could hear the steady hum of interstate traffic.

She washed her windshield just to kill time.

“He stopped. Looks like there’s a stream or a river right next to him.”

“Maybe he’s taking a bathroom break.”

“He could do that anywhere. Why stop practically on top of a bridge?”