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“He’s backed off. But don’t spend too much time there. I don’t have a good feeling about this. Remember, he can track you on a computer. He doesn’t have to see you.”
I looked at the bed again. The spread looked ruffled, as if a couple had finished and moved on moments before I got there. I sat in a chair and waited for a call on the other cell. The device was a little Sphinx made in a foreign sweatshop.
Then I saw it, sitting on the low chest of drawers. It wasn’t a Claymore mine, but somehow it stuck a spike of dread into my throat.
I studied the Zero Halliburton briefcase with its tough aluminum construction. Somewhere I had read this was the brand of case that a military aide carried at all times with the president. Inside was the “nuclear football” containing the laun
ch codes to end the world. And this one looked that sinister.
“What the hell is this?” My voice sounded strange alone in the room.
He knew what I was talking about without describing the flashy case that looked so out of place in the shabby room.
“Sharon bought it today. Open it up.” He gave me a code. I dialed open the lock and unlatched it.
Inside were some men’s clothes, legal pads and pens, and a shaving kit.
“Look in the socks,” he said.
Sure enough, inside one of the rolled-up pairs of socks was a flash drive.
He was inviting them to steal it.
“Is this the real flash drive?”
“Of course not,” he said. “But Lindsey encrypted it so it would take even a good techie hours to break in.”
“But…”
“Mapstone, why don’t you hang there for a few more minutes, then find a place to stash the case, and call me when you’re back in the car.” He hung up.
The motel room felt close and hot around me. I used the bathroom, checked to make sure the door was locked again, and searched for some artful spot to place the briefcase. The bed was on a solid wood frame, so that wouldn’t work. The drawers would be too obvious: better to make them think I was trying to hide it. So I arranged it under the pillows and remade the bed with military neatness.
Back in the car, sweating and worried, I started to go out to the access road, but changed my mind.
Instead, I cruised north through the alley behind the motel, turned around, shut off the headlights, and slowly drove back the way I had come. I nosed out behind the building in time to see another car: a new white Chevy Impala coming around the front of the Super 8. There are thousands of lookalike Impalas. But this one looked exactly like the one that I saw on the security camera earlier in the day outside our office, right down to the Nevada tag.
Wishing the Prelude were not so damned white, I watched as the Impala sped up to the door I had left minutes before. If he noticed me, it didn’t show. He was moving so fast, I thought he might ram through the wall. But, no, he slammed to a stop at the last second. If I had the brake-shop monopoly in Phoenix, I would be a rich man.
I dropped the emergency brake enough to slide another couple of feet beyond the edge of the building. The security lighting on the outside of the motel was impeccable. Back where I sat was relative darkness.
Out of the Impala stepped the high-and-tight haircut who had been searching the Prelude earlier in the day. He was wearing jeans and a black T-shirt, carrying something in each hand. One something was a gun. He headed straight to the motel room door without even looking in my direction. If he were a soldier or a former soldier, it was poor situational awareness, but it worked in my favor.
I relayed all this to Peralta on the iPhone.
“He’s also got some kind of a crowbar,” I said. It was small and black, easy to conceal, and made quick work of the door. “He’s inside. I’m going to take him.”
Peralta might have had a very clever plan. But this was as close to the suspect as we were likely to get. I felt suddenly cool and comfortable, my breathing even.
Peralta barked at me. “No. This is not the guy who was tailing you. Don’t go back to that room, Mapstone…”
“Too bad.” I pressed the little red virtual button on the glass screen that said, “end call,” and tossed the earbuds onto the seat.
I mapped it out in my head: twenty quick strides to reach the door, keep the Python down against my leg so it wasn’t obvious I was packing, pause, assess, and try to quietly ease the door open. No kicking it down. The crowbar had made that unnecessary. Then he and I could have a civil conversation about where the baby was. That is, unless he raised his firearm.
But with my hand on the Honda’s door latch, I hesitated. What if the black Dodge Ram suddenly showed up?
High-and-tight almost immediately re-emerged, carrying the Halliburton briefcase. It gleamed in the light. So much for my clever job of hiding it. He quickly got into the Impala and drove toward the access road. I rolled after him, headlights off.
