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Staying almost a block back, he trailed it all the way up Broad, then out of the city.
Where the hell is he going? Not to Easton?
Payne glanced at his fuel gauge. The needle indicated he had only a quarter tank remaining.
I’ll be on fumes if he does.
He plugged his phone into the console USB outlet, tapped the icon on the dash screen.
The sultry voice that sounded like Kathleen Turner filled the car. “Yes, Marshal?”
“Call Tony Harris’s mobile.”
There were two rings, then Harris’s voice: “What can I do for you, Sergeant . . . boss . . . sir? How did your meeting with Carlucci go?”
Payne thought, Well, he essentially told me that you won’t be calling me boss much longer.
He said, “I’ll fill you in later. Right now, I’m tailing John Austin.”
“Interesting. What is he up to?”
“He’s going hammers of hell in a late-model black Tahoe. Headed toward Doylestown, maybe Easton. No idea why. But he’s in a hurry.”
“Anything I can do?”
“No, just keeping you updated. I’ll let you know what happens. I’m guessing you have nothing new—”
“And you’d be wrong.”
“What do you have?”
“I’m pretty sure I have a new sore on my ass from sitting here so long.”
Payne heard McCrory in the background, laughing.
“And congratulations to you on that impressive achievement, Detective Harris.”
“Actually, Matt, we got the vetting papers on Austin that Mason Morgan had sent over. I just skimmed them and am about to go back through them again. Was going to call you about it when I was done. It’s got lots of detail on years ago, not so much lately. For what he probably paid for it, you’d think there’d be more. A helluva lot more.”
“Mason told us he has not seen Austin for maybe five years, when Camilla Rose took off, too.”
“Yeah. And this vetting pretty much peters out about four years ago. Guess Mason gave up worrying about Austin around that time. I’ll see what I can find.”
“Call if you need me.”
“Will do, Matt.”
—
For the next half hour, as the surroundings became more and more suburban, Payne kept focused on the taillights of the Tahoe—and on the dropping needle of his fuel gauge.
His brain still spun, but nowhere near as overwhelmingly as earlier, and he attributed that to the vehicle. Taking drives in the 911 always helped clear his mind.
Just south of Doylestown, driving past clump after clump of the usual mix of roadside stores—mostly fast-food joints and convenience stores—he began wondering if Austin just might be headed to Easton. Or farther.
He glanced again at the fuel gauge. The needle now touched the red zone.
This is not looking good, he thought just as the warning ping sounded and the exclamation point illuminated on the instrumentation. Damn. Can’t risk it much longer . . . but can’t quit. He’s up to something.
