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“What? Why?”
“Hold on.” He walked over to the spot where he had let Jasper catch him crouched in front of the cabinetry. He knelt down now and ran his hand along the baseboard.
And came up with the transmitter.
“Drex? Are you out of there yet? What is going on?”
“Jasper moved the transmitter.”
“What? He couldn’t have. He didn’t know where it was.”
“He found it. And, as an inside joke, he put it right where I had pretended to hide it that night.” He gave a mirthless laugh. “We overheard exactly what they wanted us to hear.”
“Son of a bitch.”
“In spades,” Drex said. “We’ve been played.”
Chapter 18
Gif was yelling in his ear, being a hard-ass coach, drilling him. “Get out of that house. Vacate the apartment, too. Hurry.”
He’d needed the drilling to knock him out of the momentary stupor he’d lapsed into upon realizing that he’d been duped.
“I’ll be in touch.”
He disconnected. With Gif’s urgent instructions ringing in his ear, he launched himself off the floor. On his way out, he reset the alarm and locked the back door, leaving both as they’d been. He straightened the lock on the screen door so one couldn’t tell simply by looking that it was damaged.
Then he ran like hell to the garage apartment. Precipitation had made the stairs treacherous, but he charged up them and into the apartment. No sooner had he closed the door behind himself than he heard the siren.
“You have got to be fucking kidding!”
He stood in the center of the room, heart booming, lungs laboring, mentally shuffling through options and discarding them until he was down to only one.
In a flurry of motion, he felt for the wall switch behind him and flipped on the overhead light. Blinking against the sudden brightness, he peeled off the latex gloves and stuffed them into the pocket of his windbreaker, exchanging them for his pistol. He shucked the windbreaker and threw it aside where it landed carelessly in the ratty easy chair.
With pistol in one hand, he unbuttoned his jeans with the other, then pogoed on alternate legs toward the bedroom, pulling off his jeans as he went. He left them on the floor and switched on the lamp. His duffel bag was on the bed. He returned his pistol to it and took out his computer and the stained original manuscript—bless Pam’s heart. He carried them into the living area and hurriedly staged his workspace.
Out on the street, flashing lights created fuzzy streaks of color in the mist. The siren wailed down as the police car wheeled into the Fords’ driveway and came to a jerky stop. Both doors opened.
Drex rushed back into the bedroom, stripped off his shirt, put on the fake eyeglasses, toed off his shoes, and grabbed the duffel by the strap. As he did, he spotted his FBI ID wallet lying at the bottom of the canvas bag.
He stopped to consider. He could use it now and, damn, it was tempting. But if he did, he would be blown. He couldn’t revert to being the hapless writer cum gigolo. It was a dilly of an ace, but if he played it too early, he stood to lose the big pot: Jasper Ford.
He zipped up the duffel bag and shoved it into the closet. He then dashed into the living area and took a beer from the fridge. He twisted off the cap and poured half down the sink, then took the bottle with him to the table where he set it beside his laptop. He dropped into the chair, dry scrubbed the sweat off his face, and tried to appear tormented by writer’s block.
As it turned out, he had plenty of time to catch his breath. It was five minutes before he heard them clumping up the stairs. He let them get halfway up, then scraped back his chair and ambled over to the door, arriving at the screen door the same time they did.
Looking back at him was a pair of patrol officers, the patches on their uniform sleeves designating the Mount Pleasant police department. Young. Crisp. And looking surprised to be greeted by a man in just his underwear.
Drex pretended to realize only then his state of undress and looked abashed. “Sorry, guys. What’s going on?”
“What’s your name?” officer number one asked.
“Drex Easton.”
“You live here?”
Drex shot the room behind him a deprecating glance. “It’s a roof. I’ve rented it for three months.” He explained about the Arnotts. “Do you want to come in or…” He let the invitation trail to nothing.
