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“Thanks. I owe you.”
“Trapper?”
But he was already out the door.
In his car, he checked the console cubby and the glove box for his phone charger. Missing. Carson’s shop guy must’ve helped himself to it. Trapper patted down his coat pockets until he found a phone that still had battery life and used it to call one of the ATF colleagues to whom he’d spoken earlier. “Meet me at the curb outside your office in three minutes.”
It took him four, but when he arrived the agent was there. No doubt he’d heard the news about Wilcox, because he practically had steam coming out his ears.
Trapper lowered his driver’s window and thrust a sealed plastic bag at him. “I know I let you down. I’m sorry I can’t hand over Wilcox, but here’s the cell phone I told you about. The photos of the list are on it, and it’s a hell of a list. The flash drive has my stuff on it, the Johnson video, the phone-recorded conversation with Wilcox. The password to open it is ‘RED,’ all caps. Give it to the FBI.”
Trapper sped away before the flustered agent got a word in edgewise.
Next, Trapper called Kerra. Her phone rang twice before going to voice mail. He didn’t leave a message, but he called three more times in as many minutes with no success. At a stoplight, he asked Siri to dial the TV station’s number. He went through the unending recorded list of options and finally reached a human being in the newsroom.
Trapper asked for Gracie and was put through. He identified himself. “I need to speak to Kerra.”
“She’s on location, about to do a live report.”
“It’s an emergency.”
“Your emergencies have almost cost Kerra her job. I’d bet good money you’re the reason she looks like her pet just died and her eyes are red and puffy.”
“I need to talk to her. Get that message to her.”
“She’s busy. You’ll have to ask forgiveness for whatever you did some other time.”
“This isn’t about that. About us. It’s—”
“They’re going live in sixty. I have to go.”
“Tell her—”
“I will. Goodbye.”
“Listen to me, goddammit!” He took a breath. “Granted, I’m a shit.”
“John Trapper is a shit. I’m writing that down.”
“Write this down. It’s the number she needs to call.” Twice he repeated the number of the phone he was using. “Got it?”
“Got it.”
“Tell her that the cell phone wasn’t behind the painting.”
“Are you drunk?”
“It’ll make sense to Kerra. Tell her it was a bluff. Like the wall outlet.”
“Okay.”
“Tell her I got the list.”
“You got the list.”
“Can you remember all that?”
“They’re down to thirty. I have to go.”
