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“Name me one good reason.”
“We impressed on your pal Dash how important it was.”
“What did you threaten him with? A shakedown by the FAA and NTSB? Thanks for that, by the way. If they revoke my license, if they even suspend it, I’m going to make your life a misery.”
“Do you want to hear this or not?”
“Probably not.”
“I think you will. It’s about Dr. Lambert.”
As though asking after an old friend, Rye said, “How is Nate?”
“That’s the point, wiseass. He pulled a disappearing act similar to Dr. O’Neal’s. Not at his office. Not at the hospital. Hadn’t even checked in. Last place Wilson and I saw him was at the Hunts’ estate. Called it. Housekeeper told us they’d been trying to reach Lambert, too.”
“Are you getting to the good part? Soon, I hope?”
“Lambert owns a condo in a ritzy high-rise. We checked with building staff. The doctor had a visitor late last night. Identified himself as Goliad.”
“My, my. He gets around.”
“Yes, he does. We learned through APD about the fracas at the hotel early this morning.”
“Damn security cameras are taking the fun out of everything.”
“We retrieved your flight bag.”
“Thanks. Bring it to the meeting tomorrow morning.”
“Wilson’s motioning me to hurry this along.”
“I owe him a drink.”
“Dr. Lambert’s guest last night wasn’t Goliad.”
Rye sensed from Rawlins’s shift to a no-nonsense tone that a clever comeback would be inappropriate, that the deputy had finally gotten to the good part. “Who was it?”
“We’ve got him on video, but it’s jerky. So I’m sending you a text of the description the concierge gave us.”
Within seconds, the text came through. He went back to Rawlins. “Timmy.”
“Timmy. He escorted the doctor out of his condo. They left together in the doc’s car. Watching the security video, you don’t get a warm fuzzy.”
Rye rubbed his forehead. “I’m no cheerleader for Nate Lambert, but this doesn’t sound good.”
“That’s what Wilson and I thought, too. Now—and here’s why we’re calling you. Local TV station here aired a news story this morning about the little girl who was shuttled off last evening to—”
“I know about it.”
“Figured you did. Look at your text again. This is a freeze frame taken off the telecast. The reporter is doing a stand-up outside the little girl’s house up there in Tennessee. Got it?”
The picture appeared on his phone. “Yeah.”
“Look behind the reporter.”
There stood Nathan Lambert. Unmistakably. Beside him and slightly behind him was Timmy.
Rye’s heart stopped, then began thudding. “I gotta go.”
