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63
COVERTON, MARYLAND
BEXHOLT GROUP CAMPUS
LATE FRIDAY NIGHT
Agent Lucy McKnight got out of her small Toyota and stepped behind a lovely thick-leaved oak tree. She was parked a half block from the entrance to Bexholt, out of sight of the security guards in the lighted entrance kiosk. She’d already called her husband, Coop, in Minneapolis, where he’d been invited by the MPD to provide a fresh eye on a multiple murder stymieing the local police. She’d started to tell him what she was doing, namely surveillance, then decided he’d worry, despite the fact she could take him down at the gym on a good day and outshoot him at the firing range on most good and bad days. She sighed, rubbed her rounding stomach. At least her pants had a very stretchy elastic waist, a gift from a group of her friends, given to her even though they’d canceled the party because of Sherlock’s accident. “If we wait,” Ruth had said, giving her a big hug, “we might have to skip these pants entirely and get you a bigger pair.” Lucy, like every other agent who worked with Sherlock, was worried sick. Imagine not knowing who you are. When she’d briefly seen Sherlock at the hospital, she’d hoped it would be her face that brought back Sherlock’s memory, but that hadn’t happened.
She stared back through the leaves toward the entrance. How late would Nikki Bexholt be working? Everyone else had left. Was there a back way Dillon hadn’t known about? No, she wasn’t going to second-guess herself. Surely Bexholt was getting hungry. Lucy was. Some sweet fried sausage with peppers and onions, oh goodness, that sounds heavenly. No white wine with that lovely sausage. Bummer. Lucy was momentarily distracted by that visual, but jerked back when she finally saw a single car come toward the kiosk. A security guard stepped out, leaned down to speak to the driver. It was Nikki Bexholt, her face clear in the guardhouse lights.
There you are, Nikki. Can’t wait to see where you take me. We can all dance.Lucy slipped back into her Toyota and started the engine, let it purr quietly, and waited. She knew where Nikki Bexholt lived, not quite a mile from the Bexholt campus. Would she go home?
Ten minutes later, with Lucy following discreetly, Nikki Bexholt left-turned her silver Audi onto Morning Glory Drive in a seriously ritzy neighborhood with large houses and manicured yards. Bexholt drove slowly, then steered into the driveway of a painfully modern two-story brick-and-glass house in a cul-de-sac. There were no trees in Bexholt’s front yard, only a half dozen shrubs, with gravel surrounding them, cold and stark, to Lucy’s eye. She pictured a small child stumbling over the gravel, scraping a knee. There’ll be nothing like that for you, Junior, I promise. Bexholt didn’t open the garage door. She got out of her Audi, walked quickly down a flagstone path sided by more gravel to a lighted front door. When she was in, the lights went on downstairs. After ten or so minutes, the downstairs lights went off, and on went the lights upstairs. Most likely her bedroom. Lucy had hoped Bexholt wouldn’t come home, that she’d meet someone in some dark, out-of-the-way restaurant where Nikki wouldn’t want to be seen. It looked like she was in for the night, but if so, why hadn’t she garaged her car? Maybe she still planned to go out. Lucy decided to give it an hour, then call Ollie at the scheduled time and tell him all was clear and she was headed home. He’d pick up Bexholt in the morning.
Lucy was drumming her fingers on the steering wheel, waiting, watching, waiting some more, when the front porch light went on, the front door opened, and out came Nikki Bexholt. She was wearing tight jeans now, a white short-sleeved top, a light red jacket over her arm. She walked quickly to her Audi. Lucy heard the powerful engine kick in, watched her back out of her driveway.
Lucy’s fingers danced the rumba on the steering wheel. The excitement of the chase. She kept her lights off, pulled out, and followed Nikki Bexholt through Coverton to 495. Where was she going?
She punched in Ollie’s cell phone number.
“Lucy? What’s happening?”
“Bexholt’s on the move, Ollie. I’m hanging back a good ways, have to since there’s very little traffic. She’s headed south on 495 to Virginia. You can track me, right? Both my watch and phone are registering my location?”
“Yes. Both GPSes are loud and clear. I’ll call Savich, tell him you’re following Bexholt. Since we have no idea where she’s going or what her purpose is, stay well back. Lucy, don’t be a hot dog, all right?”
Lucy thought of the baby growing in her belly. “Honestly, I doubt I’ll ever be a hot dog again, not good for Junior’s nerves.”
“I was thinking about Coop’s nerves, too. Don’t want him to have a seizure. Keep back, Lucy, all you’re doing is surveillance, okay?”
Yeah, yeah. She followed Bexholt across the Potomac into Virginia, turned onto 193, and headed northwest. Still not much traffic, so she had to continue hanging back. Bexholt drove past the exit for Great Falls, then turned onto 7. Was she headed to Potomac Falls? As far away as Leesburg?
Fifteen miles before Leesburg, Bexholt took the exit marked MORGANTOWN. There were few cars this time of night in the middle of nowhere. Houses were set far apart, and the towns she drove through were small and dark. Thank heaven there was a full moon. Lucy could turn off her car’s lights and still make out Bexholt’s Audi in the distance. She’d never been this way before and she imagined the countryside was beautiful in the sunlight, the trees thick and lush, nearly canopying over the two-lane road.
Lucy saw Bexholt’s lights turn sharply, and she slowed. She reached the white gate the Audi had entered, then continued to drive forward. She parked thirty yards up the road and walked back to the white-fenced property, ducked through the wooden bars, and continued quickly up the graveled drive to a lovely old white colonial house. There were four cars parked in the large driveway. Bexholt had left her house late to come to a meeting of some kind in the boondocks? Whose house was this? She saw a light in a front window, probably the living room. She walked quietly to the side of the house and crouched down, rising only when she reached the edge of the window. There were drapes covering the windows, but thankfully, a bit of open space. She looked in to see a long, narrow low-ceilinged room, like in many colonial houses she’d visited, with wide dark oak planks on the floors. What was happening in this living room now wasn’t colonial. It was a workspace, with rows of computer equipment, monitors and cables, and large opened cardboard boxes labeled BEXHOLT GROUP. In the middle stood five people in a conversation Lucy couldn’t hear. Other than Nikki Bexholt, Lucy recognized Jasmine Palumbo, the woman who’d struck Sherlock’s Volvo on Tuesday, but the other three she didn’t know. The young man was slight, brown hair and eyes, and he sported a Fu Manchu mustache. To make him look less nerdy? The young woman couldn’t be more than five feet tall with short spiked red hair and large black-framed glasses that dominated her small face. Bingo. She’d bet these two were the ones who’d chased Justice Cummings on Tuesday. And an older woman, in charge, powerful, that’s what Lucy thought when she looked at her. She didn’t know who she was. What was going on here?
She watched Bexholt motion for them to sit down at a circular table and conversation continued. Lucy still couldn’t hear them, but she did feel the tension coming from the group.
Should she call Ollie? And tell him what? She was thinking it through when the meeting broke up. She quickly snapped some photos of all of them standing up, ran down the long drive back to her car, climbed in, turned the car around, and waited. Soon, three cars turned left out of the driveway. Finally, she saw Bexholt’s Audi.
Lucy waited until she’d turned, gained some distance. Then she followed.
They traveled fifteen miles on 7, then Bexholt suddenly pulled off onto a frontage road. Lucy slowed down, saw her turn into a four-bay gas station with a well-lighted Quick Mart. The lights were bright, gave her an excellent view. One older guy was pumping gas into a Chevy long bed. She saw three people in the Quick Mart. She exited slowly, drove a half block past the gas station, and eased off the road, cozied up to a copse of oaks and maples. She got out of the car, walked around the slight curve, so she could see what Bexholt was doing. Duh, she was pumping gas, nothing more. But Lucy frowned. She hadn’t pumped very much. Why? Lucy watched Bexholt reset the pump and walk quickly into the store to pay. When she came out, she walked briskly to her car.
Lucy hurried back to her Toyota but didn’t get in. She waited for Bexholt to pass her on the way back to 7. And waited. Where was she? Finally, Lucy walked back until she could see the gas station. She saw Bexholt’s Audi parked at the side of the station. Was Bexholt in the women’s room? Lucy moved closer. Maybe she’d slipped into the Quick Mart. The long-bed truck passed her, heading back to 7. Where was Bexholt?
She heard a noise. She pulled her Glock from her waistband, stilled and listened. Had she heard an animal? Okay, probably. There were lots of trees pressing against the frontage road, which meant there had to be wildlife roaming around. It was odd. The night was warm but she felt a sudden chill on her bare arms. She began to walk slowly, quietly, toward Bexholt’s Audi.
She heard another noise close. It was faint, but she knew it wasn’t an animal. It sounded like feet moving, trying to be quiet.
She whirled around, but she wasn’t fast enough. Something struck her on the back of her head and she was down.
