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“Their wedding date,” Georgia murmured.
Damn, Frankie. Ryan plus your wedding date? Really?
But that was the last thing he should be thinking about.
Ask more questions. Because if they managed to survive, Kit would want the facts. “Did you kill Crawford?”
“Yes. He’d outlived his usefulness. Dr. Reeves, get on the 5 going south.”
Shady Oaks was north on I-5. The only thing south was Mexico.
Maybe she only wants to escape.
No, she has to kill you because you know.
Dammit. At least he still had his phone. Someone could track them.
“Toss your phone, too, Dr. Reeves. I don’t want anyone tracking us.”
Dammit.
Sam fumbled with his phone, holding it in front of his face briefly to unlock it. He tapped the last call he’d made—to Kit. She’d know what to do.
If she ever gets my message. Where were they?
He tossed the phone before Roxanne could hear Kit’s line ringing. It landed on a patch of grass in the median strip.
“Now yours, bitch,” Roxanne said to Georgia.
Slowly Georgia complied. “Where are you taking us?”
“Shut up. And shut your dog up, Dr. Reeves. Or I’ll shoot him, too.”
Sam swallowed back his fear. “It’s okay, Siggy. She’s a bad lady, but you can’t growl at her. Siggy, down.”
Siggy’s head disappeared behind the back seat and Sam forced himself to breathe.
Kit, where are you?
San Ysidro, California
Thursday, November 10, 6:30 p.m.
“That’s him,” Detective Goddard said. “Perry Dunst. In the Bentley.”
Kit shifted sideways in Goddard’s plain black sedan so that she could peer through her night-vision binoculars at the undercover detective getting out of the Bentley. Goddard’s car was across the street from where the luxury car had been parked in the shadows of a strip mall’s deserted parking lot.
She might have been nervous for Detective Dunst, but she knew that there were sharpshooters positioned on the roofs of every empty storefront of the strip mall, as well as a van full of cops waiting behind one of the stores. The van could rush to Dunst’s aid in seconds. And, as Goddard said, this was not Dunst’s first rodeo.
Connor whistled softly. “Where did the department get a Bentley?”
“An impound from a case we closed five years ago,” Goddard said. “It’s now registered in the name of the alias Dunst has been developing for about that long. We’ve used him to orchestrate several buys, usually jewelry or artifacts, like the Roman coins. His alias is well-known by fencing operations all over the world. Most of the buys were set up by us. We put up certain items recovered after their thefts and he bought them. We involved known fences who thought they were watching a real transaction. They told two friends and so on, giving Dunst’s cover five gold stars. He’s also done some legit purchases of stolen goods with actual cash. Mostly low-level, relatively inexpensive stuff, but that’s a necessary evil in this business. He’s known in the industry as being meticulous, knowledgeable, and careful. Under his cover, he doesn’t buy for himself, but for private clients who don’t want to get their hands dirty.”
“How many times have you used him?” Connor asked.
“This is the first time doing a big takedown. Every other time he was building his cover. We’ve been saving this persona for a long time, because once word gets out that the cops made a bust, this cover will be pretty much useless. Seemed like solving the murder of a retired homicide lieutenant was as good an occasion to use it as any.”
“Thank you,” Kit murmured as she watched Detective Dunst get out of the Bentley, a briefcase in his hand. The case was handcuffed to his wrist. A precaution, Goddard had said. Dunst leaned against his car, casually lighting a cigarette and blowing smoke into the night. “He looks bored.”
