Читать книгу Safe And Sound - J.D. Rhoades - Страница 13

CHAPTER SEVEN

First thing Monday, Marie called Tammy Healy. “We need to talk,” she said.

“I agree,” Healy said. “Carly Fedder was on my answering machine this morning, screaming mad. She was telling me to fire you and, and I quote, ‘that sonofabitch boyfriend’ of yours.”

Marie felt a tightening in her stomach. “What happened?”

“She wasn’t specific, but apparently your friend Keller got into some kind of argument with her last night.”

“That’s impossible,” Marie said. “He was with…” She stopped. She didn’t know where Keller had gone after leaving her. She swallowed. “So am I fired?”

“I don’t fire anyone, Miss Jones, until I hear their side of the story. Can you be here at ten o’clock?”

“I’ll be there,” Marie said.

***

It took Keller almost ten minutes to fight through the secretary’s attempts to divert him from Wilcox. Finally, the CID man came on the line.

“You asshole,” Keller said. “You mind telling me why you sicced the FBI on me?”

“Hold on a second, Keller,” Wilcox began. “Just calm down.”

“I will not calm down, goddamn it!” Keller yelled. “Two agents showed up at my office yesterday and tried to threaten my boss. They’re watching my girlfriend’s house. Now tell me what the hell’s going on!”

There was a pause. Then, softly, “You found the kid yet?”

“No,” Keller said. Something in Wilcox’s voice sent a chill down Keller’s spine. “Why?” he demanded. “Do you think she might be in danger?” Silence. “Damn you, Wilcox, talk to me!”

“Not on this line,” Wilcox said. “I’ll meet you. You still in Wilmington?”

“No,” Keller said. “I’m in town. I can be at Bragg in about a half hour.”

“Not at my office, either,” Wilcox said. “Meet me for lunch. You like Chinese?” Keller said yes. Wilcox gave him the name of a restaurant near Cross Creek Mall.

“Twelve thirty,” he said.

“Twelve thirty,” Keller agreed. He hung up, more baffled than ever.

***

The plastic sheeting had most likely kept any traces of blood or tissue from the floor, but DeGroot was a careful man. He scrubbed the floor thoroughly with soap and brush. Burning the abandoned old house to the ground might have done a more thorough job of eradicating any evidence, but it would have attracted attention, even in this secluded area. Plus, an empty house far away from prying eyes or ears was a resource a man like DeGroot didn’t waste lightly. He had a number of these personal safe houses scattered at various places around the globe, purchased through a variety of aliases and shell companies. The things that made such places useful to DeGroot made them unattractive to most people, and therefore cheap.

He stepped out onto the house’s tiny back porch and lit a cigarette. He looked at the neatly wrapped plastic bundle lying by the steps. He sighed. It had been a chore wrestling Lundgren’s body out the door, and getting him into the trunk of the car wasn’t going to be any easier, especially considering the things that were already packed there. He had decided to abandon this safe house, but he had a lot of gear stored here; weapons, explosives, and the other tools of his trade. He didn’t want to leave them behind where someone could stumble across them, and they very well might come in handy on his quest. But now, with a body to dispose of, he’d most likely have to move some of the bulkier items around. He decided to take a break beforehand. He sat down on the steps and took a drag off his cigarette. It was clouding over, with the faint smell of rain on the wind. DeGroot savored the moment.

He had to admit, he liked it here. The area where he had grown up had been hot and dry. The scant rainfall and lack of major rivers had made drought a constant and lurking specter. But the land here was rich, webbed with creeks and small rivers. He turned them over in his mind, considering their suitability for what he had to do next. While he thought, he picked up a pair of pants from the neatly folded pile on the steps. He pulled Lundgren’s wallet from the back pocket and flipped it open. He removed the small amount of cash from it. He flipped idly through the plasticine folders one last time. Military ID, PX card, driver’s license. The wallet had produced nothing particularly useful before, and he didn’t expect anything different now.

He was, he admitted to himself, just stalling. He pulled the cards out, one by one. He’d scatter them randomly at various places away from the body. As he pulled the cards out, a small card fell from between them. DeGroot picked it up. It was a business card, a fancy one. The raised lettering read “Black, Diamond, and Healy, Attorneys and Counselors at Law.” In smaller letters beneath were printed a name and phone number.

“Tamara Healy,” he said out loud. “Now who might this be?” When he flipped the card over, he got his answer. Scrawled on the back of the card in blue ink was a note: “Talk to my lawyer. C.”

“Hmmm,” said DeGroot out loud. “I might just have to do that.” He stood up. “Okay, tjommie,” he said to the body. “Time to get back to work.”