“I love your driving. It’s arriving in one piece I’m worried about.”
“Former army guy afraid of a little ground speed?” She smiles.
“I guess I’m just used to being the one risking my own life behind the wheel.”
“So do something to distract yourself. Get on the phone with the Georgia Bureau of Investigation and see what you can pull out of them about the Palmer site.”
I look down at my phone. “Good idea. That way if we crash, maybe I won’t see it coming.”
Rizzo presses harder on the accelerator.
I get through to the main GBI number with no problem. But after that, it’s a bureaucratic rabbit hole, and I’m handed off from one office to another.
Finally, I reach a guy who seems like he’s about ten minutes from retirement and unwilling to exert himself in the meantime. He refuses to answer any of my questions until I give him my badge number and the name of my DC Metro Police supervisor. This seems to have an effect, but not much of one.
“Once I get you verified, son, I’ll call you back.”
“I’m not your goddamn son!” I shout into the phone. But the guy’s already disconnected.
Twenty minutes later, we’re starting to see signs for the airport when my phone rings.
It’s the lazy guy.
“Having some trouble finding any record of that investigation, son. What was the name of that town again?”
“Palmer!” I say. “As in Arnold, the golfer.”
“Got it. Look, I’m just about on my way out. This’ll have to wait.”
This time, I hang up first. Then I bang my phone repeatedly against the dashboard.
Rizzo slows down as we approach the car-rental drop-off.“Once upon a time,” she says, “if somebody from DC contacted an outside police agency, those folks sat up and took notice, eager to help. Not anymore. Everybody’s protecting their own turf, doing their own thing—like that rogue FBI office up in Boston, cooperating for years with that murdering drug dealer.”
“You mean Whitey Bulger?”
“Yeah. Him.”
I start looking for the Enterprise sign where we’ll drop off the rental. “You’re right. There’s too much distrust. Everybody’s worried that DC will come in and either take all the credit or screw things up and throw the locals under the bus.”
“Not that it hasn’t happened,” says Rizzo.
As she pulls into the drop-off lane, my phone pings with a text.
GBI? Could it be lazy guy coming through after all?
Nope. It’s Dennis Chan.
See me.
CHAPTER 41
Cross
IT’S 4:15 P.M.
Crunching sounds and mumbling rise from the underbrush near the trailhead.
Alex and Bree watch as the search teams emerge from the woods, moving like a defeated army. Their clothes are soaked with sweat, and their faces are drawn and grimy. Most of the searchers are scratched up and probably dotted with bug bites.
