“Do you think she talked to anyone in her office?”
“I doubt it. We agreed to keep our circle pretty tight.”
“How tight?”
“Just the two of us. Other techs were feeding her data and test results, but she was the only one besides me and you guys who had the whole picture.”
Perkins nods. “The whole picture is looking a lot clearer.” He glances back at the car wreckage and the workers in hazmat suits. “My bet is they’ll find more of that tagged C-4. Phillips did this for sure. He wants to short-circuit the investigation by taking you out.”
“Maybe so. But that doesn’t get us any closer to finding him. He could be anywhere in the world by now.”
“We’ve got alerts at all the airports. Shipping and cruise companies too.”
This almost makes me laugh. “Not much of an obstacle if you know what you’re doing. This guy managed to sneak into Afghanistan on a private mission right under the nose of the CIA. He got away clean from four bombings, including this one. I have no doubt he’ll be able to sneak through one of our semipermeable borders.”
“Unless he’s not finished here,” says Perkins.
“Right. Unless he’s not finished.”
“We should get you some protection, John. Let me make a call. I’ll assign you a few ex-Blackwater guys.”
“No, thanks. I don’t travel in packs. Never have.”
“Are you sure? They’ll turn your place into a fortress overnight.”
I stand up. “Right now, I’ve gotta change my clothes and get to Bethesda. I need to notify Anna Rizzo’s family.” I flash on Juan and Tina running around my backyard with Willow just twelve hours ago. Amazing how fast life can change—and how goddamn dark it can get.
Perkins reaches for his cell phone. “I’ll get you a car and a driver.”
“Screw that. Get me a bird and a pilot. I need to beat the press.”
CHAPTER 85
Cross
ALEX CROSS STANDS IN front of a large wall map in the Orange County records office. He moves his finger around the outline of the nature reserve and then over the border to the west.
“Can I help you?”
Alex looks up. A sixty-something Black woman in pressed slacks and a burgundy blouse is standing next to him. “You work in property records?” he asks.
“I do. My name is Lola.”
“Hi, Lola. I’m Alex. I’m in search of property records for a farm in that area.”
“Follow me.” Lola turns to a bank of metal file cabinets on the other side of the room. “I was born about a mile from where you’re looking. Not many farms left around there. Not working farms, anyway.”
Alex waits in front of a long table while Lola pulls open a drawer and runs her hands across rows of well-thumbed files.
“You can’t do this digitally?” Alex asks.
“I like to feel it in my fingers,” she says. “Pencil marks and all.”
Lola returns with a bunch of marked-up property sheets and lays them out on the table. “Most of these parcels have been sold off to developers over the years and rezoned for construction.” Lola shakes her head and sighs. “The family farm where I grew up is now a strip mall with a Dollar General smack in the middle.”
“I’m looking for a small property,” says Alex. “Farmhouse, barn, a few outbuildings. Maybe five acres.”
“Okay … how about this parcel?” Lola pushes a sheet in front of him, a survey sketch of a property with borders running to the edge of the nature reserve. “That’s not far from where you were pointing on the map,” she says. “Seven acres. Water well. Septic system. Pretty self-contained little compound.”
