Elaine thought for a moment, and then said. “I think Michael had written out the notes in order to figure out a route to travel in searching for Ibrahim. One scrap I found had Algiers, Marseilles, and Dublin listed, in that order.”
“And when he died in Marseilles? “
“I thought that Ibrahim or terrorists working with him had led Michael into a trap.”
Gage looked out through the French doors toward the backyard. The fog had finally reached in from the river, but the snowfall had stopped, leaving mounds on top of the woodpile, the toolshed, the rusted swing set, and the brick barbecue. He imagined that it hadn’t been too many years earlier that young families had gathered out there for children’s birthdays and Easter egg hunts.
Elaine sighed. “I’m bushed. Or maybe just beaten down by all of this.”
Gage turned toward her. “I didn’t mean to-“
“It’s not you. It’s the mess everything has become.”
Her brows furrowed and she shook her head. “It wasn’t supposed to turn out this way. Everything was once so perfect. It really was morning in America for us when Michael and I met in high school in the eighties, now it’s all a nightmare.”
Elaine closed her eyes again. Gage could see her pupils moving under her lids like she was searching through pictures of the past.
“The Tupperware Family. That’s what my mother called us.”
She paused, then looked at Gage.
“When she was growing up, Tupperware and Corning glassware and color television and KitchenAid all meant progress, people on the go, on the way up. The American dream. She saw us as an updated version of her generation. Earnest FBI agent, fresh-faced school librarian, kids, a house, two cars.” She pressed her lips tight for a few seconds, then said, “I’m glad she didn’t live to see what it turned into.”
Gage didn’t respond. He still didn’t know whether her life could’ve come out otherwise. But he did know that pretending that her life was different than it was would destroy the trust they’d developed.
And they both knew that their conversation had come to an end.
As he walked down the front steps a few minutes later, Gage’s peripheral vision caught a break in the pattern of snowbound cars parked along the street. The windshield of one had been wiped during the last few minutes of the blizzard. The passenger side was misted, the driver’s side clear, but there were no fresh tire tracks in the slush or fresh footsteps in the snow on the street or on the sidewalk bordering the car.
Gage came to a stop near his rental car, patted the breast pocket of his suit, then frowned and turned back toward the house.
When Elaine answered the door, he said, “Don’t look past me, but I think someone has your house under surveillance.”
“That’s ridiculous. Only the FBI would still be interested and they got everything.”
“Trust me on this one. I have thirty years in this business. I’ve learned to read the signs.” Gage pointed toward the interior. “Go back inside and bring me an envelope.”
Elaine kept her eyes fixed on his and said, “I don’t think you’re right, but I’ll play along.”
She returned a minute later and handed him a soiled letter-sized envelope. “These are my Price Chopper coupons.” She smiled. “They’re having a two-for-one special on crescent rolls and canned yams.”
“I’ll make up for your loss,” Gage said, sliding it into his jacket pocket, “and take you out to dinner.”
“You mean you want to use me as a decoy to see whether they’re watching me or following you? “
Gage nodded, and then smiled back. “I think I like you, too.”
CHAPTER 11
It’s me. I’m outside Hennessy’s house,” private investigator Tony Gilbert said in a call to Kenyon Arndt as he watched Gage walk back down the steps. Gilbert was annoyed at having to report in to a lawyer as naive as Arndt, whom he pictured as a clueless Ivy League grad who’d probably spent his weekends playing squash or lacrosse or maybe field hockey with the girls. Wycovsky was a different story. That was a guy he wouldn’t mind sharing a Humvee or a beer with. “
Have you figured out who the man is?” Arndt asked. “
Not yet. We’ll probably know by tonight. But that’s not why I called-hold on.”
Gilbert reached for another cell phone and switched to direct connect mode.
“Get ready,” Gilbert told the two men parked a few blocks away. “He’s getting into his car. He’ll be coming your way. Four-door. Dark blue. Headlights on.”
Then back to Arndt.
“Hennessy’s wife gave him something. Looked like an envelope. Maybe it’s something we missed.”
“What do you mean missed?”
“Hold on.”
“He’s almost to the corner,” Gilbert told the surveillance team. “He’s got his left turn signal on, so he’s probably heading back toward downtown.
“You still there?” he asked Arndt.
“Yes.”
“We searched the place after the FBI got done.”
Gilbert smiled to himself. Let’s see if Mr. Ivy League learned a lesson from having his hand slapped by Wycovsky after objecting to the tracking device they’d placed on Milton Abrams’s Town Car.
After a long silence, Arndt said, “I see.”
Putz. He should’ve accused us of incompetence for missing whatever it was that Elaine Hennessy had put into the envelope.
“Does that mean you have to go in again?” Arndt asked.
“It’s probably too late. But we’ll find out where he works or lays his head and take back whatever it is.”
“You don’t mean-“
“What do you care what I mean.” You fucking punk asshole. “I mean what I mean. Capisci? “
Gilbert didn’t wait for an answer. He just disconnected and tossed the phone onto the seat next to him.
Mystery Man may be our only lead to Ibrahim, and Ivy League thinks we’re gonna kill him? What kind of shit has this guy been watching on TV?
Gilbert watched the car turn onto Madison Avenue two blocks away and head downtown. He then turned his ignition and pulled away from the curb.
“What’s he doing?” Gilbert said into the other cell phone.
The man on the other end laughed. “Driving like an old lady.”
“He’s an amateur, that’s for sure. He didn’t check the street when he came out of the house.” A laugh. “And kind of a doofus. He even forgot the papers he came for and had to go back to get them.”
“How do you want to handle it?”
“I don’t know yet. Let’s give him some rope and maybe he’ll trip on it all on his own.” Gilbert paused as a sliver of a memory gave him an idea. “You still in contact with… with… what’s that guy’s name, the one who did time for that two-bit robbery by the statehouse?”
“Strubb.”
“Yeah, Strubb. Is he out?” “I’ll check.”
The other man called back a few minutes later. “He’s back in town. Working for a bail bondsman as a sort of unlicensed bounty hunter.”
“Give him my number and have him call me.”
“Why are we looking for this Ibrahim guy anyway?”
“Why do you think? So I can make the payments on my ocean-view condo in Mazatlan.”
The other man laughed. “Which means you don’t know either.”
“Don’t know. Don’t care-just show… me… the money.”
