“We call him Duane who shoulda waited for backup.”
As soft chuckling rippled around the table, Gannon waited, then asked, “Could you guys help me find him so I could interview him?”
Someone kicked the man in plainclothes under the table.
“Hey, Duane, seein’ how you didn’t make the Cornhuskers, this is your only chance to be famous. The man came all the way from New York City.”
The man in plainclothes lowered his head and shook it, giving off an aura of gentle shyness, until a cell phone was held before him by one of his friends.
“Check with the lieutenant for the green light. Maybe you’ll get on Leno.”
“Or
Duane took the phone and turned to Gannon.
“Give me a minute. I’ll let you know, okay?”
“Sure, I’ll be at the counter eating my lunch. I appreciate this. But I really am on a tight deadline.”
Buoyed by the break, Gannon dug into his meal. Between bites, he received a call from Hal Ford.
“How’s it going? Any chance you’re about to file?”
“I should have something to you in ninety minutes.”
“Ninety minutes? That’s a lifetime.”
“Sooner if I can.”
“Lisker is sharpening his fangs, so it better be a big scoop.”
“I’m working on it.”
By the time Gannon finished eating, all the troopers had gathered at the cash to pay. After they left, the one Gannon was waiting on approached him and introduced himself.
“Duane Hanson.” He shook Gannon’s hand. “I’ve got about fifteen minutes before I have to go. Hope that works for you.”
“I’ll make it work, thanks.”
Hanson nodded to an empty booth in a far corner.
At the table, Gannon sensed the younger man was masking something unsettling. Only hours ago he’d struggled with one of the Ramapo killers who’d tried to end his life. As Hanson began recounting what happened on Interstate 80 near Ogallala, Nebraska, his tone darkened and he chose his words very carefully.
“My lieutenant said I can’t tell you everything because it’s all part of the FBI’s investigation, especially now that he’s dead.”
“Dead?”
“Died in the hospital a little while ago.” Hanson glanced out the window, the light accentuating his abrasions as he pondered the interstate stretching west to the horizon. “It’s a hell of a thing. It could’ve been me. A hell of a thing.”
The employee lunchroom at the Good Buy Supermart was near the produce section and always smelled of lettuce, apples and earth.
It had a battered time clock for punching time cards, a kitchenette, six chrome-trimmed table-and-chair sets, a message board for schedules, union meetings and used items for sale. Judy was offering a baby stroller; Wanda, recently single, was selling a man’s watch that was “never worn.” Smoking in the lunchroom had been banned for years, but fresh-air zealots complained of a lingering stench.
Today, the usual cashiers yammered in the usual bitch-gossip sessions between the afternoon-evening shifts. None gave a second thought to the TV above the row of lockers. It was always on, usually tuned in to a talk show. But today, the Breaking News banner that crawled along the bottom of the screen seized Lisa Palmer’s attention.
Lisa caught her breath, covered her mouth with her hand and battled the noise to listen to the report, which offered few details.
“You all right, hon?” Pam Horowitz, the most senior cashier, asked.
Other than Rita, no one at work knew of Lisa’s role in the investigation.
“I’m fine. Something caught in my throat. Got any gum, Pam?”
Five minutes later, alone in the parking lot, chewing on bubblegum behind the wheel of her Ford Focus, Lisa let go.
She fumbled through her bag for her new cell phone, called Frank Morrow’s number. It rang through to the FBI’s New York Division.
“Agent Morrow is out of the office,” an assistant said. “May I take a message?”
“This is Lisa Palmer. I really need to speak to him, or Vicky Chan, or Eve Watson. It’s about the Ramapo case.”
“I’m afraid no one is available at the moment.”
“It’s important I talk to somebody. I’m Lisa Palmer. I’ve been working with them on the investigation.”
“Yes, I’m aware of who you are,” the assistant said. “But they are all unreachable at the moment, so if you’ll just leave your number, Lisa—”
“They have it,” Lisa said. “They have everything. I just need to talk to someone about what happened in Nebraska. I have questions.”
“Yes, I understand.”
“Can I speak to their boss? Or their boss’s boss?”
“I’m sorry, Lisa, that won’t be possible.”
Lisa’s breathing quickened with her rising frustration until she gave up, left a message and gathered her thoughts. She turned on her car radio, set it to scan, hoping to land on a news report that would tell her more about what had happened in Nebraska.
She left the parking lot bound for the school to pick up Ethan and Taylor. She drove through Queens, needing to believe that the Nebraska incident was good news. If they got one of the bastards, it meant they were making progress, getting closer to the others.
Which one was it?
Lisa stopped at a traffic light and a memory blurred in front of her.
Was it him? The one who murdered the agent? The one who wanted to kill her? Which one was it? How did they get him? Was it because of her telling them about his tattoo?
A horn sounded behind her. The light had turned green. But the questions wouldn’t stop, so Lisa pulled over, took out her phone and sent texts and emails to Morrow, Chan and Watson.
Please get back to me. I need to know what’s happening.
When she got the kids, she held off telling them. First, Lisa wanted to learn more directly from the FBI, but no one was responding. She hid her unease by singing along with rock songs on the radio. The last one was Queen,
