program to paste her photo below the word MEDIA. The name Wanda Klein, along with Wanda’s particulars, was printed beside the photo. Hair: brown. Eyes: brown. Height: 5’7”. Weight: 125 lbs. She cheated on the date of birth, shaving three years off her age. She added a long string of random digits that served as her ID number, and left a blank line for Wanda’s signature.
The reverse side of the tag was taken up with a lot of authentic-sounding legalese about rights and liabilities, along with a phone number that supposedly could be called to verify Wanda’s fake identification number. Abby wasn’t expecting anyone to call the number, which was good, since it actually belonged to a Thai restaurant down the street.
She printed out the designs, glued them to the front and back of an old luggage tag, signed Wanda’s name, and laminated the tag with a gizmo she’d picked up at an office supply outlet. The faux press pass slipped into the clear plastic pouch formerly used for the luggage tag. The pouch had prepunched holes, through which she threaded an extra-long shoelace. With the shoelace knotted behind her neck, and the tag dangling over her sternum, she would be a bona fide member of the Fourth Estate. Or as bona fide as she was ever likely to be, anyway.
The barbecue didn’t start until noon. She had extra time before she had to head down to Newport, and she knew how she wanted to use it.
She had to talk to Andrea again.
At ten a.m. the phone in the kitchen rang. Andrea had reattached the phone jack after the media left, and so far she hadn’t heard from them. Now it seemed her luck had run out. Well, she would let it ring. She wouldn’t answer.
This strategy worked until she had counted fifteen rings, at which point she went into the kitchen with a sigh.
“Yes?” she said, prepared to hang up instantly if it was a member of the press.
“Ms. Lowry, this is Abigail Bannister at Williams-Sonoma. The item you ordered has just come in.”
She recognized Abby’s voice immediately, even before she registered the name. Obviously some kind of subterfuge was in play. “The item…?” she said cautiously.
“Your garlic genius. You can pick it up at our store in the Beverly Center at your convenience.”
“My garlic genius.” The term meant nothing to Andrea. “I see.”
“I hope we’ll see you soon.” Abby put a subtle emphasis on the last word.
Andrea got the message. “Yes, I’ll be right over. Thank you.”
She hung up and stood in the kitchen, frozen in place. The ruse Abby had employed-there had to be a reason for it. And the only reason Andrea could think of was that the phone was tapped.
She didn’t think Jack Reynolds could tap her phone. Even a congressman’s powers didn’t extend that far.
But the FBI could do it.
They couldn’t be eavesdropping on her. Could they?
And if they were, did it mean they knew more than they’d let on?
They might know who she really was. They might know everything.
And if they had tapped her phone, what else might they have done? They had been all over her house. They could have installed hidden cameras. They could be watching her right now.
A shiver ran through her. For a moment she was back in the hospital. People monitoring her twenty-four hours a day. No privacy. And no way out.
She’d thought she had escaped all that. Maybe she’d been wrong. Maybe there was never any escape. Not for her, not ever.
No. she refused to think like that. Those thoughts were dangerous. They would lead her back into insanity. They would twist her mind into chaos.
Nobody was watching her or listening. Nobody.
She found her purse and left the house through the carport door. When she motored down the street, she kept her gaze on the rearview mirror, alert for anyone who might be following.
31
“Where were you last night, Jack?”
Reynolds looked up from his morning coffee, which he had brewed at the unusually late hour of ten a.m. after a restless sleep, to see the unsmiling face of his wife.
“Went for a drive,” he said evenly.
“You go for a lot of drives.”
“It’s how I relax. You know that.”
“Yes. I know that. It’s what you’ve always told me.”
He didn’t answer. He was scanning the Orange County Register for news on the incident in San Fernando. He’d already checked the L.A. Times and found no new information, only a rehash of the details televised on the late local news.
The Register ’s story was given even less prominence, since the attack had taken place outside Orange County. The brief item appeared to be a patchwork of wire service reports augmented by a few local touches-chiefly references to the growing trend of home invasions in the region. There was nothing new.
“Why didn’t you come up to bed after your drive?”
He was surprised Nora was still in the room. He’d assumed she’d already left the breakfast nook. They never took their meals together anymore.
“I fell asleep in my office,” he said.
“Were you drinking?”
“I may have had a nip.”
“You’ve been taking your share of nips lately.”
“Campaign season. It’s tiring.”
“You know you’re a shoo-in to get reelected.”
“Still takes a lot out of me.”
“Yes, hours of schmoozing. I know how much of a strain that is on you.”
He disliked sarcasm. It implied that he was not being taken seriously. He put a sharper edge on his voice. “I guess it’s easy for you. That’s why you need your triple dose of Xanax to get through the day.”
“I’m not on Xanax anymore.”
“What is it now? Valium?”
“At least I have a prescription for what I take. I don’t think any doctor prescribes a pint of Scotch as a cure- all.”
“I could probably find one who would.”
He started to fold the paper, then noticed a last-minute item pasted in near the home invasion story. A member of the biker club known as the Scorpions had been found in his Santa Ana apartment, dead of “multiple gunshot wounds.” The man’s name was Dylan Garrick.
Reynolds didn’t know any Garrick. But then, he knew almost none of the younger Scorpions. His contacts were with the old guard, the men he’d known when they were boys growing up with him.
Interesting that a Scorpion would be killed on the night of the failed hit on Andrea. If Garrick had something to do with the hit, he might have been aced as a penalty for failure.
“You know, Jack, if you find campaigning so stressful, perhaps you should give it up.”
He was astonished that Nora was still present, still talking. This was turning into the lengthiest conversation he’d had with his wife in the past month.
“I’m not giving anything up,” he said with a prickle of rage. “I earned everything I’ve got, and I intend to keep it.”
“Even if it’s driving you to drink?”
He got up, leaving his coffee half finished. “You don’t understand me.”
