“Not really,” I said. “Well, maybe a little.”
“What bothers you? The death of Varley?”
“No. Not him. It’s us I’m thinking about. Whether the FBI believes my story. How you’re going to get out of the building.”
“OK. Listen, David. I’ve been thinking about these things, as well,” he said, reaching into his coat pocket and handing me a piece of paper. “Here’s an address. It’ll pan out if they check. Tell them that’s where the kidnappers took you. You heard the guards talking, one was boasting about last night… you fill in the rest.”
“Thanks,” I said. “Might just do that.”
“And the FBI building. You’ve been there. What can I expect?”
“Finding an exit’s the main problem. The first-floor windows don’t open, the ground floor’s boarded up tight, and the only way out is through the garage. Today they had four guys on it, and a backup van outside. Tomorrow there could be more, given what happened.”
“That’s not so bad. Have faith, David. I’ve lived through worse. This thing is going to work out.”
The last building we passed in the little town was a police station, also painted white. It was a small place. Only a single story. A light was on in one of the rooms and a patrol car was sitting on the gravel forecourt outside. Patrick saw it and instinctively checked his speed.
A quarter of a mile farther on we came to a broad stretch of road with streetlights and white lines. An angular concrete bridge crossed over, carrying some kind of highway. A pair of heavy trucks lumbered across as we approached. We emerged at the far side and followed the Lexus up the southbound on-ramp, easing carefully around the tight curve at the top.
Patrick slotted back in line and our little convoy drifted up to a steady sixty. The leather upholstery was soft and supple, and I sank into it like I was sitting in an old armchair. The car wasn’t much to look at, but I had to admit it was comfortable. Certainly a step up after Lesley’s dog cage or the jail cell. The interior was warm, too, and the gentle swaying motion was relaxing. The radio was off so the only sound was the wheels drumming rhythmically against the joints in the pavement, reeling in the miles between us and the city.
I did work hard on staying awake after that, but maybe not quite hard enough. I felt my eyes slowly creep shut, and they stayed that way for twenty minutes before Patrick nudged me in the ribs and pointed at something through the windshield.
“Look,” he said. “Your trick worked. Lesley didn’t think it would.”
The road ahead of us broadened out so that you could choose which tollbooth to line up at before using the bridge across to Manhattan. But Patrick was pointing to the other side of the highway. Over there, drivers leaving the city crossed the river before parting with their cash. That meant we couldn’t see the lines of vehicles, but we got a good look in through the backs of the booths.
“See?” Patrick said. “Two people.”
He was right. There were two people in each booth. One sitting down, operating the equipment. And another standing up, silhouetted against the oncoming headlights. The shape of their headgear was unmistakable. They were police officers. I checked the booths on our side. It was harder to see in, but each one definitely had only a single occupant.
“Nice job,” Patrick said. “Telling them you were still in the city. Smart. They’re looking for you getting out, not back in. Keep it up, and you can work with me again.”
“I’m flattered,” I said. “But before you kiss me, what’s she doing?”
There was one officer on our side of the road, weaving her way through the traffic in the general direction of the central divider. Her progress was slow and erratic, and I saw she was handing out leaflets from a satchel she was carrying over her shoulder.
“What do you think they are?” Patrick said. “Takeout menus?”
“Hope so,” I said. “I’m starving. Let’s get one.”
“You can eat at the hotel, if we ever get there,” he said, pulling into the next lane and slipping into the shadow of the Lexus. “Let’s hope these guys figure out what we’re doing. They’re not the sharpest tools in Lesley’s shed, if you know what I mean.”
We crept steadily forward, hidden from the officer’s view, until we were only two cars away from the barrier. Then the Lexus stopped moving. The car at the front of their line was having a problem. Patrick held back as long as he could, but the traffic was building up behind us. Someone honked their horn. Attention was all we needed, so Patrick lifted his foot off the brake and let the car nose ahead, into the open.
I looked over to the left, expecting the officer to be several lanes away. But she wasn’t. She’d turned around and was heading back in our direction. We rolled another half car’s length forward, and she reached the lane next to the Lexus. She handed a leaflet to a gray-haired guy in a pickup and kept moving, straight toward us. She was heading directly for Patrick. And we were boxed in. A sign near the booth said drivers would be fined for reversing in the line. Fat chance. There was nowhere for us to go.
The officer was barely three yards away. The next leaflet was half out of her satchel. I could see my own eyes staring back at me from a black-and-white photo in the center of the page when Patrick suddenly reached down in front of me and opened the glove box. He started to rummage around inside it, urgently searching for something.
Patrick’s lost it, I thought. He’s got a gun in there.
My fingers were curled around the door handle, starting to pull, when the officer abruptly veered away to her right. She was moving purposefully now, heading for the back of our car. I thought of Julianne. She was still locked in the trunk. Had she found a way to call for help without Patrick or me realizing?
I looked around, and saw the driver of the Lexus had lowered his window. He was leaning out, beckoning to the officer. She walked over and handed him a leaflet. He examined it for a moment, then passed it to his passenger. They started arguing over it, each one pointing to things on the page. They continued to squabble until the car in front of us had cleared the barrier and we started to move again. I saw the driver finally shake his head, crumple up the leaflet, and let it drop behind his seat. He held the officer’s eye for a moment, shrugged, and then flashed her an apologetic smile.
Patrick hauled himself upright before we picked up too much speed. His right hand was hanging on to a white plastic object he’d retrieved from the glove box. It was about three inches square and one side was covered in shiny silver indentations. As we approached the booth he held it up to the windshield, just below the mirror, and the barrier immediately whipped up out of our way.
“What is that thing?” I said. “Is it legal?”
Patrick nodded toward a board marked THIS LANE-NO CASH-E-ZPASS ONLY. Then he moved his thumb and I saw a matching logo on the white side of the square.
“Why keep it hidden, then?” I said.
“It’s not hidden,” he said. “It fell off. No one stuck it back on yet.”
FIFTEEN
I knew the hotel was good-I’d stayed there before-but I wasn’t going back for their service. I knew it was handy for our meeting the next day, but I wasn’t worried about how far we’d have to drive. I’d have chosen the place anyway, whatever it was like and wherever it was located. Because, for that one night, I needed something else more than I needed comfort or convenience. I needed a garage. A particular kind. It had to be underground, away from prying eyes. And, unusually for what I’d seen of New York, one where we could park our own car.
The machine controlling the entrance barrier had developed a fault, causing it to display its instructions in German. Patrick pointed to its small LCD screen and rolled his eyes in disgust.
“Sure you’re not French?” I said.
He took a ticket anyway and then coasted down the ramp, running wide at the bottom to avoid adding to the scrapes of paint on the white concrete wall.
The space we’d entered was smaller than the FBI’s garage-about half the size-but it was cleaner and brighter. The fluorescent lights were closer together, casting no shadows on the shiny gray floor, and the regimented layout of pillars and parking bays was a million miles from the color and chaos of the city streets we’d
