Just before Peter had left the co-op, he patted his jogging outfit. No transmitters sewn into the clothing, he had convinced himself. He then examined his running shoes, first picking up the right one and searching for a slit around its soles. Finding nothing suspicious, he bent the shoe, thinking something might become evident. Again, nothing.
He ran his index finger down the top of the shoe tongue, to the back, and a spot hidden by thick laces. He felt something small, hard. He held the opening to the light and discovered a disc—similar to the one in his jacket collar—attached to the tiny spot between the tongue and the shoe-top. He never would have seen or felt its presence once the shoe was on. He did not remove the transmitter. He then repeated the process with the left shoe. Nothing.
Peter poured a cavernous bowl of dry cat-food for Henry. He leaned over, stroked the cat’s back, and whispered, “I know you don’t like dry, old man, but I may be gone for a while.” He then took a large bowl from above the sink and filled it with a half-gallon of water.
Peter bolted his front door on the way out and began a slow jog that built to a run. He churned up a hill that led north, through the central business district, pushing himself at a five-minute mile clip—fast enough to ditch anyone following on foot. He then cut through several dead-end street barriers, blocking any car that might be trailing.
Ending a confusing two-mile route, he stopped and removed the right shoe. He reached in and ripped the bug from its hiding place. He placed the circle on the pavement and stepped hard, crushing the insect-sized device. Putting his shoe back on, he took off again, this time at an even more rapid pace. He veered towards Rancho Santa Fe, a three-mile run up hills and over trails.
A mile later, outside the men’s room at a mini-mall already decorated for Christmas, he stopped at a payphone to call Drew Franklin. Despite being hidden from view, he remained alert to anything or anyone unusual. He watched as wide-eyed kids dragged their tired parents to toy and electronics stores. A small line formed outside a Radio Shack as someone extolled the wonders of some video-game gadget. Capitalism at its finest, he thought. Despite the innocence of the scene, Peter kept all senses on alert. This qualified as prudence, not paranoia, he assured himself.
After Drew answered, Peter tried to explain things, then instructed his friend, “Meet me downtown Rancho Santa Fe. In the back of that nursery off the main road. I’ll need to talk to Ayers, so give me an hour and a half.”
“Why not meet you outside Ayers’ house?” Drew asked.
“I’m not certain I can trust the guy. If he calls whoever is so interested in following me, I don’t know what might happen. This way, I’ll take off, no matter what.”
Before agreeing, Drew asked, “Does this have something to do with your current employment?”
“I hope not, but probably. And if it does have a connection, I may be up shit creek for more reasons than just Mom’s papers.”
“I hate to ask.”
“I’ve done some trades that aren’t exactly legal.”
“You broke securities laws? I can’t believe that, White Bread.” Peter was grateful Drew didn’t sound judgmental.
“Everybody in this end of the business is guilty—you get non-public information, you do a trade based on that information. It’s impossible to turn the fact-faucet off—brokers, corporate management, even politicians spoon-feed non-public tidbits to us all day long. Most times, we don’t even ask for it.”
“If these people call and volunteer information, you mean to tell me it’s illegal to use?” Drew sounded bewildered. “Doesn’t sound criminal to me.”
“That’s what I told myself, and even believed was true—I didn’t realize until later . . .” Peter heard the dinging of a garbage truck backing up. “That’s all bullshit,” he said. “I don’t have a good rationale for what I did. But I know for damn sure I need to be more careful from here on out. I think I’m capable of making good money based on legitimately obtained information.”
“It sounds confusing,” Drew said. “I think I’ll stick to blocked arteries and aneurysms.”
“That’s not all, either. I’ve got an ex-SEC agent after my ass. I’m in the middle of something ugly, and I don’t know how to get out.”
“I’ll do whatever I can to help.”
“Thanks, Drew. I love you, man.”
“Me, Monica, and soon-to-be baby Hannah love you too. And, Bread?”
“Yeah?”
“You got the number of my voice mail at the hospital?”
“Memorized.”
“I’m gonna give you the password. That way we can give each other messages, then retrieve them without someone listening in.”
“Thanks. Mind if I give the number to my buddy Stuart at work? If this gets any hairier, I may need to talk to him on the QT.”
“Do what you have to do, Bread,” Drew said.
Finishing, Peter hung up. He gave a final look around, then began to jog, still considering which route to take.
The wind blew briskly with the air temperature in the low sixties. “Perfect weather for a run,” he told himself.
He decided to take side roads until he got to the Rancho Santa Fe trails. At the trails, he legged his way east, keeping out of sight. His collar lay flat, so he pulled it high and angled his Padre baseball cap, allowing it to shield his neck and face. Fifteen minutes later, he arrived at the outskirts of Rancho Santa Fe, sucking oxygen into his burning lungs. Shadows from skyscraping trees cast a chill over his dripping sweatshirt. He shivered. Bounding forward at a steady pace, he squinted at a street sign and continued farther east. A couple of minutes later, he arrived at the lonely stretch of road that wound down a steep hill to Jason Ayers’ estate.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
THE SEVEN-FOOT GRANITE WALL HAD JUST ENOUGH DEPTH BETWEEN boulders to make scaling possible, and the green wrought-iron that ran along the top of the wall looked more intimidating than it actually was. Once he caught his breath, Peter conquered both obstacles in less than a minute. He chose a corner of the property hidden from the road by trees. No neighbor—if you could call someone an eighth of a mile away a neighbor—could see him entering. A lawn mower buzzed from the back of the house, behind a hedge dividing the three acres of front from the five acres of back. The gardener had parked his truck alongside the six-car garage in a space the size of a basketball court.
Peter hunched over and worked his way towards the front door. He passed a picture window with the drapes drawn. Overhead, a helicopter chopped at a low altitude. The word
“Get a grip,” he whispered, feeling like a thief.
Just then a cloud blew across the sun, darkening the sky and cooling the air. The wind responded with a force that threatened to dislodge his cap. Peter pressed the brim more securely over his eyebrows and ventured another ten steps. A canvas doormat rested on the slate stoop leading to the main entrance.
At least twelve feet high, the double front doors had arched, etched glass mounted in a cedar frame. Peter remained out of view, shielding his approach behind dense brush running across the face of the house. This monolith of a place not only reeked money, but also defied architectural classification. Dark wood beams framed white stucco walls. The red-tiled roof gave the home a Mediterranean appearance that, taken as a whole, looked flawless from where Peter stood, gaping.
When he reached the entranceway, Peter at first knocked, then rang the doorbell—a chime that echoed.
