Thanks for your Trust-M.
He folded the page into the envelope, then went through his knapsack, coming up with three passports. He slipped Laura Dolan and Kelley Dolan into the envelope and put the Lionel Dolan passport into his own pocket. He sealed the envelope and addressed it to Tina's parents in Austin, Texas, pasting on more stamps than necessary.
Nearly two hours had passed by the time he reached Tampa International. Milo parked in the short-term lot a little after midnight, wiped down the steering wheel, and took his knapsack with him into the north entrance.
Once he'd passed the sliding glass doors, he grabbed a complimentary airport map and settled on a bench. There was a mail drop one floor up on the transfer level. From his seat, he read the monitors listing departure cities and times. It turned out that the 'International' in the airport's name was a little misleading, since the best they could manage was a single London flight each day and a couple of Canadian destinations. Not that it mattered; he wasn't planning on leaving the country just yet.
There-Delta could take him to JFK at 7:31 a.m., an hour and a half after Simmons would realize he wasn't on the Orlando flight. He hoped that would give him time.
At the Delta counter, three other people stood in front of him-a father, mother, and teenaged son, also heading to New York.
That's when it caught up with him, and he felt dizzy, thinking of Janet Simmons back in that apartment, interrogating his family. He should have stayed. He'd spent six years shielding Tina from his job, and in a matter of days all that work had been undone. He'd told her too much about Angela's murder, and now she was in the middle of something she had no way of understanding, because Milo didn't understand it either. Why did he have to run?
He had to run because the old go-code had been used, and even after six years it was still hardwired to his feet. Grainger would only have used it if there was no other way.
'Sir?' said the Delta clerk. 'You wanted to go somewhere?'
His 747 touched down at JFK just after 10:00 a.m.-the pilot apologized to everyone for being nine minutes late. The large woman who'd been squeezing Milo tight against the window turned out to be afraid of flying, and told him in a manic southern accent that she didn't care how late they were, just as long as she could walk on solid earth again. He said he could see her point. Her name was Sharon; he said his was Lionel. She asked if he was from the city, and, sticking to the original Dolan's particulars, he told her he was from
Newark, and that his wife and daughter were still in Florida; he'd had to fly back unexpectedly for work. His answer seemed to disappoint her.
He took stock of his possessions. He'd had to dump the clothes hanger in Florida to avoid awkward questions from Tampa airport security, but he knew seven other ways to pick up a car if necessary. He had his Dolan passport and Dolan credit cards, but didn't want to use the cards more than he had to. Best to work with cash, and in his wallet he still had two hundred and sixty dollars, which wouldn't take him far in New York.
He spent twenty-five dollars on a shuttle service into town, reaching Grand Central by one. He got out in the shadow of the MetLife Building, then went to the Grand Hyatt, grabbing a tourist map and taking a seat in the huge, mirrored lobby, next to a marble fountain.
It took five minutes to settle on his path. The Avenue of the Americas was out of the question. Even if he called to set up a meeting with Grainger elsewhere, he had no idea what his position was with the Company. All Grainger had said was 'Go.' After the risk of last night's call, Milo didn't want to sink him into deeper trouble.
He descended into the subway and spent seven dollars on a day pass, then took the train north to Fifty-third Street and the Museum of Modern Art. He skipped the milling crowds waiting to enter the galleries and went to the gift store. He'd visited a month ago with Tina and Stephanie during the thousandth Van Gogh exhibition. They'd come for Stephanie's benefit, but other than a few comments on his choice of colors, she didn't have much use for the one-eared Dutchman. It was in the gift shop that she'd come alive. Milo, too, had enjoyed the store and puzzled for a long time over an interesting piece of jewelry he hoped was still there. He came around to the glass cases and found it: the magnetic bracelet collection, designed by Terrence Kelleman.
'Can I help you?' said a teenaged boy in a MoMA shirt on the other side of the case.
'That, please.'
It was remarkable in its simplicity. A series of a hundred or so quarter-inch-long nickel-plated rods clinging together solely by magnetism. He snapped it open to test the strength, then put it back together. He tried another link-yes, it might work.
'I'll take it,' he told the boy.
'Gift wrap?'
'I think I'll wear it now.'
Forty-five dollars lighter, it took another twenty minutes to get south again, to the Lord & Taylor on Fifth and West Thirty-eighth. He browsed by the entrance, on the edge of the expansive cosmetics department, examining the security. It was a simple two-pillar alarmdetector with shielded power cables leading to the wall. It didn't matter, but was good to know.
He took the stairs up to the third floor, where a field of men's clothes was on display. For the next half hour he looked at suits, finally settling on a mid-priced Kenneth Cole three-button job. It was a bit long in the arms, covering his new bracelet, but otherwise fit perfectly, and was neither ostentatious nor cheap. It would do-that is, it would satisfy one of Tourism's many important rules, which is to always look like a businessman.
Still in the dressing room, he popped off the bracelet and rubbed the end against each of the store's magnetized alarm strips. He knew that in theory this should work, but wasn't convinced until, after rubbing for a full minute, he heard the soft snap of the strip unlocking. He removed it carefully. Once the shirt, slacks, and shoes were also free, he transferred his wallet and keys to his new clothes.
When he came out, one of the younger salesmen was watching. Milo looked around conspicuously, rising to see over racks of clothes. 'Janet?' he called, then walked over to the salesman. 'Hey, did you see a short woman, yea high, with a nose ring?'
The salesman helpfully looked around with him. 'Maybe she's downstairs in the women's section.'
'She can't stay still.' Milo pointed at the stairs. 'Can I run down and show this off?'
The salesman shrugged. 'Sure.'
'Cool. Thanks.' Milo went back to the dressing room and took his knapsack.
'You can leave that,' the salesman informed him.
'You think I don't watch Cops} I'll keep it on me. That all right?'
'Sure. You just bring that suit back.'
'Like I said, I've seen Cops. Think I want to end up on a police car's hood?'
The salesman laughed; Milo winked.
By three, dressed in Kenneth Cole, he was at a pay phone on Ninth Avenue, just around the corner from Penn Station and across the street from a shamrock-motif bar called the Blarney Stone. He slipped in a coin and dialed Grainger's private mobile number. After three rings, he heard the old man's voice: 'Uh, yes?'
Milo spoke in an imitation of Sharon 's southern drawl. 'Yeah, this Thomas Grainger?'
'Yes.'
'Well, look, I'm Gerry Ellis from Ellis Dry Cleaning. Yesterday, you dropped your shirts off here. Someone went and lost the receipt, but we know it's a home delivery. Right?'
Grainger paused, and in that brief space Milo feared he wasn't going to understand. But he did: 'Yes. That's right.'
'Well, listen. We've got your address, but we don't have the delivery time. When were we supposed to drop it off this evening?'
A pause. 'Make it six o'clock. Is that all right?'
'No problem, Mr. Grainger. We'll be there.'
Milo went into the Blarney Stone. It was a dark, dismal-looking place with photographs of famous Irish people from literary, cinematic, and musical history. He took a stool at the bar, across from Bono and two down from a thin, unshaven man who looked very much like a regular. The bartender-an over-the-hill redhead- sounded more Jersey than Dublin. 'What'll you have?'
