“He just…left. At first she thought it was a joke. I was gone that weekend with my mom, but she called me a bunch of times. She was so upset. She couldn’t reach him, and it drove her crazy. She tried
“Did she tell you what happened right before he left?”
“Just what I told you—he said he was going to his truck to get more pot.”
“So there was no hint that he was going to leave? She thought he would be back?”
“Of course she did! That was why she was so upset.”
“Did he meet the vice president?”
“What?”
“The vice president. He was there that weekend.”
“I don’t think so. There’s no way her mom and dad would introduce Luke to the vice president. We had our orders.”
“Orders?”
“Like, if anybody important came, we were supposed to stay at the bungalow. We weren’t supposed to leave, because they had to have their privacy. They didn’t want us spying on them.”
“Could you spy on them?”
She didn’t answer.
“Zoe?”
“Look, I…”
“Zoe, this is important. I’m not out to bust you. I just want to know if you’ve ever spied on any of Riley’s parents’ guests. Have you?”
“Riley’s gonna
“This is important, Zoe. It might have to do with what happened to Luke.”
“You mean, why he
Jolie didn’t answer.
“Uh, well, there’s this old tunnel—it comes out by the pool, like there’s a backdoor to the cabanas. On hot nights sometimes, we sneak out there and have a smoke—sometimes we raid the liquor cabinet—and if anybody comes we’re, like,
“Did Luke know about it?”
“Uh…”
“
Her answer was meek. “Yes.”
Jolie called Royce Brady again. This time she got him. She told him to meet her at the motel.
“
“Now.”
He showed up ten minutes later and let her into room nine. She did a thorough search. Opened the toilet tank, ran her hand behind it. Reached under the bed, especially around the casters. Checked between the bedspring and the mattress. She looked in every nook and cranny that could hold a cell phone, but there was nothing.
“Are we done here?” Royce said.
“Looks like.”
“Good.” He locked the door behind them. He didn’t bother to ask her what she was looking for, just stalked to his car. He had his own troubles.
Full dark now. Jolie went behind room nine, shined her Mag Lite up at the narrow bathroom window, which cranked outward. Nothing on the ledge. Nothing on the ground below, except for weeds and trash. She walked alongside the oleanders, shining her light through the leaves.
He probably stashed the phone in his apartment, and whoever came to the house that day found it.
Jolie opened her car door. She stared down the road at the neighborhood where Mark Armstrong lived. There
This time the street was quiet when Jolie parked at the top and walked down to the house with the boat.
The boat was in the third yard down close to the street. Jolie got on her hands and knees on the springy grass and looked under the boat. Played her Mag Lite over the cinder blocks, felt along their exposed edges. No cell phone. He could have hidden it anywhere. Maybe the FBI really
She heard a door open and peered out. Someone came out onto the porch of the house two yards down. Jolie stayed under the boat, hoping they’d go back in.
When the neighbor went back inside, she slid out and walked back up the road to her car.
40
Franklin Haddox tried to focus on the man sitting on the bench seat opposite him. They were still on the boat. The guy looked familiar—Frank thought he might be his cousin. Nick, the writer. But the man didn’t act like a cousin. He wasn’t dressed like a writer, either. He wore a dark blue cap pulled low over his forehead and a windbreaker. He looked deadly serious, as if something terrible had happened. Lines of disapproval bracketed his mouth. He reminded Frank of his security detail back when he was in the cabinet. Much more professional than the buffoons he had now.
Frank understood this was official business. He decided not to say anything—he wanted to see where this was going. Plus, he had a massive headache and no memory of what he’d been doing before he found himself sitting in the galley, resting his head on his arms on the dinette table. Sleeping it off, maybe.
The man opposite him leaned forward so their arms were touching. He smiled, which made Frank feel better. There was something confidential in the smile, as if they shared a common goal. It put him at ease immediately.
“What do you know about the man under this seat?”
“Seat?” The feeling that they shared a common goal vanished. Frank felt something move in his chest. He realized what it was: fear, a clump of it, dissolving quickly and shooting into this system.
The man said, “Do you need a refresher course?”
“Refresher course?”
The man sighed and rose to his feet. He looked saddened, as if he carried the weight of the world on his back. He pushed the seat cushion to the floor and with one swift move opened the storage compartment. Quick— then let the lid slam back down.
But Frank saw it all right. Mashed into the small space, fetal position, neck at an impossible angle, a human pretzel—it would be impossibly painful if the contents inside the box were still alive. But they weren’t. Even with the lid down, Frank could see the eye, fixed upward like the eye of a gaffed tarpon.
The realization slammed down on him with its full weight. His face radiated heat. “You don’t think
The man stood over him like a stern father.
Frank’s vocal cords barely gained purchase, and his question came out in a squeak. “Who are you?”
“Special Agent Eric Salter.”
“FBI?” A fresh bolt of terror shot through him.
“Correct.”
Salter reached into his trouser pocket, pulled out his wallet badge, and flipped it open—he was FBI, all right. He put it back, plucked at the dark slacks above his knees, hunkered down beside the offending bench seat, and
