“Sure.”
“Is there parking in back?”
“Yeah.”
“Good. We’ll come to the back door.”
I stuff the phone back in my pocket and stare aimlessly out the window as my head spins out possible explanations for the impending visit. None of the scenarios I imagine ends happily. Jake’s going to give me a heart attack one of these days with his calls about needing to see me right away.
“What’s going on, Tony? Has something happened to Brittany?”
I look up to find Pat studying me with concern from the bottom of the stairs. She’s wearing faded jeans, a gray, long-sleeve T-shirt, and fuzzy Dumbo slippers that were a gift from her niece.
“I’m not sure,” I reply. “Jake and Max are on their way here.”
“You look scared.”
I shrug and squat down to clean Deano’s paws, and then start in on a tummy rub. “Maybe a little. I’m a little frazzled in general.”
She frowns and changes the subject. “I had a chat with Ben Larose today. The NTSB people were drafting their final report when they received some sort of bombshell information that put things on hold.”
I think I can guess what that is. Penelope sent Sapphire Larkin to the NTSB with her Megan Walton story, but it’s not for public consumption. Not yet, anyway, so I can’t tell Pat about it.
“Does Ben have any insight into the FBI’s plans regarding Billy and Rick?” I ask.
“He thinks that can still go either way.”
I guess there’s still room for hope on that score. Temporarily distracted, my hand has gone still on Deano’s tummy. His wet nose nudges my derelict fingers back into action.
“Ben’s sources suggest the investigation is leaning toward a finding of pilot error, although they’re considering other contributing factors,” Pat continues. “Whatever new information they received supports the pilot-error theory.”
Damned right it does.
“Anyway,” Pat says, “the report will be delayed for another couple of weeks.”
After I discussed Sapphire’s situation and our fears with Jake and Max, they spoke to their FBI contacts. The Feds agreed that the information should be held closely and have taken Sapphire into protective custody until Joe is rounded up. I hope they can keep her safe.
Two car doors slam out back. Pat glances out the window while she stirs cream into a cup of tea. “Here they come.”
I wait with my heart pounding against my ribs. I know something momentous is coming. Jake sounded on edge over the phone, and he and Max are stone-faced when they step inside. I give Deano’s tummy a final rub and get to my feet. The dog sighs in disgust, then turns his head away and rolls onto his side.
“Tony,” Jake says curtly as he peels off his dripping jacket. Max merely nods a greeting.
My flagging spirits revive a little when I recognize grim determination in their demeanors. They don’t look like a couple of guys resigned to delivering catastrophic news.
Jake grabs Deano’s damp towel off the floor and starts to wipe his face, wrinkles his nose in distaste, then holds it away and studies it with disgust. I stifle a chuckle. Ah, the smell of wet dog. There’s nothing quite like it.
“Can we speak with Tony alone?” Jake asks Pat after he drops the towel and reaches for the paper towels.
Pat’s a little surprised, maybe even a little miffed to be kicked out of her own kitchen, but she recovers quickly. After shooting me a look filled with fear, she collects her tea mug and trudges up the stairs as if she’s ascending a hangman’s gallows.
“Got any coffee?” Max asks.
I put on a pot of coffee and dig three mugs out of the cupboard while he and Jake settle in around Pat’s kitchen table.
“So?” I ask when I join them.
“The FBI is moving in tonight.”
My heart skips a beat. “They know where Brittany is?”
“Not exactly,” Jake mutters.
What in hell does that mean? “Is she okay?”
Jake waves me off and says, “Sorry. Let me back up a bit.”
“Okay,” I mutter impatiently while Max pulls a plate of cookies close and snags a few.
“The FBI has come around to our thinking that something is going down tonight,” Jake says. “A move, maybe something more.”
The words “something more” send a chill through me.
“J.P. is pretty confident that they’ve narrowed Brittany’s whereabouts down to two possible locations.”
“Where?” I ask.
“Both are more or less local,” Jake replies.
Whatever more or less local means. Probably not important. “They’ll hit both places at the same time?”
Jake shakes his head.
“What?” I ask in alarm. “Why the hell not? Those bastards will kill her the minute they know the FBI is after them!”
Jake frowns. “Have you been following the news this afternoon?”
“No.” As if I have time for that these days, or an inclination to watch some stranger kvetching about his or her fears for my daughter’s well-being—as if Brittany is something more than a vehicle to boost viewer ratings. “What did I miss?”
“There’s a celebrity kidnapping and hostage situation in California.”
I get up to pour three mugs of coffee and carry them back while Jake fills me in on the irrelevant details of events in California. As if I care. There are already sugar, sweetener, and creamers nestled in a basket in the center of the table. I peel two sweeteners open and empty them into my mug, dump in a couple of creamers, and wait while Jake fixes his coffee.
“What does the BS in California have to do with us?” I ask.
“J.P. was supposed to have two HRT teams on hand tonight,” Jake replies. “One is now on its way to Los Angeles.”
“HRT teams?” I ask.
“Hostage Rescue Teams,” Max explains.
“What does this mean to us?”
Jake eyes me steadily and says, “The FBI has only one team to hit two sites tonight.”
Now I’m totally confused. One team. Two raids. “So, they’re going to hold off, right?”
“J.P. is pretty confident that something’s going down tonight. You already know we agree with that.
