anybody.’
‘All we need,’ Groote said around the mouthful of popcorn, ‘is one.’
They found an all-night coffee shop near the Santa Monica Pier that offered Internet access, and Miles started working. After finding that Quantrill had spent his final hours on earth calling a Chinese restaurant, his landscape crew, and two numbers that Groote believed to be those of the dead popcorn-eaters, Miles hit pay dirt on the fifth number. He found it belonged to a Greg Bradley. A Google search of the man’s name, combined with pharmaceutical, showed that Bradley owned a consulting firm based in Boston that advised Aldis-Tate, one of the largest U.S.-based drug companies.
‘That’s our boy,’ Groote said. ‘Sorenson pretended to be from Aldis-Tate when he came to the hospital.’
The call log indicated the conversation between Quantrill and Bradley had been lengthy – well over thirty minutes.
‘Long conversations,’ Miles said, ‘suggest a detailed discussion, and that means Quantrill might have been persuasive about bucking the second auction.’
Groote frowned. ‘So you think Bradley chickened out?’
‘Let’s see if he did. Give me a second.’ He dialed Bradley’s cell phone, waited.
‘Don’t screw this up,’ Groote said in a low voice.
‘Hello?’
‘Mr. Bradley?’
‘Yes?’
‘Hi, sir, this is Corey with the credit-card security firm Ironlock. I’m checking on a charge cancellation that raised a red flag in our systems. Have you canceled an airline flight recently, sir?’
‘Uh, yeah. Today.’
‘A flight to Austin, sir?’
‘Well, yeah…’ Then a long, awkward pause. ‘Who are you again?’
Miles spoke with hyperbrisk efficiency: ‘Sir, we check any cancellation that raises a red flag as we insure the credit-card companies and we pay their charge cancellation insurance. We’re investigating a couple of airlines that charge falsely, then cancel immediately so we have to pay up. But if it’s a genuine cancellation, that’s no problem, and I thank you for your time.’ He hung up. ‘I think he canceled. He got frosty when I mentioned Austin.’
‘You’re a good liar. Is there such a thing as that insurance?’
‘I have no idea.’ Miles started trying the next numbers in the call log.
He got lucky three numbers later. Quantrill had called the same number, three times in a row, the first conversation lasting forty seconds, the next two barely lasting ten seconds.
‘If it’s not a girlfriend,’ Groote said, ‘it’s someone who doesn’t want to talk to Quantrill.’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘You’re good at this.’
The man’s name was David Singhal and he was a former VP of research at a Swiss pharmaceutical, now running a research consulting firm based in Los Angeles. Miles searched his name using Google’s Images option and found a photo of Singhal from his interview in a European business journal. Fiftyish, cultured, intelligent eyes, a graying goatee. Miles tried the number.
‘Hello, Mr. Singhal?’
‘Yes?’ He had a clipped British accent.
Miles said with shotgun delivery, ‘Hi, this is James with Excelsior Credit Card Security, we work with VISA and with AmEx, and there’s a question about your account, did you recently cancel a flight reservation to Austin?’
Singhal was more cautious than Bradley: ‘I’m sorry, who are you with?’
Miles repeated, adding, ‘We’re assisting the credit-card companies with a database corruption. The discrepancy is that one version of the credit database has you making a charge for an LAX-Austin flight, the other rebuilt database has canceled that charge.’
‘It sounds like I should call my airline,’ Singhal said. ‘I’m not going to give you my credit-card number over the phone.’
‘Uh, yes, sir, very wise, you should never do that.’ He made a stab. ‘I can do the database fix so there’s no confusion about your ticket status. Was your flight on Southwest?’
Singhal hung up.
‘Great,’ Miles said. ‘He’ll be calling the airline directly and they’ll tell him all’s well.’
‘Give me the phone.’ Groote took the phone, dialed, spoke quietly, dialed another number, gave a clearance code. He hung up, got them both refills on their coffee, sat down. His phone rang and he listened, clicked the phone off. ‘David Singhal is on the GlobeWest flight tomorrow morning to Austin. I’ll get a call back if he changes his reservation.’
‘How’d you find that out?’
‘A contact at the Bureau.’
‘The government’s monitoring airline passenger lists.’
‘Not a surprise, surely.’
‘Okay,’ Miles said. ‘Now what?’
‘Sleep,’ Groote said.
They stopped at a twenty-four-hour megastore and bought clothes and necessities. Groote gathered cash from an ATM. They checked into a hotel near LAX, same room, twin beds.
Groote said good night and switched off the lamp. Miles couldn’t sleep; he was afraid if he closed his eyes, fell toward rest, Andy would come back.
‘Groote?’
‘Yeah?’
‘When we were driving down today… you never said exactly who attacked your wife and daughter.’
The silence was longer this time. ‘Punks who were threatened by Bureau attention to their ring, thought I was involved in helping decapitate their operations. Misplaced revenge.’
He wanted to ask, What ring? If it had been someone the Barradas aimed him at… but the only southern California ring he’d targeted were the Duartes… and they were all dead now. ‘Who were the punks? Drug dealers?’
‘Doesn’t matter.’
‘So why’d you leave the Bureau?’
‘I could no longer reach my career goals.’
‘What goals?’
‘Well-placed revenge,’ Groote said. ‘I don’t want to talk anymore, Miles. Good night.’
FIFTY-FIVE
The next morning, the second flight from LAX to Austin soared into the crisp blue sky and Miles saw, across the row where an elderly gentleman scanned a Sunday newspaper, the headline that read FEDERAL OFFICER MISSING and below that a picture of DeShawn Pitts.
He couldn’t read the article from where he sat and the gentleman read slowly, every word, never scanning an article. Groote dozed in the seat next to him. Five rows ahead of him sat David Singhal, dressed in a suit, reading the Wall Street Journal.
Finally the man folded the paper, tucked it into his seat pocket.
‘Sir?’ Miles leaned over and spoke in a whisper. ‘Excuse me. Might I see your paper if you’re done?’
‘Sure.’ The gentleman handed him the pages.
Miles read the article with chills touching his skin. DeShawn Pitts, a federal marshal – the story left out that he worked for Witness Protection – had gone missing two days ago, while on unspecified duty. The FBI was asking anyone who had information to call them.
Hurley died on Thursday. DeShawn was at the hospital that day – Miles heard him on Groote’s call to Hurley
