After she had gone to her room, taking Little Alex with her, Michaels wondered what it must feel like to be as old as she was and still bear the responsibility for all the generations of her family. And that a grandson had called his grandmother about his child when he was ill, probably knowing she would hop on a plane and come out there. Did they think she could somehow fix the boy, with some old-country magic?
He shook his head. Probably not. But it was amazing that they would call her, and that she would pick up and go, just like that.
Toni was going to have to take some time off from work to watch the baboo. He paused, then. No, he thought. Maybe
He thought about the pending lawsuit and Corinna Skye. He thought about the meetings on the Hill, and the thousands of other time wasters and frustrations that were all a part of running Net Force — or any government agency.
He thought about all that, and then he thought again about that latest job offer he’d looked at the other day.
Yeah, maybe he should take a couple of days off. He’d think about it some more and talk with Toni about it when she got home.
All at once it seemed like he had a lot of thinking to do.
28
Ames had made his rounds at the hospital and then headed over to his law office. His staff there had things under control. The clock he had bought at the estate sale was being delivered today. The sun was shining, and it was a hot one, but the air conditioner kept the car’s interior most comfortable. He’d had an early and great lunch.
All in all, he was feeling pretty good as he tooled the Mercedes through the thick traffic toward his safe office for the meeting with the hacker.
Then he saw the two men sitting in the unmarked car parked on the street in front of the little strip mall. They wore suits and sunglasses, sat inside a car in the hot summer sun. Cops. They had to be.
Ames didn’t slow. He just drove on past. Half a block up the street he saw a second unmarked car, and his belly twisted.
Maybe they hadn’t set up surveillance on the mall offices to catch him. It was possible they were looking for somebody else, but when you were engaged in illegal activities, it paid to be paranoid.
That he was supposed to be meeting Thumper here in a few minutes and that there were at least four men watching the place? That was worth worrying about.
He frowned, assessing the situation with the same speed and efficiency with which he would size up a new case.
He’d have to abandon that office. That was clear to him, but it wasn’t that big a deal. One of the reasons he had selected it, however, was that there were no security cameras installed in the building, at least not in any of the common areas. They were going to do that eventually, they had told him, but he would have left to find another safe office before that happened.
Inconvenient, but at least there was nothing to connect him to that office. He had rented it under a phony name, and each time before he departed the office he wiped all surfaces that might have collected his fingerprints. Even the furniture had been bought via a dummy corporation that ended in a cul-de-sac. He was clear.
But what had tipped the cops? Thumper must have screwed up and gotten himself caught. And naturally, he would have given his employer up.
He turned off the AC, feeling a sudden chill. Even though the hacker couldn’t do anything to him, Ames realized that he himself had been less than careful. He had gotten complacent. Once upon a time, he would have sent his man ahead to check the place out. He had done that the first few times he’d met people there. After a while, though, it had seemed a waste of effort so he had stopped.
If he had gone into the building, into the office, they would have had him. Not that they could have convicted him of anything, there wouldn’t be anything but Thumper’s word against his, but even to be taken in and questioned? Scary, that thought. At the least, he would have been marked as a person of interest, which would have made things much more difficult for him.
He sighed. He had gotten lucky this time, but he refused to rely on luck. He would simply have to move with extreme caution regarding such things from now on.
He turned at the next intersection. He would go home for a few hours, run over things in his mind until he was sure he had considered everything.
Junior waved at the waitress, a woman of forty with most of her bare arms and bikini-topped upper body covered with tattoos. He caught her attention, made a horizontal circle with his finger, and pointed it at his table.
The waitress, who carried a tray with eight bottles of beer on it, nodded back at him.
Junior was buying. So far, he’d bought four rounds, and he was willing to keep ’em coming all night, if that’s what it took.
He only knew one of the three men at the table with him. Buck was a former Gypsy Joker who’d gotten into some trouble over a saddlebag full of crystal meth and wound up doing four-to-six at Angola when Junior had been there. Buck was big, mean, stupid, and he liked to fight.
One day in the showers, Buck had let himself get a little overmatched, going up against four black guys without any help nearby. The biker had been giving a fair account of himself, but the other guys were big and mean, too, and it was just a matter of time before they nailed Buck. That was when Junior stepped in and helped out. Buck was the kind of guy who remembered a thing like that, so when Junior called him, he was happy to do this little thing for him.
The smoke was so thick in here you could bounce quarters off of it, and the copy of “Born to Be Wild” playing on the jukebox must be about worn out, since somebody played it every third song.
The other two guys at the table with him were friends of Buck’s, Dawg and Spawn.
Dawg said, “So what was it you want her for again?”
Junior, who had put some thought into a story so as not to get in trouble with somebody who might be involved with Joan’s sister or something, said, “Not her; I’m looking for her sister. She stole my car, my watch, my credit cards, and split.”
It was always better to put some truth in whatever you passed around. If it got to it, that much would pan out, plus you didn’t have to remember which lie you had told.
Spawn, a bodybuilder obviously on steroids, shrugged shoulders that looked like split cannonballs under his sleeveless denim jacket. “Big deal. That’s worth chasin’ her from Texas?”
Junior caught Spawn’s gaze and put a little macho into it. “No,” he said. “But she ran over my Soft Tail when she left. Knocked it into the street and it got totaled by a UPS van. Twenty-six thousand dollars worth of upgrades on it, including a handmade, eighteen-coat, hand-rubbed candy-apple red Space Cadet gas tank with psychedelic green flames.”
“Oh, man,” Dawg said. “That sucks.”
Even Spawn had to shake his head at that.
Junior nodded. The way to a biker’s heart was to talk about somebody damaging your scoot. Hurt worse than a kick in the balls to think about a restored bike getting wrecked any way except the rider dying with it.
“Let me see the picture,” Dawg said.
Junior produced the picture, one he’d cropped from a vid on one of the blackmail shoots.
He looked, but shook his head. “Ain’t seen her.”
He passed the photo to Spawn, who squinted at it through his cigarette smoke. “You know, she looks a little like Darla, at the Peach Pit.”
Dawg took the picture back. “Yeah, now that you mention it, she does, kinda.”
