was a different story. He felt winded, and every step jabbed at his legs. The calf muscle in his right leg cramped while his ham-strings pulled taut.
“I have a cab waiting about a block to the west,” grunted Dean, losing ground to Karr, who jogged down the steps two or three at a time. The younger man’s pants were red with blood, but it didn’t seem to slow him down.
“I got something better than a cab,” Karr told Dean, hitting the landing and turning toward the door. “Come on.” By the time Dean caught up with him outside, Karr had hopped into the truck behind the building. The truck’s motor coughed to life as Dean pitched himself into the seat.
“Just turn left on that street behind you,” said Rockman.
“Got it,” said Karr. He threw the truck into reverse, swerved into the intersection backward, and squealed the tires as he changed direction. The truck tottered sideways, then picked up steam.
“Keep us in one piece,” said Dean, still out of breath.
“Oh yeah!” said Karr. It was more a battle cry than an ac-know ledg ment; the truck continued to accelerate.
Dean slapped his hand on the dashboard as Karr barely avoided hitting a parked car at the next corner. The truck tilted on its left wheels as he veered through the intersection; Dean braced himself, waiting for the crash.
“That’s him up there, getting onto the Honda
The Honda
“Rockman, get us directions to Thao Duong’s apartment,” Dean said. Then he turned to Karr. “Let’s swap places.”
“Why? Don’t trust my driving?”
“Your leg’s bleeding,” Dean answered.
“Ah, just a scratch.”
“Well, let’s give it a chance to heal.”
“You don’t trust my driving,” said Karr.
“No, I don’t.”
Karr chuckled, and pressed harder on the gas.
Thao Duong lived a few blocks away. Even from the outside, it seemed obvious he hadn’t taken the cab there; the place was dark. Dean left Karr in the truck and went up the fire escape. The window to the kitchen was open; Dean lifted it and slipped inside. Ten minutes later he was back in the truck, having planted two audio bugs in the flat and a tracking bug on the bicycle Thao kept in the hallway.
“Gotta be our guy,” said Karr as they returned the truck.
“What ever you said to him at the reception spooked him.”
“Maybe,” said Dean. “But if he is, how do we get him to talk?”
“You turn on the charm,” said Karr. “But before that, we ought to find out what he’s got locked away.”
“Yeah,” said Dean.
A light-colored sedan passed on a nearby street. The car looked like an unmarked police car, though he caught only a glimpse. They waited a few minutes, then slipped from the truck and began walking in the direction to the hotel.
“You don’t think Thao Duong’s our guy?” asked Karr.
“Seems too easy.”
“Easy?”
“First guy we check?”
“Odds are only one out of three,” said Karr. “Just as likely to be number one as number three.”
“The one thing I know about Vietnam,” said Dean, “is that nothing’s easy. And nothing’s what it seems.”
“That’s two things,” said Karr. “You can’t fool me, Charlie. I was once a mathematician.”
42
The Marshals’ Service credentials didn’t impress the state troopers in Danbury, Connecticut, nor were they shy about letting Lia know that they’d been over the same ground with both the Secret Service and the FBI, ad infinitum. But one of the investigators was recently divorced, a little lonely, and obviously bored — a combination that made getting him to give her a complete tour of the crime scene and an in-depth review of the case child’s play.
The only downside was that he wanted to take her to lunch as well. Not particularly hungry — and in no need of a shadow as she checked out the computers in the hotel for messages Forester might have sent — Lia let him down as gently as possible, feigning a headache. But he didn’t really get the message until she told him she had to call her boyfriend.
“Oh,” said the investigator. “Maybe another time.”
“Wait,” said Lia as he headed for his car.
When he turned around, she could see the hope in his eyes. She felt like a heel.
“Was there a notebook in the car?” she asked. “One of Forester’s notebooks seems to be missing.”
“Notebook? No.”
“Oh.”
“Sorry.”
“It’s OK.”
“Another time.”
“Sure.”
Lia drove back to the hotel where Forester had killed himself, thinking about Charlie Dean the whole time. She wished she’d gone to Vietnam with him — or that he was here with her. She thought of calling him, or asking the Art Room to connect them, but Vietnam was eleven hours ahead time-wise; he’d be sleeping.
The hotel advertised that it “catered to businesspeople” by offering a “dedicated business center.” The business center turned out to consist of a fax machine and copier, along with two computers connected to the Internet. The person supervising the center was also assigned to clean up the nearby eating area and help at the front desk, and left Lia alone soon after showing her the room. Lia slipped a specially designed “dongle” into one of the computer’s USB ports, then had the Art Room read off the contents of the hard drive via the Internet. She repeated the pro cess a few minutes later with the second computer.
“Did you get it all?” she asked Marie Telach, taking out her sat phone and pretending to use it.
“Another minute. When you’re done, check out the hotel where Amanda Rauci stayed. Maybe he was there.”
“She says he never made it.”
“Check it out anyway,” said Telach, her tone implying that Lia was somehow slacking off.
“Wild-goose chases are us,” replied Lia.
The other hotel was set back farther from the road, up a twisting driveway that made it feel more secluded — it looked exactly like the sort of place someone would pick for an affair, Lia thought. The lobby was located at the side of an atrium, and the place had a less rushed, more luxurious feel than the other hotel. The business center here had a full-time employee and six computers, three of which were occupied when Lia came in. There was also a wireless network, allowing individuals to connect to the Internet via their laptops.
“Room number?” asked the room’s supervisor.
“I haven’t checked in yet,” said Lia.
“I’m sorry, the computers are only for guests.”
