Rough Draft (21 page)

Rosie wore dark cotton Dockers, a white button-down shirt, red tie. Sweating heavily as he usually did when he was out of the air-conditioning. He had a mountain of paperwork he should've been attending to back at the office, but apparently he wanted to have a firsthand look at the high-profile shenanigans taking place in his district. Helen, Andy, and the senator were coolly polite, but basically ignored Jackson. And after ten minutes or so, he was shooting Frank Sheffield looks. How the hell do you put up with these people?

Andy and Helen were both wearing their one-ear headsets, listening to the street chatter from the fifteen other agents scattered throughout the parking lot, the adjoining streets. Both choppers were aloft again, hanging back at a two- or three-mile distance. Even a motorcycle today, a big black Harley. Andy Barth sat at the computer console, tapping keys, changing screens.

“His name is Marcus Shoenfeldt,” Rosie Jackson said. “He's with Miami PD, a handwriting technician, graphology. I believe he's on medical leave at the moment. Nice guy, a little weird around the edges.”

“Handwriting expert?” said Helen. “Would someone please tell me why the hell she's having lunch with a handwriting expert?”

“She's being a good cop,” Frank said. “Following the leads she's been given.”

“What can she expect to learn from the goddamn handwriting?”

“Doesn't matter,” Ackerman said. “If she wants to vary from the scenario, there's nothing we can do about it. Anyway, we're looking for Hal, remember? We're not concerned if Ms. Keller follows the program in lockstep fashion.”

“Well,
I'm
concerned about it,” Helen said “Our locations were chosen very deliberately because they all have good, safe perimeters, we can see anyone coming or going, block all avenues of escape. Now this is getting too fluid, too chaotic. We need to get her back on track.”

“You're something else, Shane,” Frank said. “You cook up some cute little scheme in your quiet D.C. office and expect it to unfold on the streets just like you dreamed it up. That's a bit unrealistic, don't you think?”

“I know what I'm doing, Frank.”

“Do you?”

“It's called Virtual Paradigms, Sheffield,” said Andy Barth. “You wouldn't understand it.”

“That complex, is it? Would go right over my head.”

“You know anything about gaming theory, artificial intelligence programming?” Andy said.

“Gaming theory?” Frank said. “What, like video games?”

He glanced at Rosie Jackson. The big man was staring up at the roof of the UPS truck summoning his patience.

“Simulations,” Andy said. “The Bureau has been using them for years. I guess they haven't made it to the boondocks yet.”

“Oh, sure, simulations. The kind where you chase cartoon monsters down those narrow hallways, splatter their guts against the wall.”

“A little more sophisticated than that, Sheffield.”

“Jesus Christ. You people are a bunch of depraved ten-year-olds. You should be hanging out at a video arcade somewhere, not working the streets.”

“Their success rate is more than ninety percent, Frank.” Ackerman was rolling up the sleeves on his blue work shirt, watching the parking lot through the dark tinted window. “The program is a proven winner.”

Helen gave Sheffield a barracuda smile.

“Frank fancies himself a humanist. Doesn't believe behavior can be reduced or explained. Isn't that right, Frank? Everyone's so complicated.”

“Some people are.”

“Wrong, Frank. Once you know the inner dynamics, what makes someone twitch, the one thing in their personality that overrides everything else, the rest is easy. Write them a part they can't resist, the one thing that motivates the hell out of them, then plug them into the scripts and away we go.”

“Like dead frogs,” Andy said. “Zap the right nerve, the leg jerks.”

“Doesn't look to me like Hannah's playing along so neatly.”

“Oh, sure, she's a little off track at the moment, but she'll get back to it. I'm not worried. She'll be back in the groove in no time. Just watch.”

“Why riddles, Helen?”

“Riddles?”

“Yeah, why the bullshit riddles like some kind of high school scavenger hunt?”

“Think about it, Frank. You're a shrewd investigator.”

“Why don't you just tell me, Shane? Save me the energy drain.”

“She's a mystery writer, isn't she?”

“So?”

“So she likes puzzles.”

“You ever bother to read one of her books?”

“I looked at them. Enough to get the idea.”

“Well, I've read a couple, all the way through, and I could've told you, Helen, her books are about people, not plots. Not riddles.”

“And your point would be what?”

“Well, what I think she's doing, Shane, and this is funny, this is very very cute, Hannah's not solving the riddle. She's not going after Fielding at all.”

“Okay, hotshot, so what's she doing?”

“She's coming after you, Helen. The woman's tracking your ass down.”

Helen met his eyes, gave him one of her death ray blasts. Frank got his shield up in time, deflected it back at her with a grin.

“Hey, Sheffield,” Andy said. “When you were driving the UPS truck yesterday, didn't you have a guy behind you on a motorcycle? Agent Scruggs wants to know.”

“Yeah,” Frank said. “A tailgating asshole on a red bike.”

“Scruggs is on the west end of the shopping center. Says a guy fitting Hal's general description just got on a red dirt
bike and drove out of the parking lot. You want to track him, Helen?”

“He's leaving the scene?”

“That's right. Going east on Bird Road.”

“Where was he? How long was he in the vicinity? I need more information.”

“Scruggs said he came out of a dentist's office.”

Helen scowled at Sheffield for a moment, then shook her head.

“Forget the motorcycle. Guy had a cavity filled, that's all.”

“Target has left the restaurant,” Andy said. “Hannah's outside, walking over to a pay phone. Looks like she's going to make a call.”

Helen kept Frank in her glare for a second or two longer, then turned away, raised her binoculars, and focused them out the tinted window.

“Christ,” she said. “Now what?”

“We should put somebody on that dirt bike.” Frank was trying to bring the image back, the guy he'd seen out his big rearview mirror. But he was pretty sure the biker had on a dark visor.

“He's leaving the scene,” Helen said. “He's not our boy.”

“Unless he made us,” Frank said.

“He didn't make us.”

“I say we put somebody on him. We can spare one guy. Use one of the choppers.”

“Drop it, Sheffield. This is my call.”

“And you're making the wrong one.”

“All right, you two,” Ackerman said. “Put a lid on it. Keep your focus.”

Helen strafed Sheffield with another look, then turned her binoculars back to the scene.

Frank stepped behind her, watched over her shoulder as Hannah looped a strand of hair over her ear and pressed the phone to it. At this distance it was a little hard to see, but it looked like a lovely ear. A guy could whisper into an ear like that. Sweet nothings. The mumbo jumbo of romance. Not
something Frank was particularly good at, but with a woman like Hannah, he might find the inspiration. He could even see pushing the envelope of his three-week romance routine. Maybe extend it to a month, two months. What the hell. His shoulder was still tingling from last night. That had to mean something.

The business card Hannah found at the Bayshore house belonged to an Anna Marie Salvano, a broker for Weber-Sloan Realty. Hannah called her from the pay phone outside of Garcia's Café. Got Anna Salvano's voice mail. She left her name, her cell phone number, said she was very interested in some property Anna had listed.

Then she called local information and asked for the number for Maude Fielding and was told that there was no such listing.

“Anything close?” Hannah asked.

“There's an M. A. Fielding on Flagler Street. And a Martin Fielding in Hialeah.”

Hannah got the number for M.A. on Flagler.

After seven or eight rings, ready to hang up, she heard a drowsy female voice answer. Too young to be J.J.'s wife.

“I'm looking for Maude Fielding,” Hannah said.

The young woman was silent.

“Are you there?”

“I'm here,” she said. Irritable, suspicious. “You got the wrong number, lady. There's no Maude Fielding here.”

“I'm sorry to bother you.”

But Hannah kept the phone at her ear. Something in the girl's voice wasn't right.

A second or two went by, then the girl said, “So whatta you want with her?”

“Is this her number or not?”

“I want to know who the hell I'm speaking to.”

“I'm an old friend of hers. Trying to get back in touch.”

“What old friend? Give me a name.”

“Hannah Keller.”

The girl cleared her throat. It sounded like she was fumbling with the receiver. When she spoke again her voice was tense.

“I asked you what you wanted with Maude Fielding.”

“I want to talk to her, ask her some questions.”

“About what?”

“It's a personal matter. Is Maude Fielding there or not?”

After a few seconds of silence, the girl hung up.

Hannah stood there for a moment looking at the receiver. She was just putting it back on the hook when her cell phone rang.

Hannah stepped beneath the awning of Garcia's Café, out of the harsh midday sun. As she opened her phone, she looked through the large plateglass window at the two young girls in pink frocks. They'd finished their lunch and now their grandmother was talking to someone at an adjacent table. One of the little girls grinned at Hannah and waved her fingers. Hannah waved her fingers back.

“You're interested in seeing some property?” Anna Maria Salvano said.

Hannah said yes she was and gave her the Bayshore address.

“Oh,” Anna Maria said. “That one.”

“Is there a problem?” The little girl in the restaurant was winking at Hannah. Her left eye, then her right. Showing off a new skill.

“Well, I can't get you into that house till Friday.”

“Friday? Why Friday?”

“That's when it's available again.”

“It's rented till Friday?”

“That's right A short-term rental. Just a few days. A movie or commercial or something. I'm not sure.”

Hannah was feeling giddy. It'd been so long since she'd conned an honest citizen out of information. She was out of shape, winded already.

“I need to act today,” she said.

“Today? No, I don't think that's going to be possible.”

“Why not?”

“Well, beside the fact that it's rented, I have two closings this afternoon. Even if we could get permission from the client to let you see the property, I can't get away from the office.”

“Well, that's too bad,” Hannah said. Scrambling, putting herself in Erin Barkley's head for a moment, a quick hit of her audacity. “Because, you see, Ms. Salvano, I'm representing a gentleman from Zurich and I'm only going to be in town today. The Bayshore house is exactly what he's looking for. What're they asking for the place anyway?”

The little girl was pressing her nose against the glass, mashing it flat for Hannah's amusement. Her grandmother was still turned to the nearby table.

“A million two,” Anna Maria said. “But I think we can get them down from that. The house needs considerable updating, a little TLC, if you know what I mean.”

“A million two is within my parameters,” Hannah said. “Perhaps you could give me the number of the woman who's renting it and I can speak with her directly.”

Chancing that it was, in fact, a woman. Possibly the same woman whose handwriting was in her book, the woman apparently aiding J. J. Fielding with his plan. Maybe Maude, maybe someone Fielding had met since going on the run.

“Oh, I couldn't do that,” Anna Maria said. “Our clients' confidentiality is quite important to us.”

“Listen, I spoke to her today,” Hannah said. “I was at the Bayshore house. We hit it off nicely. She offered me her phone number, but I said no, I'd rather speak to the realtor first. The normal protocol.”

“You met her? You were at the house today?”

“That's right. All I need is a quick look inside, make sure the layout's right. I would've done it this morning but she was on her way out and couldn't let me inside at the time. If there's a movie being made there I didn't see any evidence of it. The place was dead quiet.”

Now the other little girl was smushing her nose against the windowpane. Two greasy streaks against the clear glass.

“I was told we couldn't show the house again until Friday.”

Stubborn woman, sticking with the rules. But a little crack was showing in her voice, wiggle room.

“Well,” Hannah said, “I'm pretty sure the lady would be willing to let me walk through with her. As I say, we had a nice rapport. If you give me her number, I'd be willing to call her, try to set something up for this afternoon.”

“I don't know,” Anna said. “It's certainly not standard practice.”

“Come now.” Hannah, playing her part, a brisk businesswoman with major money to spend. Not going to dillydally with underlings. “If I like what I see, I can leave a written offer at your office by six this evening. How would that be?”

Anna took another moment. Probably doing the math on her commission, six percent of a million two.

“All I have for her is a cell number,” Anna Salvano said. “It's not local.”