Edge

Loving.”
    He’d be thinking of Rhode Island.
    “Only the flytrap was offensive. What happened at the Hillside was pure defense. We were trying to get away.”
    “I understand that. . . . But there may be some issue raised of why you used a halfway in this situation. Why you didn’t go directly to the safe house.”
    Meaning, I supposed, was I subconsciously—or perhaps very consciously—trying to draw Loving to us? He wanted a reason. But, even though he was my boss, I wasn’t going to answer.
    He caught this and continued, “It was your calland I’m not questioning it. Just telling you that the question could come up.”
    I told him, “If I do anything at all, it’ll just be to help Claire track down the primary.”
    “Fine,” he muttered. Ellis was having a tough Saturday, so he wasn’t treading softly any longer. “You didn’t call Westerfield. You said you would.”
    “I will. It’s been busy.”
    Which, though true, sounded lame.
    We disconnected and I was scrolling through numbers to find Westerfield’s. But then Freddy’s name was recited on my audible caller ID.
    I clicked ACCEPT and asked, “You get anything at the Hillside?”
    Freddy said, “No trace. He vanished—real fast. Like Houdini. Or the allowance I give my kids. Thin air.”
    “Aaron said no injuries.”
    “Right. People’re shaken up. But so what? Life shakes you up. Nothing wrong with getting shook once in a while. Aaron’s handling the press? There’re more reporters than you can shake a stick at.”
    “He’ll do what he can.”
    Freddy added that the hostage Loving had taken, to coerce her husband to drive his car after us as a diversion, was safe. “Not that it mattered but she said she couldn’t identify her kidnapper. The husband got amnesia too.”
    I asked, “Any indication which way Loving went?”
    “None.”
    “We take out their Dodge?”
    “Yup. Fan and a tire. They left it fifty yards west, where they had switch wheels hidden. The abandonedone was clean. And the new one? No tire treads our boys and girls could find. And you know them. . . . If there’s a pubic hair, they’ll get it.”
    “So was there a fax with Ryan’s picture on it?”
    “Yep.”
    “Who was it supposed to be from? You guys?”
    “Federal Department of Tax Investigation.”
    I nearly smiled. An outfit as phony as Artesian Computer Design. You had to hand it to Loving.
    I told him, “It said the typical: Don’t try to apprehend, just give a call if you see him? And an eight hundred number?”
    “Prepaid mobile.”
    “Now deactivated,” I said.
    Freddy didn’t need to confirm this.
    “What was the incoming fax number?”
    “Sent from a computer through a Swedish proxy.”
    Naturally.
    Freddy wondered, “How’d he tip to the Hillside specifically and send the fax there?”
    “I think he went fishing. Sent faxes to dozens of possible halfway houses. I’ll bet they’re sitting in front lobbies all over the area.”
    “Jesus,” he exhaled, pronouncing the name with an initial H. Maybe he was worried about being sacrilegious. I knew he went to church at least once a week. “This guy’s earning his fee. What the hell does Kessler know that’s so friggin’ important?”
    Just what Claire duBois and I were going to find out in the next few hours, I hoped.
    Then Freddy got my attention, asking, “You know somebody named Sandy Alberts?”
    “He give you a call?”
    “Came to the office. Works for that senator from Indiana or Ohio, Stevenson.”
    “I know who he is. Ohio. What’d Alberts want?”
    “Just asking questions. About wiretaps, Patriot Act, so on and so forth. Got to say, Corte, your name came up. All happy, cheerful, good things. But, well, like I said, your name came up. Find that interesting.”
    Interesting, I reflected glumly. “And?”
    “No ‘and.’ I told him I was busy. Had to go.”
    “Thanks,” I muttered.
    “For what?”
    “I’m not sure.”
    We disconnected and I considered Albert’s visit to Freddy.
    Then I decided I could no longer delay the inevitable. I scrolled down and found Westerfield’s number. Hit SEND .
    The man answered on the second ring. My heart sank; I’d been hoping for voice mail. “Corte,” he said and didn’t slip into French. “Listen, we need to talk. But I’m in with the AG right now.”
    He was sitting in the U.S. attorney general’s office on Saturday night . . . and he’d taken my call?
    “I’ll get back to you when we’re through.