Gone (Michael Bennett)

about our little gold strike. That obnoxious bozo is going to be so freaking pissed.”

CHAPTER 49
     
    SCANLON’S HOUSE WAS IN Brentwood, on Chaparal Street, a quiet, high-hedged lane behind an all-girls private school. It was an old, tasteful brick Tudor house hidden behind a lot of shrubbery, with a wrought iron gate across its driveway.
    There weren’t too many parked cars on the secluded street, and, even with the silver Mercedes crossover we were using for an unmarked, it definitely wasn’t the best setup for surveillance.
    “Nice crib for a chum chopper,” I said from where we parked, a couple of houses down.
    Parker nodded. “That house easily goes for a million, maybe a million and a half.”
    There was a security light on above the garage when we got there. We scanned the windows with binoculars, but there was nothing. No movement anywhere, even after another half an hour. There was no way to tell if Scanlon was home.
    Parker fixed that, and quick. She made a phone call, and about twenty minutes later, a plain, white panel van pulled onto Chaparal. It passed us without acknowledgment and then slowed to a brief stop in front of Scanlon’s house before pulling away.
    Parker’s phone dinged a couple of minutes later.
    “It’s clean,” came a voice from the speaker, “but there’s a dog, Parker. A big son of a bitch. Good luck.”
    “Gee, thanks,” Parker said, hanging up.
    “Infrared?” I said.
    “Close,” Parker said. “That was the LA office’s portable X-ray van. We use it at the ports sometimes, and on presidential visits. Two techs in the back of it work equipment that can see right through just about anything.”
    “Like a TSA team on wheels? I take it that’s a pretty much all-male detail. Tell me, Parker. Can federal contractors apply for the job, and what’s the waiting list like?”
    Parker raised one of her auburn eyebrows.
    “You’d be surprised how many female agents are in the unit, Bennett.”
    I blinked at her.
    “Well, in that case, remind me to head to the supermarket before we go back to the hotel. I need to make a supply of tinfoil boxers for my stay here in LA.”
    Though Parker tried to hide it, I noticed she actually laughed a little at that one. My war of attrition was taking its toll. As usual, I was wearing her down with my charm.
    “Now, if Scanlon isn’t home trying not to let the bed-bugs bite at this time of night, where do you think he is, Mike?”
    “That’s the sixty-four-million-dollar question, isn’t it?” I said. “If I were an international fugitive sneaking into an unfriendly country, I’d probably want to keep everyone who knew about it on a tight leash. At least until I left. If I were a betting man, I’d put my money on it that Scanlon is chilling with the big boss for the duration of his trip.”
    “Which means, if we find Scanlon, we find Perrine,” she said.
    “We can only hope and pray,” I said.

CHAPTER 50
     
    AFTER IT WAS DETERMINED that Scanlon wasn’t home, phase two of the operation was put into play.
    Parker got on the horn again, and then, twenty minutes later, a beat-up Dodge Ram pickup with a camper bed pulled up behind us.
    “More friends of yours, Parker?” I said. “What does this truck do? Test your cholesterol?”
    As she shushed me, I noticed that the two men who got out of it were dressed head to toe in black. I also noticed that the cabin light in the pickup failed to go on when the men opened the doors.
    Parker zipped down her window as they approached. One of the agents was stocky and older, with a dark mustache. The other one was blond and looked like he’d just started shaving. I thought they looked like a father-and-son team of American ninjas.
    “Which is it?” Junior wanted to know.
    “The one with the gate,” Parker told him. “There’s a dog, apparently.”
    “No problem,” said Senior, patting the bag he was holding with an evil grin. “We love puppies.”
    Junior kept his eyes on the house as he put a chaw of chewing tobacco between his cheek and gum. There was a light jingle of metal on metal when he tightened the knapsack on his back. He checked his watch.
    “We’ll call you in … seven minutes?” he said, cocking his head at his partner.
    “Six,” the older partner said with a nod before they walked off.
    “The wheels of justice are moving so much faster than I remember. This must be some sort of land-speed record for a search warrant,” I said, watching the FBI agents