A man’s head flashed briefly into view, a blur of platinum blond hair, his considerable figure filling the doorway for a moment.
Michelsen.
A figure shoved past him, through the doorway. The door closed behind him.
The man who’d bumped him at Jenkins.
Greg Thomas.
Thomas looked both ways a little self-consciously as he made his way across the yard. At the gate, he waited a moment, presumably for someone to buzz the lock from inside.
He crossed to a Range Rover, two cars ahead of the BMW. A minute later, it pulled out of the spot.
Bob waited until he was fifty yards ahead before pulling out to tail him. He kept his distance, letting his speed drift up and down slightly, allowing other cars space to move between them.
He’s heading back home.
Bob waited until Thomas had pulled into the driveway of the bungalow in Riviera/Westchester, a modest neighborhood west of downtown. Once the assistant had gone inside, he took out his phone and called Nicky Velasco.
Nicky answered after the second callback ring, as per convention. “Alpha! It’s been a while. I was starting to think someone had punched your ticket.”
“Nope, still breathing.”
“Good. You owe me a pair of grade-A, first-class favors, and I aim to eventually cash in.”
“Ah… so not genuine concern about my health, then.” Nicky could be as callous as people come sometimes, even if he generally sided with the angels.
“It is what it is,” Nicky said. “If I didn’t pick up, would your first question be ‘what happened to Nick’? Or would it be ‘how do I solve this problem without Nick?’ I hate to bring our relationship back to the jarring reality of it, Alpha, but I kind of suspect it would be the latter.”
He was right, Bob knew. I’m being a hypocrite. “Apologies. But whether you believe it or not, I would worry about you, Nicky. I did when you were in the Team, and I do now. Not often, I’ll admit, because in this business, people are out of sight, out of mind.”
“That’s life in general, Alph—” He caught himself. “Boss.”
“Or even just ‘Bob’ works,” he suggested. “I’m not your boss. I never really was; that was Eddie Stone’s job. I just led the Team, and the Team is long gone. Or, our version is, anyway.”
“Important distinction,” Nicky said. “From the scuttlebutt, the modern version is plenty busy. They were in Chechnya, last I heard.”
“Chechnya?! What the hell are they…” Then Bob caught himself. “Never mind. I don’t want to know. That was a different life.”
“And is in no way related to whatever weird compulsion has you travelling across the country like a particularly dangerous hobo. Sure.”
“Look… I need a workup on someone. Can it be quick?”
“Depends on the someone.”
Bob gave him Thomas’s address and work details.
“Eh… seems like a fairly normal job for someone of my stupendous talents. I’ll get back to you this evening, I expect.”
“Appreciated. If you get the time, I have a puzzler.”
“Shoot.”
“Why would a cheese factory owned by a car engine designer be involved somehow in the meth business? And we’re looking for an answer other than ‘cooking meth’, as they’ve been scrutinized. No sign of pseudoephedrine, no cook tables, wrong equipment, an actual product in their own cheeses. So it has to be something else.”
“Eh… I’ll poke around,” Nicky said. “Keep your head down, Alpha… Bob.”
“Will do, Nicky. Follow your own advice, okay?” If there was one truism about Nicky, it was that he’d never been as serious or cautious as the job required.
31
The family bed and breakfast on Dracena Street wasn’t ideal. But motels and hotels were out, given the heightened police interest. After being greeted by the owner and told the front door locked after 11 p.m., Bob went up to his room and closed the door.
It was a simple setup: a twin bed, a small TV, a USB charging station on the bedside table. There was a shared bathroom down the hall.
He opened his soft-sided case and retrieved the separate burner, reserved for talking with Dawn Ellis in Chicago. It had been five days since Marcus’s arrest, and she would be worrying, he knew.
“Really!?” she exclaimed on answering.
“No ‘Hi, Bob, great to hear from you,’ or anything…”
“Really? Five days without so much as a hint at what’s going on, without knowing if Marcus is safe, and you’re chastising me for not being Ms. Sweetness and Light!?
“I could be wrong,” Bob said, “but I detect mild irritation.”
“Not appropriate!” she insisted. “No jokes, please! Not at this juncture. Now, spill! Tell me what’s going on before I worry myself to a nub.”
“Well… they denied his bail, which we expected.” Bob knew he had to choose his words carefully. Dawn had a big heart, but that also made her prone to worrying more than was productive. “I’m making headway. Progress, I guess.”
