Hauck had highlighted them with a yellow marker.
Karen cupped her hands around her coffee.
“Okay.”
“I have a friend who’s a private investigator. I went to him for the information I showed you on Charles’s offshore company in Tortola. We eliminated four of the names right away. Spanish. Six others were commercial—auto dealerships, parts suppliers. I had him do a quick financial search on the rest.”
“So what did you find?”
“We scratched off six more because of issues like length of stay at their residence and stuff we could glean from credit cards. Five others listed themselves as married, so unless Charles has been really very busy in the past year, I think we’re safe to can them, too.” Karen nodded and smiled.
“That leaves eleven.” He had highlighted them page by page. Robert Hopewell, who lived on Shady Lane, in the Bahamas. An F. March—in Costa Rica. Karen paused over him. She and Charles and Paula and Rick had once been there. A Dennis Camp, who lived in Caracas, Venezuela. A Steven Hanson, who was listed at a post-office box in St. Kitts. Alan O’Shea, from Honduras.
Five more.
“Any of these names seem familiar to you?” Hauck asked.
Karen went through the entire list and shook her head. “No.”
“A few have phone numbers listed as well. I can’t imagine that anyone trying to be invisible would do that. Most are just post-office boxes.”
“Assuming he’s even here?”
“Assuming he’s here.” Hauck nodded with a sigh. “The one advantage we have is that he doesn’t know there’s any reason for anyone to assume he’s alive.” He looked at her. “But I have a couple more irons in the fire, before you even think of having to make that call.”
“It’s not that.” Karen nodded, fretful, massaging her brow.
“What’s wrong?”
“There’s something I have to show you, Ty.” She reached inside her bag. “I found a couple of things last week, buried in Charlie’s desk drawer, when you asked me to go through stuff. I should have showed them to you then, but they were old and they scared me. I wasn’t sure what to do. They’re from before the bombing.”
“Let me see.”
Karen took them out of her purse. One was a small note card still in its tiny envelope, addressed to Charles. Hauck flipped it open. It was one of those cards that would accompany a floral delivery.
Sorry about the pooch, Charles. Could your kids be next?
He looked back up at Karen. “I’m not sure I understand.”
“Before he died”—Karen wet her lips—“left … we had another Westie. Sasha. She was run over by a car, right on our street. Right in front of our house. It was horrible. Charlie was the one who found her. A couple of weeks before the bombing …”
Hauck looked back at the note. They were threatening him.
“And this …” Karen pushed forward the other item. She rubbed her forehead, her eyes strained.
It was a holiday card. A picture of the family on it. A happier time. From the Friedmans. Charlie, in a blue fleece vest and knit shirt, his arm around Karen, in a windbreaker and jeans, sitting on a stockade fence in the country somewhere. She looked bright-eyed and proud. Pretty. Wishing you the season’s best for the coming year …
Hauck winced, as if a blunt force had punched him in the belly.
Samantha’s and Alex’s faces—they had both been cut out.
He looked up at her.
“Someone was threatening Charles, Ty. A year ago. Before he left. Charlie kept these things hidden away. I don’t know what he did, but I know it has to do with the people at Archer and all this money offshore.”
Someone was threatening him, Hauck thought, placing the cards on top of each other and handing them back to Karen.
“Then yesterday I got this.”
Karen reached into her bag and came out with something else, this time a large gray envelope.
“In the mail.”
Her eyes were worried. Hauck thumbed the top open, slid out what was inside. It was a brochure. Tufts. Where Sam was heading in the fall, he remembered.
There was some writing on the front. The same forward-leaning script as on the floral note.
You still owe us some answers, Karen. No one’s gone away. We’re still here.
“They’re threatening my children, Ty. I can’t let that happen.”
He placed his palm over her hand. “No. We won’t.”
The cell call came in just as Hauck was getting ready to go in to visit Chief Fitzpatrick, to request that a patrol car be assigned to watch Karen’s house again.
“Joe?”
“Listen,” the JIATF man said, “I have something important here. I’m faxing it out to you now.”
The pages started to flow before Hauck even arrived back at his desk. “What I’m sending you is a transcript of a series of online conversations taken off a car-enthusiast site,” Velko explained. “The first exchange took place in February.” Three months earlier. Joe sounded excited. “I think we got something here.”
Hauck started to read the transcript as fast as he could tear the pages from the machine. The first page was headed ALERT. In the shadow box, there was a transcript number and a date, February 24. There was also a listing of the key “trigger phrases” Hauck had given Joe: “1966 Ford Mustang. Emberglow. Greenwich, Ct. Concours d’ Élégance. Charlie’s Baby.” A few of his favorite phrases.
The alert box was marked “HIGH.”
Hauck sat down at his desk and read, his blood pulsing expectantly.
KlassicKarMania.com:
Mal784: Hey, trading a 66 Ember Glow ’Stang in for a 69 Merc 230 Cabriolet. Any1 interested?
DragsterB: Saw one of those in a movie out last year. Sandra Bullock. Looked fine.
Xpgma: The car or the girl?
DragsterB: Real funny, dude.
Mal784: Lake House. Yeah, except mine’s a ragtop, GT. 62,000 miles. 280hp. Near mint. Any1 interested? Take $38.5. DragsterB: I know someone who might be. SunDog: Where is it?
Mal784: Florida. Boynton Beach. Rarely sees the light of day. SunDog: Maybe. Had one once myself. Up north. What’s the VIN code? C or K? Mal784: K. High performance. All the way.
SunDog: How’s the inside?
Mal784: Orig Pony leather. Orig radio. Not a scratch. Little bastards have a way of getting under your skin, right?
SunDog: Had to sell. Moved. Used to show it around.
Mal784: Where?
DragsterB: This a private conversation? Anyone out there got a line on a set of Crager 16” rims????
SunDog: A few places. Stockbridge, Mass. The Concours in Greenwich. Once down your way, in Palm Beach. Mal784: Hey, you used to be on here a while back? Different name, though. CharlieBoy or something,