She didn’t even know their new name.
Page by page, she pieced through the stack of correspondence. At first it was pretty much just “miss you” notes and a lot of complaints. Things weren’t the same where they were. Nothing was like before. Justin was finding it hard to meet new friends. Em was mostly miffed about Dad and new squash coaches who weren’t as good.
Mom just seemed depressed. “You don’t know how much we all miss you, darling.”
Then, over the year, the messages got a little brighter. As Agent Seymour had promised, they started adjusting. Mom was in a garden club. Justin found this guy who had a music studio in his basement, and they started recording stuff. Em met a few boys. She had aced her new SATs. Kate came across the note Em had written about the first concert that Mom had let her go to alone.
“3EB,” Em signed.
No translation needed. Third Eye Blind.
Her sister had sent it back in June, practically giddy with elation. “It was sooo ridiculous, K! So much fun!!! Stephan Jenkins was awesome!!!” They stayed until after midnight. On a school night. One of her girlfriends had arranged for a limo to drive them back home.
It made Kate smile to read it all over again. Then suddenly the smile receded. She focused on the band’s name.
Third Eye Blind.
That was it! Third Eye Blind. Kate ran across the room to her desk and flicked on the computer. She Googled the band’s name. A few seconds later, their Web site appeared on the screen. There was a link on the site for NEWS, and when Kate clicked on it, she found another link for the band’s recent summer tour. She scrolled down. Em’s e-mail was dated June 14. June 2 and 3, the band played in Los Angeles. June 6, they moved on to San Francisco.
June 9 and 10, they were in Seattle, Washington.
Em had said the concert was the week before. Kate started piecing together what she knew: They took a limo home. They could get around by boat.…
It had to be either San Francisco or Seattle.
But even if she was right, how would she go about finding them? How did she narrow it down? There were millions of people in those cities. This was the proverbial needle in a haystack. And she didn’t even have a name. She didn’t even know what the needle looked like.
Until it dawned on her.
“Now on, where you go, I go,” her new bodyguard, whose name was Oliva, had told her. “When you’re at work, I’m at work. When you row, I row.…”
Jesus, Kate, that’s it!
She rowed. Sharon did yoga. And Emily … Emily was the key!
Kate got up and went to the window. The WITSEC agent’s car was parked on the street below.
She knew there was no way she could tell Greg. And that fact was already making her feel disloyal and ashamed. He would say it was way too dangerous, too crazy. If she told him, he would never, ever let her go. She couldn’t bring it up.
And she’d somehow have to lose these WITSEC guards first.
Fergus wagged his way over, sensing something, and plopped his chin on her knee.
“Sorry, baby.” Kate put her head down and stroked his ears. “Daddy’s going to hate me. But I have to be gone for a while.”
Maybe she did know what the needle looked like after all.
Phil Cavetti had been inside the FBI’s headquarters on Pennsylvania Avenue many times.
Just never to the tenth floor.
And flanked by his boss at the U.S. Marshals Service and an FBI liaison as the private elevator came to a stop, the rolling in his stomach reminded him he wasn’t exactly thrilled that his initial visit there had been called for ten that night.
The doors opened to a security station with two armed soldiers on guard. The FBI escort nodded at them and led the group past a large bullpen of workstations, home to the Bureau’s elite analysts and staff, then down a hall of glass-paneled offices bearing the names of some of the most powerful in law enforcement.
The door to the corner office was open, the only one with a light still on inside. Cavetti cleared his throat and straightened his tie. The door read DEPUTY DIRECTOR, NARCOTICS AND ORGANIZED CRIME.
He could see the dome of the U.S. Capitol lit up through the office window.
Ted Cummings was on the phone behind his glass-topped desk, his tie loose, his expression not exactly pleased. He waved Cavetti and his boss, Calvin White, to a couch across from the desk. The office was large. An American flag hung in one corner. Behind the desk, photos of the deputy director with the president and other prominent government officials, and the FBI seal. Someone else was already seated on the couch. Someone Cavetti had no trouble recognizing. He realized he was way above his pay grade. The FBI man who had walked them up stepped out and shut the door.
“Phil, you know Hal Roach,” Cal White introduced him. The white-haired man leaned forward and shook Cavetti’s hand.
Roach was assistant attorney general of the United States.
Way, way above his pay grade.
“All right.” The deputy director clicked off his phone. He came over and sank into a leather chair and sighed, as if he wasn’t exactly thrilled to be here and not at home with his wife and children—not to mention having one of the highest-ranking Justice officials in his office as well. Grunting, he tossed a file onto a coffee table in front of the couch, and the contents slid out.
They were photos of Margaret Seymour’s torture and execution.
Cummings looked at White with a peremptory sigh. “Cal, I believe the subject of these photos is familiar to you? Any thoughts on just who she was working with?”
White cleared his throat, glancing toward Cavetti. “Phil …”
Cavetti didn’t need to be reminded that what he said in the next few moments could determine the rest of his career.
“Frank Gefferelli, Corky Chiodo,” he said, “part of the Corelli family. Ramón Quintero, from the Corrados. Jeffrey Atkins, you may remember he was a whistle-blowing attorney in the Aafco fraud?”
The deputy director shut his eyes and nodded disgustedly.
Cavetti wet his lips and held his breath, then exhaled. “Bachelor Number One.”
He used the code name. The one everybody that high up in law enforcement knew. If the initial names had caused the temperature to rise, Cavetti knew, this one would blow the fucking generator.
A stunned silence fell over the room. Everyone stared at him. Cummings’s eyes shifted to White’s in exasperation, then over to the assistant attorney general.
“Bachelor Number One.” The deputy director nodded gravely. “Cute.”
For a second, everyone seemed to ponder the implications of having the identity of the most important narcotics informant in U.S. custody divulged. Someone who for years had been aiding convictions against the Mercado family. Because he had spent the car ride over pondering the very same question, Cavetti flashed instead