It was the kind of line that usually made Donne cringe, but she’d said it with such a wide, goofy smile.
He signaled Artie, and she ordered a vodka tonic.
“Really?” she asked. “You couldn’t even try to say something funny?”
“No matter what it was, it would have bombed.”
She tilted her head to the left and some of her hair fell out of the bun. “That’s the point.”
“You know the senator?” he asked, nodding toward the back where Stern was holding court.
She shrugged. “Old family friend. You?”
“A lifetime ago.”
“So we’re both here for the free food and booze, then?” She touched his arm.
And that was the start. Now, a year and a half later, he was engaged and actually supposed to be filling envelopes. They were getting married in two months. Middle of July.
He put his phone down and drank some more beer. Kate deserved to know. He picked the phone back up.
She picked up on the second ring.
“Hey,” she said. Her voice was soft and she spoke slowly. “You okay?”
“I’m going to be back soon. We’ll talk.” He stared at his half drank-beer. He could leave it. “And I’ll help fill some envelopes too.”
Kate exhaled. “Don’t you need to study?”
“I will. I am.”
“All right, get back here. You’ve got some licking to do.”
Donne started to speak. Stopped.
“Envelopes,” she said. “What were you thinking? Envelopes, Jackson.”
He laughed. “Anything I could have said would have bombed.”
“That’s the point. See you soon. I love you.”
This time she hung up before he could respond. He looked at the beer again. Times had changed. He didn’t need it anymore. He couldn’t believe he even came here. Like muscle memory.
He waved to Artie and got up. Just as he was putting his phone in his pocket, it vibrated a text message. Kate needed something from the store, maybe?
He looked at it. The recipient was marked unknown. But the message read:
She needs you. What are you waiting for?
TWO—NO—THREE YEARS ago, Donne would have known what to do next. But his investigative skills had faded, and technology had passed him by. He didn’t have much access to anyone who could track IP addresses and wasn’t a skilled hacker himself. If the person who’d sent him the email had put any sort of security on the website at all, Donne wouldn’t be able to track him down. Hell, Donne wouldn’t have been able during his PI days either.
At the same time, his phone company contacts had dried up, either moving elsewhere or retiring. Investigating certainly wasn’t like riding a bike. Instincts sag, and intellectual focus is put elsewhere.
He couldn’t go to the cops. Talking to them meant talking to Bill Martin. He wasn’t ready for that.
Donne stepped out of the tavern into the noon sunlight. It reflected off the glass of the store across the street directly into his eyes. He blinked and wiped at his watery eyes. The temperature had crested somewhere into the high seventies, as businesses let out for lunch and some students who hadn’t gone home after finishing exams loitered.
What he should be doing.
Instead, he opened his text message and tried firing off a quick text to the blocked number. Who are you? It didn’t go through.
Donne took a deep breath and leaned against the wall of the Olde Towne Tavern. He needed to go talk to Kate and tell her what was going on, but he wasn’t ready to do that yet. At the very least, he had to try to get a step closer to figuring out what was going on.
His mind flashed on the video again. Jeanne’s eyes wide open. She was screaming through duct tape.
Closing his eyes, Donne thought back to his brother-in-law, another kidnapping victim. So many people were involved then: local police, state police, the FBI. Who took the lead? The FBI—they always took the lead, pushing cops off the trail, using their massive budget to track people down.
That’s who Donne needed now.
FBI headquarters was a thirty-five-minute drive up the Turnpike, with no traffic. Easier than calling. If he called, he’d bring two agents down to his home and just worry Kate.
He walked back to his apartment. His car was parked across the street. Kate’s was parked right behind his. She’d noticed he was gone, and if he didn’t call he’d worry her. She picked up on the second ring.
“Where are you?” No hello, no smile in her voice.
“I’m outside, but I have to take a ride.”
“Where?”
Donne looked up at his apartment window and saw the curtains part. He waved and saw Kate wave back.
“Newark campus’s library.” Not a total lie. Well, maybe a total lie, except for the location.
“Why?”
“An article for Siva’s class. I need it for the exam.”
“You can’t get it on campus? Or on the Internet? Like normal people?”
“It’s in one of those journals you can’t find online. I missed class the week he handed it out.”
Kate sighed. “You need to make some friends.”
“I need someone to cheat off.”
She paused, squinting. Then she grinned.
“Be safe,” Kate said. “Be quick.”
The drive was quick. The roads were mostly clear, and he hit green lights on the way there. He found a parking lot just two blocks from the FBI building. This wasn’t like walking into a police station. People didn’t just call the FBI about a kidnapping. There was procedure. Call the police, and eventually the FBI would be brought in. He knew the drill. He hadn’t been out of the game that long.
Claremont Tower rested along the Passaic River at Newark Dock, on the outskirts of the city. Donne imagined few people actually knew what was inside the tall, unmarked building. It looked like any other office building but without corporate logos. Donne crossed McCarter Highway and walked down a side street to the front of the building. He could smell dead fish and gasoline rising off the river and wondered if that made agents ornery on a daily basis. They did have a reputation to uphold, anyway.
Donne pulled open the glass door and a security guard waiting by a metal detector stared at him. The lobby looked like the TSA line at the airport.
“Can I help you?” the guard asked.
“I need to see an agent.”
The guard picked up his iPad and touched the screen a few times. “Which one?”
Donne exhaled and said, “The one you report a kidnapping to.”
The guard looked up. “Excuse me? Did you call the police?”
“I’m a former private investigator. I know the routine. It’s easier to go right to the source.”
The security guard put down the iPad and unbuttoned his suit jacket. Donne kept his hands at