A Picture of Guilt (31 page)

“I haven’t told him.”

“Mommy…please…don’t.”

I looked over. “I won’t. Unless you say something first.”

“Never.” She shook her head and sniffed. “Never.” She looked up. I saw the determined tilt of her chin. “I never want to see Carla again. Even if I have to make all new friends.”

I forced a smile. “How about we talk about it over the weekend? I don’t want you to forget, but I don’t want it to ruin Thanksgiving. We’ll figure out how to keep our noses clean after Thursday.”

“Our noses?”

“Ours,” I said, silently thanking God hers was on just fine and that she seemed to have survived her ordeal with only minor damage. “Yours and mine. I’d like to spend more time with you.”

She nodded and wiped her eyes with her hands. For the first time in days, the hint of a smile cracked her face. “Mom?”

“Yeah?”

“Do you think I could set up a chemistry lab in the basement?”

C
HAPTER
F
ORTY-ONE

“My favorite girls!” Dad swung open his door. “What a surprise.”

“We just happened to be in the neighborhood…”

Dad squinted as we trooped inside. He knew I was lying. “Are you okay?”

“We’re fine,” I said hastily, exchanging a glance with Rachel. “We—er—wanted to have dinner with you.”

He looked at me, then Rachel. “Chinese?”

Rachel nodded eagerly, and Dad went into the kitchen to hunt for the take-out menu. Rachel took off her coat and plopped down on the couch.

I prowled around the apartment. With only two rooms and a kitchen, it didn’t take long to make a circuit.

“Sit down, Ellie,” Dad said as I passed the kitchen. “You’re making me nervous.”

I sat at the dining room table. Dad brought in the menu, and after a group consultation, called in an order of egg rolls, sweet and sour chicken, and lo mein with Cantonese noodles. “Can’t fill up too much,” he winked at Rachel. “Not with turkey day coming up.”

My cell phone trilled. I jumped up and dug it out of my purse. “Hello?”

There was no response. “Hello?” Silence. “Damn it.” I looked around. “No one’s there.”

Rachel and Dad watched me with curious expressions. I looked back at the cell, hoping a “missed call” display might pop up along with the number. Nothing. I shoved the cell back in my pocket.

“How about a game of chess?” Dad asked.

“Cool.” Rachel went to the cabinet, pulled out his chess set, and proceeded to set it up on the table.

“I’ll skip this round,” I said.

Dad nudged Rachel. “A comedian, your mother.”

Rachel giggled.

I went to the window. It was close to five, but the skies, swollen with thick gray clouds, were more luminous than usual. A snowstorm was coming. For real, this time. I looked back at Rachel and Dad, engrossed in their opening moves. I ducked into the bedroom.

“Ellie, your
schpilkes
are driving me crazy.”

I came back out. I was driving myself crazy. “Why don’t I go pick up the food?”

“Awesome,” Rachel said. “I’m starving.”

Dad stared at me through his glasses. “We could have it delivered.”

I felt around in my bag for my cell phone. “I need some air. It’s okay.”

“You sure?”

I nodded. I headed to my car, trying to be aware of everything in front of and behind me. Five painted rocks bordering the lawn. Four cracks in the sidewalk. Two streetlights angling in on the lot. I started to count how many cars were there, but lost count when I dug out my keys.

As I fitted the key in the lock, I felt a sudden presence loom over me. Closing in fast. I didn’t have time to get in the car. What should I do? My key! I’d rake the car key across his face. When I sensed he was almost on top of me, I threw my hand in the air and whipped around.

LeJeune caught my wrist.

I staggered back. “Jesus Christ!”

“I wouldn’t go that far,
chér
.”

He was wearing a dark, bulky parka, and his “Different Drummer” hat was pulled low on his face. But his eyes smiled down at me.

“Damn you!” I waved my keys. “You almost lost your smooth Cajun skin!”

He loosened his grip on my wrist. “You do have a way with words.”

I shook off his hold. How dare he act as if he was just casually dropping by? As if nothing was wrong, the past week never happened?

“How did you find me?”

“The Bureau has its ways,
chér
.”

I didn’t know whether to curse him or just walk away. I started to open the car door, but now that he was back, the fear, the not knowing, the sense that things were closing in on me—it all suddenly seemed to be too much. My composure snapped.

“Oh God, Nick.” My voice trembled. “I’ve been so alone. And scared. I’m being followed. And I don’t know who or—” Burying my face in his coat, I started to cry.

He waited patiently, his arms around me, until I calmed down. When there was only a sob or two left, he tilted my chin up with one hand and brushed away my tears with the other. He leaned over, and the next thing I knew, his mouth was on mine. Doing things I hadn’t felt in a long time.

***

As we drove to the Chinese restaurant in the Volvo, I wondered what had just happened between us. But he didn’t say anything, just looked through the windshield with a half-smile on his face. Maybe it wasn’t that important to him. Just the cost of doing business. It was probably in the FBI handbook: kiss hysterical woman, calm her down, then get what you need.

Whatever it was, we’d have to sort it out later. There were more important issues at hand. I told him the SUV was following me again. I also told him how I’d shaken it—for the moment. He nodded but didn’t ask any questions. I wondered why.

“What am I going to do?” My voice sounded shrill as we parked and headed inside. “I can’t go back home tonight. It’s too dangerous.”

“I know.”

“You know?” I looked over. “Damn you again. If you know I’m in danger, where the hell have you been for the past week? Didn’t you get my messages?”

“I got them.”

“Then why you didn’t call me back? I might have been—Rachel and I might have been—”

As we reached the door to the restaurant, he cut me off. “I was out of the country. I couldn’t talk on an unsecured line.”

We pushed through the door. Basically a carry-out, the restaurant was small, with a high counter that stretched across two thirds of the room. Three small tables sat in front. The sound of splattering oil drifted out from the kitchen, and the scent of Asian spices permeated the air.

“When did you get back?”

“This morning.”

Now that we were in the light of the restaurant, I saw the stubble on his face and the dark pouches under his eyes. When he realized I was checking him out, he dipped his head. I checked the bag of food on the counter. The name Forman was scribbled on the receipt. They always forget the e.

I gestured to the bag. “You want something?”

“Just coffee.”

I nodded at the proprietor, who filled a plastic cup and handed it to LeJeune. As he took it, his movements seemed jerkier, less fluid than usual. A subtle tension seemed to have come over him.

After paying, we headed back to Dad’s.

“Nick, I need to tell you what’s been going on.”

He sipped his coffee. “This is good. They still don’t brew coffee right in London.”

“London? You were in London?” I stopped at a red light. Dale Reedy was from England. I thought about the length of time he’d been gone, what had happened before and since. When the light changed, I said, “You’re on an antiterrorism squad, aren’t you?”

He looked at me for a long moment. Then he nodded.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I couldn’t.” He leaned his arm across the back of the seat. “A few months ago we received credible information from Saudi intelligence about a planned terrorist attack in the Midwest. Something specifically involving water. It was confirmed by the Mossad. And British intelligence. They said it would go down after the verdict.”

“What verdict?”

“The guy who’s on trial now. If he’s convicted—”

“Which, in all likelihood, he will be….”

He shrugged. “Yeah. Well, if he is, there’s supposed to be a nasty surprise afterwards.”

“In Chicago?”

He nodded.

“Why here?”

“Why not? Chicago’s been relatively unscathed so far. It is the Second City. And we have reason to suspect there’s a sleeper cell here.”

“This is all connected to the RF on my tape, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

I parked behind Dad’s apartment and switched off the engine. I sat very still. “How did you find out? That it was connected to me?”

“We didn’t. Not at first. But you testified at the Santoro trial about RF interference. Out on the water. In the Midwest.” He shrugged. “It just seemed like something we ought to check out. Especially after we got word you were taking rides with Outfit guys.”

“What did you find out in London?”

He motioned to the bag of food. “Why don’t you drop that off?”

I hesitated. Dad had never met LeJeune, and, aside from his car, Rachel wasn’t too fond of him. But now that he was back, I didn’t want to let him out of my sight. I wrestled with what to do. “Do you want to come up?”

Nick must have sensed my indecision. “Why don’t I wait here.”

Relieved, I opened the door and took the bag up to Dad’s. I told him I wouldn’t be staying.

“Why?”

“It’s kind of hard to explain.”

“Try.”

I told him how LeJeune found me in the parking lot. “We—we have some things to work out.”

Dad fixed doubtful eyes on me.

“Business,” I added hastily.

Dad took the bag of food. “Be careful.”

I gave him a hug. “I will. I’ll be back.”

LeJeune was on his when I got back to the car. I climbed in. When he was done, he stretched out his arm on the seat and nuzzled my neck

“Come here,
chér
.” His voice was hoarse.

I looked over. I saw in his eyes that he wanted me, and I realized, with a jolt, that I wanted him to. He moved close and traced a finger down the side of my face. My stomach fluttered.

“I’ve been meaning to do this for a while.”

I tried to steady myself. “Before we get—distracted…” I pushed his hand away. “…there are things we need to discuss.”

He curled his fingers around mine. “Like what?”

“Like Sammy. I think I know who he is.”

“Sammy?”

A few droplets of sleet spattered the windshield, fat and heavy. I switched on the wipers. “The guy who was at Calumet Park the night Mary Jo Bosanick was killed? The one who came in on the boat? I think there’s a link between him and the intake crib.”

LeJeune cocked his head.

“His name is Samir Hanjour. He lived in Orland Park. He was enrolled in a scuba diving course at Diving Unlimited. But he dropped out.”

He sat straight, fully alert now. “How’d you find that out?”

I told him about the calls I’d made. “There’s more. There’s a woman involved. A British woman who works for Great Lakes Oil.”

The lines on his forehead drew together. “What do you know about her?”

I told him about Dale Reedy and the wire on her window. I’d barely finished when he punched in a number on his cell and repeated what I said.

“Yes. Could be. Get a team out there ASAP and get back to me.” He paused. “Have them meet at the police marina.” He listened. “Call him.” Another pause. “And we got a possible ID on the cousin. Samir Hanjour.”

“Cousin?”

He held up a finger and repeated the address in Orland Park. Then he snapped off the phone. “You’ve been a busy woman.”

I shot him a look. “Are you patronizing me?”

“No, I assure you, I’m not.”

“Then, what is this about a cousin? And why do I get the idea you already know about Dale Reedy?”

“We didn’t know about the antenna.”

“But you do know about her.”

“That was one of the reasons I was in London.”

“But you couldn’t tell me.”

He didn’t answer.

I crossed my arms. “Let me see if I get this. You’ve known about her—since when?”

“We got the first intelligence in May.”

“You knew she might be part of some terrorist action, and you let me deal with her anyway?”

“We hadn’t confirmed it, and by the time we did, she’d already made contact with you.”

Snow started falling in earnest. I turned the wipers on high. “So you let me go ahead and risk my life doing business with her?”

His eyes flashed in the dim light. “Tell me something. Would you have broken off with her if we’d asked?”

He had a point.

“You tipped us off to her, anyway.”

“Me? How?”

“When we first came to your house, you said something about a call from an executive from Great Lakes Oil. Look, Ellie. We didn’t know anything concrete. It was only when she surfaced a second time—through you—that we started to piece it together.”

“How did she surface the first time?”

He shook his head. He wasn’t going to tell me.

I tried another tack. “So you went to London because of Dale Reedy?”

“That’s right. Turns out the woman’s got quite a track record. Fringe human rights movements. A real left-winger. Came to the attention of Scotland Yard when a bomb went off in Grosvenor Square fifteen years ago—she was indirectly involved. But then, she suddenly turns herself around. Changes her name. Gets married. Takes a straight job. Starts working her way up the corporate ladder.”

“She wouldn’t be the first. Look at Jerry Rubin.”

“Jerry Rubin wasn’t married to a Saudi Arabian expatriate.”

“What?”

“Dale Reedy, aka Darlene Eaton, is married to a suspected terrorist by the name of Dani Aziz. British intelligence has been looking for him for years. But he’s slippery; he stays underground. Always travels. Meanwhile, she’s here. And their kids live with her folks.”

I remembered the photo in Dale’s office. Two boys in soccer uniforms. Cute. Dark hair. She’d never mentioned a husband. I’d assumed she was single.