Echoes (23 page)

“How do you know what he'll ask?”

“We don't. So we decide what you need to say, then figure out how to maneuver the conversation to allow you to get your point across regardless of what direction he chooses.”

By the time Nash's phone rang at four thirty, Callie felt as if they'd devised a strategy for every possible scenario, though Mac assured her more rehearsing remained yet to do.

“It's Dylan,” said Nash once he'd checked the display. “I'll put him on speaker.”

“Smart money says she's here,” Dylan informed them, “but we can't get into the building. It looks like a renovated warehouse, with the ground floor as a garage or loading bay. First set of windows is maybe fifteen feet up.”

“Is the shop open?”

“Nope. According to a sign in the window, they're closed due to a leak they are trying to fix. It thanks customers for their patience.”

“Imagine that. Vehicles around?”

“According to Lexie, the business owns a panel van. We didn't see it in the neighborhood, but it could be parked inside the building. In Juarez's position, I'd bring her out in that, then find a nice, quiet spot to switch over to a rental, give the van to a partner, and have him bring it back to the shop and clean it.”

“Agreed. How many exits from the roasting plant itself?”

“There's the garage entrance on one side, and a regular pedestrian door on the other. Nick and I will stay on the garage side. My brother-in-law and his partner are keeping an eye on the front.”

“Dylan's sister is married to a Nassau County sheriff's deputy,” Nash explained. “They're off duty, so nothing they do is official, but they've got the skills and experience to help watch and tail.”

“So you're not going to do anything?” Callie wanted to scream; her words came out hoarse from the effort she expended to keep her tone even. “You know he has Erin there, now, but you're going to leave him be?”

“We have no proof. And, unfortunately, while we do, occasionally, bend the rules, it's best not to do so in broad daylight. The best possible outcome is that Juarez continues to stall until true dark. At that point, we can send in a team and get her, and you won't have to leave the hotel. But until then, yes, we wait. My guess is that they will move her out, bring her to meet you, which will make picking her up a hell of a lot safer and easier. I've already lost a friend today and so have you. I'd prefer to keep the numbers down.”

***

Mac could feel Callie's anger, taste his own frustration. And he wanted to slug Nash for reminding her of Tommy's death, though he doubted she'd forgotten for even a minute. But he did understand Nash's position. It was the eternal law-enforcement dilemma: the good guys had to play by the rules; the bad guys made it up as they went along. If Dylan and Nick broke into the warehouse, they'd be the ones who ended up in jail. And if Juarez had the place booby-trapped, which in all likelihood he did, they could end up dead. Without a warrant, Dylan's sheriff's department connections couldn't help him, and the loose tangle of associations, enough to satisfy Mac, Nash, and Dylan, wouldn't satisfy a judge.

To her credit, though, after her single outburst, Callie stifled her anger, though her fingers clenched together so hard her knuckles turned white. She listened to the conversation, let them plan. And when Dylan hung up, she went back to running scenarios without complaint.

At five thirty, Dylan called back.

“They're moving,” he said. You want us to follow, or cause a little accident?”

“Follow. I don't want to take him out of the game yet.”

Mac felt Callie tense beside him. Obviously, Nash saw it, too, because he explained his reasoning. “If Dylan wrecks Juarez's van, and Erin's not in it, we've tipped our hand too soon, and we may lose them forever. If she is inside, maybe we save her. Or maybe Juarez panics and starts shooting and everybody dies. Either way, we haven't eliminated the threat, just postponed it. We have to take Juarez alive if at all possible, and get him to turn on Falcone. Better yet, we wait until Falcone himself, or at the very least Lewis, is on hand.”

A satisfied grunt came from the phone. “Got him. We tagged the truck with a transmitter. Lonnie, my brother-in-law, has a receiver. We have another, and I am setting up the feed to go back to HQ as we speak so you can access it. We can hang back a little this way.”

“You tagged a moving vehicle? Without the driver noticing?”
Impressive
.

“The RC heli?” Nash asked.

“I told you it would come in handy.”

“Dylan has a thing for radio-controlled planes.” Nash sighed. “He's always telling me they're not just toys, and I guess he's proved his point.”

“Had it hovering at the corner, since the street's one way. When Juarez passed underneath the streetlight, we planted the tracker on the roof. The trackers only a couple inches square, and the chopper's not much bigger, so the only people who might have noticed would be kids, who would just think it was cool to see a tiny helicopter land on a car. Of course, I lost the chopper. No way to bring it back unobtrusively while we're on the move. You owe me for it, Nash. It was a good one.”

“I'll buy you a dozen. Can you tell where they're headed?”

“At the moment, they're getting on the Nassau Expressway, but that could take them anywhere.”

“Yeah. Keep in touch.”

“Will do.”

No sooner had Dylan signed off than the other cell rang. Callie's face went white, and she looked at it with fear and hatred before lifting it from the coffee table.

***

“Have you rid yourself of your companions?” The sound of Juarez's smooth, almost oily voice caused Callie's stomach muscles to clench, but she forced her own tone to mirror his.

“I have. Let me speak to Erin.”

“That's not possible at the moment.”

Mac had warned her that Juarez would test her limits, try to withhold proof of Erin's welfare, and he'd given her instructions. She followed them, though it was the hardest thing she'd ever done. “Call me back when it is,” she replied, and hung up.

Minutes passed. A cold, clammy sweat broke out all over her body. She brought her knees up and ducked her head to rest her forehead against them, wrapping her arms around her calves, the phone still clenched in her fist. Mac stroked her back, then hauled her onto his lap, surrounding her with his strength.

“Hang in there, sweetheart,” he murmured. Although acutely aware of Nash's presence, Callie couldn't bring herself to pull away.

The phone buzzed. With a deep breath, she flipped it open and held it to her ear. Erin's voice brought tears to her eyes.

“Callie?”

“It's almost over, Erin. I'm coming to get you. I swear. But first, you know the drill, I have three questions.”

“Of course you do, nosy.” The spark of humor lifted Callie's spirits—doubtless Erin's intention. God, she would kill Juarez, Falcone, and John Lewis herself if they injured Erin.

“Who's the most overrated celebrity chef?”

“Trick question: they're all overrated.”

The speed of the reply reassured Callie even more than Erin's earlier bravado. She wouldn't be up to such a snappy comeback if they'd hurt her.

“What area of the world would you most like to visit?”

“Tuscany.” They'd often talked about taking a trip to Italy.
I promise, Erin, we'll go. Just as soon as this is over, I'll make it happen.

“What country makes the best beer?”

“Belgium. And one day you'll acknowledge it.”

Callie heard a scuffle of some sort, then Juarez came back on the line. “As you can see, your friend is fine. Follow directions and she will remain so.”

“I have a message for your employers.” Callie could see the script in her head. “I'll come to you, trade myself for Erin, but I am not stupid. The information you asked for won't be with me. When I see Erin walk away, I'll take you to it.”

“That will do.” As both Mac and Nash had predicted, Juarez sounded almost amused. The requirement that she bring any information she'd gathered had been a ruse; he'd agreed to her terms because he planned to kill her on sight.

“Not so fast. I suggest you mention a few details to your bosses so they don't assume I'm bluffing.”

“Certainly.”

“John Lewis has nothing to fear from me. I don't want his inheritance, even if his father did routinely impregnate patients with his own sperm and sell black-market babies. I also don't care about his business with Henry Falcone, or Falcone's dealings with Diego Rivera and Paul Rivers. Several government entities, however, both here and elsewhere, might feel differently about the picture I've put together. You should probably get your hands on my files before putting a bullet through my brain and dumping me in the East River.” They'd chosen to use the reference to Hugo Americh's death to create a personal stake for Juarez. Allowing him to believe Callie had proof he'd done the deed could help keep her alive.

“You've been busy.”

“I have a keen instinct for self-preservation. And you told me to bring my father's papers. You can pass along to John Lewis that asking for them was a mistake—my father had contacts better even than Nash Harper's, and an intricate understanding of politics, especially personal ones. He kept track of his enemies. Until Lewis asked for the information my father had gathered, it didn't occur to me to examine anything not directly related to my birth. Imagine my surprise at finding so many names in his files that coincided with those in Mr. Harper's database. I suggest you discuss that with your employer. I doubt he wants Nash Harper to get his hands on my information. Consolidation of my father's data and Nash's could prove . . . detrimental . . . to Falcone's operations.”

Juarez ignored the threat.

“You have just under an hour to get to Grand Central Station,” he said. “You will take the 6:43 Metro-North Hudson line train, buying a ticket for Garrison. We'll phone you once the train leaves the station and tell you where to get off.”

“I won't get off without talking to Erin, so be sure she's with you when you call.”

Juarez hung up without answering. Only when Mac gently pried the telephone from her hand did Callie shake herself free from the conversation's thrall. She buried her face against Mac's neck, inhaling his musky, masculine scent for three long, deep breaths before scrambling off his lap to pace the room. Neither he nor Nash spoke, apparently content to give her room to organize her thoughts.

“The geography's wrong,” said Nash when she finally gained enough control to repeat the conversation. “Why would they send you northwest when they're south and east of us?”

“Hang on.” Callie sat in front of the computer and brought up the Metropolitan Transit Authority's site, checking the routing for the Hudson line trains. “I don't know this line at all. Maybe that's the point. They couldn't send me out on the Long Island Rail Road when I spent all those years in Montauk, and the Harlem or New Haven lines are too close to where I live now. But I've never even heard of Garrison, New York.”

“Is that the last stop?” Mac asked.

“No. Poughkeepsie is the end of the line. Garrison's most of the way, though.”

“So they could plan to take you off anywhere. Maybe the line doesn't matter so much as the fact that they can get you onto a busy commuter train in an unfamiliar area.”

Nash called his office. “Tell Carlos I want him on the 6:43 train to Poughkeepsie out of Grand Central. He needs to be on board as soon as they open the doors, in the last car of the train, near the final set of doors. Tell him to go with the construction look and a paper-bagged bottle.” He walked over to the desk and brushed Callie's fingers off the keyboard, then entered a series of programs and passwords, finally bringing up a photograph of a man in his late thirties with shaggy blond hair and a deep tan.

“This is Carlos Herrera. He'll be on your train, probably covered in dust and looking disreputable enough to discourage the business types from sharing his seat. He'll be carrying a paper bag, and he'll smell a bit beery. It's rush hour, so the trains will be packed, but if you can sit next to him, do. If you can't, pick a spot close by. He'll be looking for you.”

“And you and Mac?”

“I suspect Mac will want to be on the train.”

“Damned straight.”

“So he'll be a couple of cars up. We can't risk whoever Falcone puts on the train recognizing him, and unfortunately New York City isn't the best place to be anonymous once your face has made the news. The MTA cops are pretty careful, and Grand Central's always crawling with security.” Nash studied Mac. “Wear the ball cap. There are newsstands inside the station. Buy a
Daily News
and bury your face in it. And use one of the machines to buy your ticket. Buying tickets on the train attracts attention from the conductors.”

Nash turned his attention to Callie. “I'll drive Mac to Grand Central, then head to the West Side Highway and start north, try to follow your signal once the train gets moving. You should probably take the subway from here. The S will take you across town, drop you right below Grand Central.”

“She shouldn't be alone.”

“I'll be fine. They have no idea where I am coming from, and as Nash said, security at Grand Central is really tight. The subway is a nightmare this time of day, so they couldn't pick me out of the crowd even if they wanted to.” She could see him struggle with the idea of her being out of his sight. His protectiveness was comforting, but now that the endless waiting was over, a peculiar calm had settled over her.

“One more thing.” From his jeans pocket, Nash withdrew a hair tie and a small, flesh-colored torus a few inches in diameter. “These are what I was waiting for.”

“What are they?” Callie asked as she took the scrunchy and the odd piece of foamy rubber from his hand.

“They're tracking devices, but unlike most really small units, they turn off.”