High Noon (43 page)

“Second bedroom's locked,” Harrison told her. “Window's covered. They're checking for booby traps before they take it down.”

“Spartan, wouldn't you say? Military neatness. The bare bones of a field HQ. We should talk to the landlord, anyone in the houses and cottages round about.” She moved to the closet. “His clothes are still here, neatly hung.”

“Toothbrush, shaving cream, basic toiletries in the bath,” Harrison told her. His face was hard, his eyes somber as they met hers. “He isn't running.”

“No.” She heard the crash of the second door going down. “But that doesn't mean he's coming back.”

“Lieutenant?” A member of the tactical team came to the doorway. “I think you'll want to see this. Found his nest.”

When she walked across the hall, her blood went cold. Photographs papered an entire wall. Her face, over and over, in every possible expression. Photos of her standing in front of her house, talking with Mrs. Tiffany, walking with Carly in the park, standing with her mother on the veranda.

The whole family on what had to have been St. Patrick's Day. One of her moving into Duncan's arms the night they'd had dinner on his boat. Her sitting on the bench, like Forrest Gump, in Chippewa Park, alone, then with Marvella. Of her shopping, eating, driving.

A shudder ran through her before she looked away.

Across the room was a large head-and-shoulders shot of Angela, with candles and bud vases of pink roses crowded on the table below it.

She studied the workbench, a long table, shelves. On them, meticulously arranged, were a laptop computer, a police scanner, chemicals, wires, what she thought must be timing mechanisms, tape, rope and tools. She spotted the shotgun, the rifle.

“He took his handguns.”

“He's got a couple of wigs, glasses, false beards, makeup, face putty,” Liz said as she crossed over. “No journal. Maybe on that,” she said with a nod toward the laptop.

“Why didn't he take it? Why didn't he take what was important to him?” Because it shook her down to the bone, Phoebe kept her back to the wall of photos. “Switch locations at least. He knows we have his name, his photo, and someone's going to point us here.”

“He couldn't have been sure we'd ID'd him until he talked to you,” Liz pointed out.

“He stays a step ahead. Why is he suddenly a step behind? Expensive equipment, easily portable, just left here.”

She picked up a camera, turned it over, saw the painted pink rosebud. Angela's camera.

“He planned to come back for it.”

Carefully, Phoebe set the camera back down. “I don't think so. I think he's done here, and that we're exactly where he wants us to be. But where is he?”

She stepped to another wall, covered with photos of Savannah. Banks, shops, restaurants, museums, exterior, interior.

“He doesn't waste anything. Everything has a purpose, even if it's thumbing his nose. So why does he take these?”

“And where are the others?” Liz wondered. “He's taken some down—you can see where he had other shots up.”

“If he took them with him, he needed them. He takes pictures of places because the places have a purpose, or the potential of one. Targets. These are digital shots, aren't they?”

She turned back to the laptop. “We have to get in there, find the files, find the ones he took with him. That's the target.” As it churned, she pressed a hand to her stomach. “I think he gave himself the go, the green light. Today. I think it has to be today.”

She looked at her watch and felt the chill as she noted it was ten fifty-five. “High Noon. We've got an hour to find him.”

 

Duncan shoved his hands in his pockets, jiggled loose change while the structural engineers, the architect and Jake swarmed over the warehouse. “We have to move this along, Phin.”

“You set the meeting, the inspection.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, but that was before.”

“If you think Ma's going to mind poking around a jewelry store on her own awhile if you're running late, you've forgotten who you're dealing with.”

Duncan pulled his hand out of his pocket to check his watch. Eleven-ten. “Maybe I should call her, tell her to make it twelve-thirty.”

“She's probably on her way, especially since she's meeting Loo.” Phin grinned at Duncan's blank look. “If you don't think Ma got on the horn and starting blowing the news the minute she hung up with you, you're not thinking, boy. Then again, I guess a man about to buy an engagement ring's not thinking.”

“You did it.”

“Yeah. Working out pretty well for me, too.” He gave Duncan a slap on the back. “Business, Dunc. Ma and Loo can entertain each other just fine if you're late. Loo said she was taking a full hour lunch, and was prepared to make it two if need be. So God help you.”

 

Phoebe paced outside the computer lab. One step ahead, she thought. He was still one step ahead. “Somewhere that means something to him, in association with her. It's more personal than something associated with me.”

Her family was safe, she reminded herself. Inside, guarded and safe. Hadn't she checked twenty minutes ago? Hadn't she talked to Carly, to her mother, even contacted the cops on duty?

“The bank where she was killed is under heavy surveillance. If he tries to get in, we'll have him.”

She glanced over at Liz, nodded. “And he'd know that. Still, if that was his target, that wouldn't stop him. He'd assume he's far enough ahead of us to hit it before we're in place. But it's the obvious target, and that concerns me. I think it's somewhere else. A restaurant where they met, a hotel, motel, even one of the parks. It needs to be a statement, Liz.”

Pacing, she tried to find the pieces. “Blowing up a man in Bonaventure,
that's
a statement. Attempting to do the same to a police captain mere blocks from the station, that's another.”

“Big, splashy. I get that. And this is the biggest, the splashiest.” Like Phoebe, Liz stared through the glass walls of the lab. “I get that, too.”

“City Hall, courthouse, the station itself?”

“All on alert. But if it's personal, the way you're thinking, those don't fit.”

“You're right. You're right. He can't get to Brentine, and Brentine isn't his issue, either. She was leaving him, Brentine's superfluous.”

“Security's stepped up at his home and office in any case.”

“How long is it going to take them to find those files? Even with him deleting them the way he did, they're still there somewhere. That's what they always say. Damn it, we've only got twenty minutes till noon.”

 

At ten to twelve, Ma Bee and Loo strolled into Mark D's, anticipating an afternoon of shopping and a celebration lunch. Ma had donned her shopping shoes and a breezy purple dress. She had put on her going-out-special lipstick, and had spritzed on some of her favorite French perfume.

“I could've handled this expedition, you know.”

Loo gave a snort. “You think I'm letting you have all the fun? You've done this before with all your boys. But it's my first chance to have some input on an engagement ring. Don't you love this place?” She gave Ma a little elbow bump as they stopped to look around. “All these glitters, and everything all hushed and reverent.”

“So they can charge more.”

“Sure, but that little black-and-silver box from Mark D's? That
says
something. When Phineas gave me that bracelet from here last Christmas, I squealed like a girl. And he got awfully lucky that night.”

It was Ma's turn to snort. “I don't see a new grandchild for me coming out of it.”

“We're thinking about it.”

“Think faster. I'm not getting any younger.” She looked up at the trio of crystal chandeliers. “But you're right, it sure is fine in here. Let's have a little look-see before Duncan gets here.”

 

Arnie Meeks was bored out of his mind. He was, in his opinion, nothing more than a glorified doorman, standing around while tourists and rich Savannahians came breezing inside. The tourists were a pain in the ass, mostly, just coming in to gawk. And the rich—bitches mostly—had their noses in the air.

Like they didn't squat to pee like the rest of their kind.

The old man could fix this. Resentment bubbled up inside his throat at the thought of it. Push the buttons, pull the strings, grease the palms, he'd be back on the job instead of standing around waiting to roust shoplifters.

And in the weeks since he'd been stuck on this humiliating duty, he'd had only a little action in that area twice.

What he needed was for some asshole to come in and try to rob the place. Now that would be a fucking dream come true. He'd take the bastard down, you could bet your ass on it. Take him down, be a hero. Get on TV.

Get back on the job where he goddamn belonged.

He saw the two black women come in and curled his lip. As if that old lady in her thick-soled shoes could afford so much as a cuff link from this place. The young one was hot—if you went for the Halle Berry type—and had a slick look about her. So maybe she could dig out a platinum card.

Probably just more lookie-loos, Arnie decided as he watched them gawk around. The way he saw it, more than half the people who came in the doors were lookie-loos.

He did his own scan.

A dozen people wandered around the store, drooling over the displays. Three clerks—who made more than he did with their fucking commissions by kissing ass and talking people into buying what they didn't need—manned counters or unlocked cabinets to take something out.

The place was manned with security cameras, with alarms. Even the back room, where he knew the man himself was planted today, in anticipation of some deep-pocketed client. Arnie had heard the buzz on that.

Deep Pockets would be escorted into the back, so the hoi polloi couldn't watch him playing with the sparklers. Or if he
wanted
to be seen—and some of them got off on that—they'd set him up at the special table in the corner.

Patsy, the blonde with the rack, had told him that Julia Roberts had shopped there in the back room. And Tom Hanks had, too. At the special table.

Maybe he'd move on Patsy, get a little action there. His marriage was in the toilet, and the way things were going with Mayleen—thanks to that bitch Mac Namara—he wasn't getting anything there either.

Time to scout the field again, pick himself a new heifer out of the herd. He knew by the way she looked at him—the way she made sure her ass wiggled when she walked away—that Patsy was up for it. Maybe he'd take her for a little spin some night after work. See how she handled in the sack.

He looked over as the front door gave its little ding as it opened. He saw the brown uniform and cursed under his breath. A pain-in-the-ass delivery.

He stepped toward the door.

 

Loo pulled out her cell phone when it played “Jailhouse Rock.” She winked at Ma when she read the display. “Hey there, lover-boy.”

“Hello, gorgeous. You there with Ma?”

“We're here admiring a whole buncha diamond rings. Where are you?”

“Running behind. On my way, though, with this leech on me I can't pull off. He insists on coming along.”

“That leech about six feet tall with eyes like melted dark chocolate?”

“He's about that tall, anyway. We're just heading cross town. Probably take a good fifteen minutes yet.”

“Take your time, and tell that brown-eyed man I've got my own eyes on a pair of ruby earrings that are going to set him back a bit. Another fifteen, twenty minutes, I bet I find something else to set him back even more.”

“Then I'll take my time. Why should I be the only one spending money today?”

 

The time was clicking down toward noon when Phoebe was able to see the photos. She hung over the shoulder of the computer technician.

“Some of these were on the wall. Prints were left on the wall. Some of them weren't. This motel.”

“Over by Oglethorpe Mall,” the technician told her. “You see he's got shots of the outside, the lobby and this room.”

“They used that room for trysts when it wasn't convenient to use his apartment. And this restaurant—I know this place, little Italian place. That's out by the mall, too. Not in the heart of things, not places they'd likely run into anyone in her husband's circle. But they don't feel like the sort of places he'd target. They're not what you'd call important, like Bonaventure. Not a statement like—Wait.”

She gripped the tech's shoulder as he panned through the file. “Wait, that's Mark D's.”

“Inside and out, back and front. I don't think they allow photographs inside Mark D's.”

“No, security, insurance. No, they wouldn't want photographs. Pictures of the back door, the front door from inside and out.” In her belly, muscles tightened. “I want cars over there now. Right now. Liz, get ahold of Property, find out what jewelry was listed in her personal effects. And, Jesus, let's get his credit card records for three months back from Angela's death. Good work,” she said to the technician. “Let's get the hell over there.”

Six minutes, she noted as she rushed out. Six minutes until noon. Maybe they weren't too late.

 

“Hey, buddy, when are you guys going to get the word that deliveries are supposed to come in first thing in the morning, before the customers?”

“Just following orders.” He rolled in the dolly with its three large boxes. He turned deliberately into Arnie. “Just like you're going to do, unless you want to take a bullet in the belly. Lock the door, asshole,” he ordered as he clamped a hand over Arnie's weapon. “I've got an S-and-W nine shoved right into your navel. The bullet's going to make a hell of a hole out the other side of you, if you don't do now and think later.”