Watchlist (6 page)

5

ERICA SPINDLER

C
harlotte Middleton-Perez cracked open her eyes, disoriented. Not home. Not the dining room at the Ritz.

Bright, antiseptic white. Shiny surfaces, stiff sheets. She hurt. Ached everywhere, especially her lower back.

The squeak and rattle of a cart broke the silence. Muffled voices followed. She shifted her gaze. Her husband Jack by the bed, head in hands. The picture of grief.

With a shattering sense of loss, she remembered: standing up. Seeing the blood. Crying out, then gasping as pain knifed through her belly.

She brought a hand to her abdomen, vision blurring with tears. She’d had a life growing inside her. A baby boy. She and Jack had begun picking out names.

Had. Past tense. Now, no life inside her. No little boy with Jack’s blue eyes and her dark hair.

Her tears spilled over, rolling down her cheeks, hot and bitter.

He lifted his head. His eyes were red-rimmed from crying.

“Charley,” he said.

The one word conveyed a world of emotion—despair and regret, love and need. For comfort. To understand—how could this have happened?

They’d reached the second trimester. Safe, they’d thought. Out of the woods. Common wisdom validated their belief.

Her fault? Working too hard? Not enough rest?

As if reading her thoughts, Perez stretched out a hand. She took it and he curled his fingers protectively around hers. “Not your fault, Charley. The doctor said these things . . . happen.”

She shook her head. “That’s not good enough. I need to know why.”

He cleared his throat. “They’re going to run some tests. On us. On our . . . The miscarriage. He suggested an ultrasound of your uterus, an x-ray, too.”

She squeezed her eyes shut as he tightened his fingers on hers. “This is a setback. It really hurts, but we’ll have—”

“No.”

“—other childre—”

“Don’t. Please.” Her voice cracked. “I wanted this baby . . . I—I already loved him.”

“I understand,” he said with apparent sympathy.

And he always seemed to. She didn’t know what she had done to deserve his love. They’d met at Tulane University in New Orleans. She had been stunned when he asked her out, when he pursued her. She wasn’t an extraordinary beauty. Just pleasant looking—average face, average figure. And Jack was off the charts handsome. Smart. Educated. From an influential Louisiana family. His falling for her had been as much a mystery as a miracle.

“Have you heard from Harry?” she asked. She’d stopped calling her father Dad on her thirteenth birthday. She was Charley, he was Harry and her mother was perpetually horrified by the both of them.

“Not yet.”

“You left a message—”

“At the restaurant. And just a bit ago on his cell phone. It went automatically to voicemail.”

He was delayed, still in transit. “You didn’t tell him—”

He squeezed her fingers again. “Just that we were here. To call on my cell. I left my number.”

She swallowed past the sudden rush of tears. “Mother?” she managed.

“No answer, home or cell.”

“Ms. Middleton?”

They turned. Two men stood in the doorway, expressions solemn. Both men, dressed in dark suits, were pin neat and pressed, despite the hour. She wasn’t surprised when they introduced themselves as federal officers. “We need to ask you a few questions.”

“Now?” Perez asked as he stood. “Here?”

“It’s about your father,” the taller of the two said, producing his Department of Justice ID.

“About Harry?”

“Harold Middleton, yes. When’s the last time you spoke with him?”

The hair on the back of her neck prickled. “Before he left for Europe. A week or so before.”

“Did he seem himself?”

“Yes. But why—”

“Did he express any concerns about the trip? Any anxiety? Unexpected excitement?”

“My father was a seasoned traveler, Agent—”

“Smith,” he offered. “Did you get the sense this trip was different from others he’s taken?”

“None at all.”

“You planned to meet last evening? At the Ritz dining room?”

“Yes . . . But how—” She didn’t finish the thought. The feds could find out anything. Harry had taught her that. “For a late supper. I didn’t make it.”

Her throat closed over the words. The agents seemed unmoved by her pain. “We’re sorry for your loss, Ms. Middleton, but—”

“Mrs. Perez,” her husband corrected, voice tight. “As I said, this is not a good time. Either tell us why you’re here or leave.”

Agent Smith looked Perez in the eyes. “Perez is a well known name down in Louisiana.”

Perez frowned. “Meaning what?”

“It’s a name we’re familiar with, that’s all.”

Jack August Perez. His family, descendants of the original Spaniards that settled the New Orleans area, wielded both political and economic influence. In the era of Huey P. Long, they had exerted that power with an iron fist, nowadays with business savvy and brilliant connections.

Angry color stained Perez’s cheeks. “What are you getting at?”

Don’t let him get to you, she thought. Emotions lead to mistakes. Ones that could prove deadly. Another of Harry’s pearls.

What the hell was going on?

She touched her husband’s clenched hand. “It’s all right, sweetheart. It’s just a couple of questions.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Perez. Has your father contacted you in the past twenty-four hours?”

“No. I expect his flight was delayed. I’m used to that sort of thing with Harry.”

At her response, she felt her husband’s startled glance. She didn’t acknowledge it. “How did you know I was here, Agent Smith?”

He ignored the question. “I’m afraid your father’s in some trouble.”

She noticed that while Agent Smith spoke, his partner studied her reactions. She also noticed that every so often he rubbed the back of his hand against his leg, as if scratching at a bite or wiping at a stain.

Most un-fed like. Feds were trained to be as robotic as possible. Nervous twitches were not an option.

“Trouble? I don’t understand.”

“He was questioned in Warsaw concerning three murders in Europe.”

“Harry?” That incredulous retort came from Perez. “You have the wrong Harold Middleton.”

The agent’s gaze flickered to Perez, then settled on her once more. “Your father was able to catch an Air France flight out of Paris several hours later. He arrived at Dulles—then he shot and killed a police officer.”

She who couldn’t hold back. “Impossible!”

“I’m sorry.”

“That’s not my father.”

“I understand how you must feel. It’s a shock, but we have witnesses—”

“My father couldn’t have shot anybody. First off, Harold Middleton has spent his life fighting for what’s right. Hunting down and bringing to justice the sorts of monsters who terrorize and murder. That said, where did he get a gun? He’d just gotten off an international flight. Who was this cop? Why would my father want to kill him?”

She held his gaze; the tense silence crackled between them. After a moment, the agent broke the contact, inclined his head. “Those are all questions only your father can answer. We need to speak with him.”

The last thing she was about to do was help them find Harry.

The Feds were like buzzards on road kill—once they made up their mind someone was guilty, they’d move heaven and earth to “prove” it.

“What can I do?” she asked, sounding annoyingly earnest to her own ears.

“Let us know the minute you hear from him.” Agent Smith handed her his card. She gazed down at it, adorned with the Bureau’s familiar red, white, blue and gold seal.

He handed one to Perez. “That’s my cell number. Call anytime, day or night.”

“I will.” She ran her thumb across the business card, heart pounding. “And if you find him—”

“You’ll be the first to know.”

“This is all a mistake. You’re looking for the wrong man.”

“For your sake, I hope so.” As the two crossed to the door, Smith turned, meeting her gaze once more. Something in his expression made her skin crawl. “Thank you for your cooperation.”

The moment the door shut behind them, she swung her legs over the side of the bed. “We’re getting out of here. Now.”

“Charley, what—”

“This whole thing stinks. And I’m going to find out wh—” She stood and a wave of dizziness swept over her.

Perez grabbed her arm, steadying her. “Harry’s in some trouble, no doubt. But there’s nothing you can do about it right now—and certainly not in your condition. I’ll get the nurse to call Doctor Levine and find out when you’re being released, and we’ll plan from there.”

She shook off his hand. “You don’t get it. I’m not going to lie around here and do nothing when I know Harry’s in danger.”

“For God’s sake, Charley. You’re in more danger than he is. You just had a miscarriage. Doctor Levine said to expect discomfort and bleeding. That you’d be weak. He advised taking it easy for a couple days. I’m not letting you walk out of here without his okay.”

“Try to stop me.” She took a deep breath and looked her husband squarely in the eyes. “Those guys weren’t FBI.”

Without waiting for a response, she crossed to the room’s version of a closet, a press board armoire. Her panties and trousers were bloodstained. The panties were ruined, she decided, so she would have to make do with the pads the hospital had provided. If she tied her jacket around her waist, her dark-colored trousers would do until she could replace them.

She glanced at her husband as he watched her. “Those cards ‘Agent Smith’ handed us were bogus,” she said. “Take a good look. Cheap stock. Laser jet printing. Run your finger over it. The Bureau’s cards are engraved. This one could’ve been printed from any home computer.”

She stepped into the stained trousers, a lump in her throat. She swallowed past it. There would be a lifetime to mourn their loss. Right now, Harry needed her.

“The only number on Smith’s card,” she continued, “is a cell number.”

Perez frowned, struggling to come to grips with what she was proposing. “So where’s the Bureau’s number?”

“Exactly.”

He rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Charley, have you considered that you might be a little emotionally unstable right now? You’ve suffered a loss . . . It’s been a shock. I think taking a step back and a deep breath might be a good idea. I’ll check you out, we’ll go home. See if Harry’s there or left us a message. You need a change of clothes, something to eat. We’ll sort everything out.”

“Do you trust me?”

“Of course.”

“Then help me. Please.”

In the end, she wore him down. Worried that one of the bogus agents was watching the front of the hospital, she refused to allow him to officially check her out. The hospital would insist on a wheelchair—standard policy—and a front-door exit. Instead they took the stairs and slipped out the delivery entrance.

She waited while he brought the car around. Once they were both buckled in, he looked at her. “What’s the plan?”

“We find Harry.”

He smiled at her. “Good plan. How do y—”

The faint sound of a digitized version of the song “Brown-Eyed Girl” interrupted him.

Her cell phone’s ring tone.

“It’s in your purse,” he said. “I locked it in the—”

“Trunk.”

He shifted into park, threw open his car door and climbed out. A moment later he returned with her purse, cell clipped to it, message light blinking frantically.

A number she didn’t recognize—perhaps her father had bought a prepaid for security. She quickly scrolled through a half-dozen missed calls and one text message waiting. All from Harry.

She returned the last call first, and it was answered on the first ring. “Dad, it’s me. Thank God! I was so worried.”

“Charlotte! Where are you?”

“Jack and I—”

She bit the words back, realization crashing in on her. Not her father. Her father hadn’t called her Charlotte since the second grade.”

“Charlotte? Sweetheart, are you—”

With a sound of distress, she hung up. “Drive, Jack. Now.”

He did as she instructed. “What happened?”

“Someone pretended to be Harry. They wanted to know where I was.”

“Check your messages.”

She did. At the sound of her father’s voice relief flooded her.

“Charley, I’ve been delayed. I hope to still make a late dinner. Love you.”

She frowned at the second message. “Charley, there’s a situation here. I’ll explain everything when I get there. Look . . . Be careful. Stay with Jack. Don’t trust anyone you don’t know. My flight’s due into Dulles at 7:10 p.m.”

By the third and last message there was no denying the panic in his voice. “Where are you? I’m boarding the Paris flight. When you get this, dial back so I’ll know you’re okay.”

She checked the text message next.

GREEN LANTERN EVAC SCOTLAND

She stared at those four little words, feeling as if all the air had suddenly been sucked out of the car’s interior.

“What’s wrong?”

“Change in plans. We’re going to Capitol Hill. The Scotland—The St. Regis.”

While he drove, she explained about the code. When she finished, he glanced at her. “This is a gag?”

“Hardly. Harry would never have sent that text message unless it was for real.”

“Maybe he didn’t send it?”

The thought chilled her, but only for a moment. “No, no one else would know our code. Even mother only knew part of it. Harry sent it.”

“This makes no sense. It’s like some cloak-and-dagger parlor game. Only you’re telling me it’s real.” Perez pulled up in front of the hotel. “What is your dad, some kind of a spy?”

She flung open the car door. “Wait here. I’ll be right back.”

Moments later, she greeted the guest services agent. She dug a photo of Harry out of her wallet; the guy at the desk squinted at it, then nodded.

“He was here. Looking for some woman. You, I suppose. Went to the bar to wait.”

She thanked him and hurried to the lounge. She saw right away that he wasn’t there.

She crossed to the bar. The bartender was busy with another patron, a stunning redhead. While she waited for him to finish, her attention was drawn to the television behind the bar, the news story being broadcast. A shooting at Dulles. A police officer down. The grainy image of the suspect.