Baby Carter (Baby Grand Trilogy, Book 3) Page 20

  Bob tossed his cell phone back on the sofa. Four years ago, that thing had practically vibrated itself to death with all the requests he was receiving for talk show appearances and book signings, and now here he was sitting alone in his apartment on a Sunday morning like every other sap. He raised the volume on the television when he saw a graphic at the bottom of the screen that read Bailino: At Large or At Rest. In a split screen, an old woman with the title of organized crime historian was blathering on about something.

  “We must reiterate for those just joining us,” said a CNN anchor Bob didn’t recognize, as if for Bob’s benefit. “The FBI has not confirmed any information regarding a hunt or a search for Don Bailino …” Yeah, no kidding, Bob thought. “ … although sources tell CNN that such a hunt or search is, indeed, underway, and there seems to be many people who are ready to believe it.”

  “Well, I’m a believer,” the old woman said, raising her hand as an affirmation. She was wearing a turtleneck sweater—probably to cover up her neck wrinkles, Bob thought with a smile. He made the volume louder. “Think about it: There was never a body, just a body part—that right there should have tipped off the Federal Bureau of Investigation, which, in my opinion, was much too eager to put this case to bed. Don Bailino has always been a force to be reckoned with, and it seems he has, for about three years, had the upper hand—so to speak.” She smiled for the camera.

  Ugh, Bob rolled his eyes. Where do they find these people?

  “It really isn’t that difficult for someone to hide, even in this technologically driven age,” the woman continued. “If Don Bailino had hidden enough money, he could certainly live a modest lifestyle off-grid for many years. Most fugitives …”

  Bob turned off the set. He was tired of so-called experts prattling on about things they knew nothing about. He was the one who should have been appearing on CNN. He was the one who had real insights into the matter—after all, hadn’t he penned a bestselling book about the guy? As far as Bob was concerned, Bailino was about as alive as Bigfoot or the Loch Ness Monster or the boogeyman hiding under his bed. Not that it mattered. All that mattered was that people thought Bailino was alive; the rumor that launched a thousand T-shirts. What did Bob care? His book sales were up again, and he could use the royalties.

  He got up and practically lunged at his filled cup in the cradle of his Nespresso machine, gulping the coffee down as his head started to clear. Maybe it was worth calling some of the press contacts he had acquired during the book tour to see if they needed a sound bite, he thought, letting the last sip of coffee pool at the bottom of his mouth before swallowing. Why sit around and wait for people to contact him when he could start making calls, get his name out there again? Anything beat doing paralegal work. He knew editors and producers had short memories when it came to their contact lists. They probably needed a little prodding.

  He leaned against the counter. Maybe he could try Jamie, whose name was also making the social media rounds after Edward mistakenly filed a Missing Person report. What a boob. Sure, Jamie had made it clear that she wanted nothing to do with him, but that had been a long time ago. Maybe she had softened—or come to her senses.

  Yeah, the more he thought about it, the more he knew Jamie was his way in, but how could he appeal to her? Talk about a tough nut to crack. The woman didn’t have an interest in money, or so she said. Lord knows, she didn’t dress like she did. He’d have to appeal to her sense of ethics. He’d tell her that if Bailino was alive, it was her duty to talk about it publicly, ferret him out, how it would be a public service. The Carter siblings were all about public service. And that could be his ticket back to CNN. Would that work? he wondered. Maybe. He’d have to make his plea in person, though. He did his best work in person.

  He pulled out his cell phone and checked his calendar. He wasn’t due in court until Thursday. Nothing but damn consulting work for the next few days. That could wait. He did an online search for flights to Washington; there was an 11:10 out of Kennedy. He looked at his watch. He could make it, if he hurried, so he booked it and called for an Uber. Then he ran into his bedroom, plopped a suitcase onto his bed, and quickly packed some underwear and toiletries, along with a few suits.

  As he zipped his suitcase shut, he felt a rush, starting to feel like his old self again. He should have done this a week ago. It was only a matter of time until he was on CNN instead of that cretinous organized crime historian. He thought about texting Jamie to let her know he was going to be in town and would like to have dinner—maybe he could persuade her over a few glasses of wine—but he thought it better to wait. He could go straight to the White House first thing tomorrow morning, now that she was back from vacation, or wherever she was. Just walk right up to the front gate, like he did five years ago when he marched into the governor’s Executive Mansion in Albany. They had let him in then, so Grand was bound to let him in now, wasn’t he? One of his former legal roundtable lawyers? It was a no-brainer. And even on the off chance that he was refused entry, there would be press roaming around that would notice him, and that meant air time.

  His Uber app pinged, notifying him that his ride had arrived, and Bob rolled his suitcase toward the apartment door. He turned off the coffeepot and the lights, and wrote a quick message for Mrs. Estabauer to take in his mail for the next few days—it would give the old landlord something to do.

  He pulled his keys from the counter and turned the knob of his apartment door when the door suddenly swung open, startling him and knocking his luggage and keys to the floor.

  “What the fuck?” Bob said, reeling backward as a man pressed him against the wall, his massive arm pushing against his windpipe. “Take whatever you want,” he gagged, trying to fight back, but the guy was quick and like a tank. He couldn’t make out the man’s features—it was dark and he was wearing some kind of hat—but suddenly the overhead light flicked on, and Bob was staring into dark eyes he had never seen before in person but knew instantly. He looked at the open door.

  “She’s not home,” Bailino said, his voice reeking of coffee, the cheap kind. “She got into a car about a half hour ago with some kids. Looked like grandchildren. It’s just you and me, Mr. New York Times bestselling author.”

  Bailino’s grip loosened on Bob’s neck, but he kept him locked against the wall. “You gonna be a good boy?” he asked, taking out a pistol.

  Bob eyed the handless arm pressing against his windpipe and put his hands up in the air. A small part of him still wanted to believe Bailino was dead. “What do you want?” he said in the deepest and most dangerous voice he could muster.

  “Well, what I want is irrelevant right now. It’s what I need.”

  Bob tried to swallow but couldn’t gather enough saliva. “What do you need?” he asked.

  “I need you to text Jamie Carter.” Bailino slowly let go of Bob, who took in a huge gulp of air.

  “Jamie Carter?” Bob’s voice sounded hollow. “We’re not married anymore. I wouldn’t even know how to—”

  In an instant, Bailino’s arm swung up and knocked Bob’s head into the wall, and he fell to the floor.

  “Let’s try this again,” Bailino said.

  “All right …” Bob said, covering his head with his hands, his ear ringing with pain. “Give me a minute …”

  “Where’s your phone?”

  Bob tried to gather his thoughts as well as some kind of strategy, but he was still hung over. Absently, he dug his phone out of his pants pocket, and Bailino knocked it out of his hands and onto the floor.

  “Relax …” Bob stood up carefully. “I’ll do whatever you want. You don’t have to hit me again.”

  “Are you kidding? Hitting you is the most fun I’ve had in years.” Bailino looked around the apartment. “Nice place. What’s with the suitcase? Taking a trip?”

  Bob was quiet.

  “I asked you a question.”

  “Yes, I’m taking a trip.”

  “Where are you going?”

  Bob
hesitated, and Bailino straightened his arm holding the gun. “I knew it. You’re as dumb as you look.”

  “Washington.”

  “For what?”

  Bob’s instinct was to hesitate again, but he pushed the words out. “The president needs to see me.”

  Bailino leaned toward him, watching him closely. “Is that right?”

  “I mean,” Bob said, “I need to see the president.”

  “The president? Or the president’s press secretary?” Bailino asked.

  Bailino looked as if he was going to hit him again when Bob’s phone, which was lying on the floor, pinged.

  “What’s that?” Bailino motioned toward the phone’s screen.

  “My Uber.”

  Bailino seemed to consider this. “Don’t want you to miss your ride, so let’s make this snappy. Pick up the phone, unlock it, and then face it toward me. Very slowly, so I can see the screen, and open your contact list.”

  Bob reached down and did as he was told, and Bailino watched him carefully, although he took a slight step back in order to see the phone screen, as if he needed reading glasses. Bob scrolled to Jamie’s phone number, wondering if he could somehow get the jump on the guy when Bailino placed the barrel of the gun against his temple.

  “You gonna be a tough guy?” Bailino asked.

  “No,” Bob said.

  “Wow, you’re not so tough when the cameras aren’t rolling,” Bailino said. “Now, click Text Message.”

  “Wouldn’t you rather do it?” Bob held out the cell phone for him.

  “Nah, I like ordering you around.” He pressed the barrel of the gun against his temple.

  Bob clicked the app, opening a new message.

  “Now, press Send,” Bailino said.

  Bob hesitated. “But there’s no message.”

  “I’m a man of few words.” Bailino smirked.

  Bob pressed Send.

  “Now, if you’re smart, you’ll put that phone away, pick up your bag, and go get into your Uber,” Bailino said. “Are you smart?”

  “Yes,” Bob said, and before he could stop himself, added, “Very.”

  “I doubt that.” Bailino put the pistol away. “Have a nice trip,” he said. With his foot, he pushed Bob’s luggage toward him, and as Bob picked it up Bailino darted out of the apartment. In the hallway, Bailino slung a duffel bag over his shoulder and walked down the stairs like he lived there, even straightening one of Mrs. Estabauer’s picture frames on the way out.

  Bob stood there, stunned. He rubbed the front of his neck, which felt raw, his touch making the skin sting. He began dialing 911, but stopped. He didn’t see the point. By the time they got there, Bailino could be anywhere in the city, and the last thing he needed was some Italian maniac after him. Still, having police on the scene might fetch some media coverage and an opportunity for Bob to make the news. He decided not to chance it.

  He looked at the weird blank message Bailino sent to Jamie. There was no reply. Was there supposed to be? Would she think it was weird that Bob sent her a blank text? Or was Jamie expecting a blank text?

  He remembered an assault case he had tried when he was at Worcester, Payne & Leach several years before. One of his clients had been accused of stalking his ex-wife, but because the legal definitions of stalking varied from one jurisdiction to another, Bob had been able to convince the jury that his client’s behavior—he had only sent a series of blank texts to the woman—would not cause a reasonable person to feel fear, and he had gotten the guy off. Turns out, the texts were some kind of warning or signal, and two weeks after his client went walking out of the courtroom as a free man he wound up strangling the woman to death in front of their two-year-old daughter.

  Was Bailino sending a warning or a signal to Jamie?

  Bob grabbed his luggage from the floor, slammed his apartment door closed, and ran down the stairs, his suitcase bumping behind him. He shoved the landlord’s note under her apartment door and hurried down the stoop onto the sidewalk.

  “Did you call for an Uber?” asked a kid standing in the street next to a double-parked Chevy. He looked annoyed. “I asked that other dude who came out, but he just kept walkin’.”

  “Yeah, that was me,” Bob said. He wheeled his luggage toward the trunk of the car, put it in, and got into the backseat.

  “You’re lucky,” the driver said with a huff after he closed the trunk and slipped into the driver’s seat. “I was just about to leave.” He put the car into drive and pulled into traffic.

  Lucky, Bob thought. Five minutes ago, he wouldn’t have used that word for what had just happened, but Bailino’s unexpected arrival had been exactly the thing he had been looking for.

  “Where you headed?” asked the kid, who had calmed down. “I mean, once you get to the airport, where you going?”

  “Washington,” Bob replied absently.

  “What, do you have a meeting with the president or something?” The kid laughed.

  Bob smiled. “Or something.”

  Actually, the White House no longer held an interest for Bob. He leaned back against the seat of the car. By this time tomorrow night, he not only expected to be featured on the evening news, he expected to be the main story.

  CHAPTER 29

  Jamie Carter kissed her daughter good-bye, patted the head of a big dog that Wilcox had never seen before, and then slipped into Edward’s car. He looked at the clock on his dashboard: 10:07 a.m. As she eased onto the road, Wilcox followed from a few car lengths behind. Jamie had gotten pretty savvy when it came to both stationary and moving surveillance, and he had a feeling she’d be able to spot his car, which is why he borrowed his brother’s. He found it ironic—both of them driving their brother’s cars, both of them not wanting to take their own, perhaps for similar reasons. Still, he kept his distance.

  Jamie was the last person Wilcox ever thought would be under his surveillance, but he had to treat her as he would any other person of interest. Her song and dance in the Oval Office—if that, indeed, is what it was—had to be sussed out. That was his job, whether or not Phillip Grand was in agreement. And if Jamie was telling the truth, then she would be vindicated. It was as simple as that.

  He followed her to I-95, which, since it was a Sunday, was moving pretty steadily, and onto the north entrance ramp. When she merged into the middle lane, he stayed in the right lane and then after a few miles maneuvered behind a moving van, which provided additional concealment. Wilcox turned on the radio to pass the time, but wasn’t listening. The moving van in front of him changed lanes, and Wilcox changed along with him, keeping Jamie’s vehicle within eyeshot.

  Signs for Maryland appeared in the distance, and soon the two cars were crossing the state border. Son of a bitch, Wilcox thought. She’s ignoring the request to stay put.

  They drove past Baltimore, and after the moving van took the exit ramp, Wilcox stayed behind a blue SUV in the middle lane. Fifteen minutes on I-95 turned into a half hour and then into an hour. Where the hell is she going? When Jamie put on her indicator and took an exit in Delaware, Wilcox’s pulse quickened.

  Bailino’s car had been found at the Wilmington, Delaware, Amtrak train station earlier that morning. Agent Fuller had spent most of the night watching surveillance footage and had been pretty sure he spotted Bailino getting onto a train headed to New York City. He had sent a video still to Wilcox to confirm, and although Wilcox couldn’t be sure, since a baseball cap covered much of the target’s face, he was inclined to agree.

  What did that mean, he wondered. He looked at the street signs. Jamie was heading toward the University of Delaware in Newark, which was about a half hour from Wilmington. Had Agent Fuller IDed the wrong guy? Wilcox didn’t think so. It made sense that Bailino would get the hell out of Delaware since that was where he left his car. Or did that make it the perfect spot for a meeting?

  He followed Jamie off the exit ramp, letting several vehicles get between them. As they drove for a few miles, the streets grew narrower a
nd more congested, old homes turning into frat and sorority houses. Finally, she parked her car on a block near campus, across the street from a green quad. Wilcox made a right-hand turn and parked in between two cars on a similar side street. He reached onto the passenger seat for a pair of sunglasses and a baseball cap and put them on, and then he quickly got out of his car, pumped a few quarters into the meter, grabbed a backpack from his trunk, and walked toward the corner of the block.

  It was a beautiful fall morning, and students, most of whom probably didn’t have class on the weekend, were out and about—having breakfast and lounging on the grass. The campus was surprisingly crowded, with groups of students and adults touring the grounds, perhaps for Parents’ Weekend—a perfect time to visit for someone who wanted to get lost in a crowd.

  He looked for Jamie, who, he remembered, was wearing a white T-shirt and jeans—an outfit he assumed was intentional and would make it difficult to track her among the students—and, for a moment, he couldn’t locate her, but then he spotted her. While most of the people on campus were strolling casually, someone wearing a T-shirt and jeans was walking with purpose away from campus.

  She was crisscrossing streets, as if trying to lose a tail, although she didn’t look behind her. She strode past the university’s dormitories and toward the main street of the college town. Wilcox pulled down his baseball cap and followed from a half block behind. When she got to the main street, she ducked into a Starbucks, and Wilcox kept walking, shielded by a student and a lecturer-type whose relationship looked more than professional. He crossed the street with them and walked into a nearby Panera Bread, which, with its large windows and crowded restaurant, offered a solid place to conduct his surveillance.

  Wilcox stood in the vestibule, inside the door, watching the front of Starbucks closely. He couldn’t imagine she had driven nearly two hours for a cup of coffee. Lots of people were seated at the outdoor tables, and the front door was opening constantly, with patrons filing in and out. It dawned on him that perhaps she was simply meeting an old school friend or colleague, but that still wasn’t enough to explain why she had defied his request to stay local. Some of Panera’s patrons began to eye Wilcox suspiciously, so he took out his phone, pretending to speak with someone so he didn’t arouse any more suspicion.