Mean Streak(33)

“Put your shoes on. We’re leaving.”

“Where are we going?”

“I’m taking you down the mountain, and I’m in a hurry.”





Chapter 12



Come October, the heating system in Jack Connell’s apartment building was cranked up to somewhere around eighty-five degrees, and it stayed at that setting until May. After coming in from a frigid wind that whipped through the brick-and-mortar canyons of Midtown Manhattan, he exchanged his suit and overcoat for shorts and a Jets T-shirt, opened a beer, and carried it with him into his home office, a small room sparsely furnished with a desk—a door suspended between two sawhorses—and a secondhand chair on casters, one of which wobbled.

He called the number Greer had given him for the television news reporter who’d covered the protest march on the state capitol building in Olympia, Washington.

The phone rang several times, and when it was answered, the background noise was deafening. After several false starts, the young man explained that he was out, having happy hour drinks with friends. On the West Coast, happy hour apparently began at three thirty.

Jack shouted, “You talked to my colleague earlier today. Wes Greer.”

“Oh, the FBI agent?”

“Right. You told him that the group featured in your story’s video had come by bus from Seattle to participate in the demonstration. Were they isolated people with a common passion or an organized group?”

“A group. With a name. Can’t remember it now. It’s in my notes. When do you need it?”

“Yesterday.”

“Oh. Can I get back to you? I’ll have to call the newsroom and have somebody go over to my desk.”

Jack gave him his cell number. While waiting for him to call back, he went into the kitchen and made a sandwich of stale rye, hot mustard, and deli roast beef that hadn’t gone completely green, opened another beer, and was halfway through each when the reporter phoned.

“The group is Citizens Who Care. CWC.”

“Is there a contact person?”

“The guy who started it. A relative of his—I think it was his nephew—was shot and killed while buying a Slurpee at a convenience store. He got in the way of an armed robber. Anyway, this guy’s an uber-activist. He has a long name, like a Polish hockey player or something. Ready?”

The reporter spelled it out, and the letters were mostly consonants. Jack asked if he had a phone number for him.

“Figured you’d want that, too.” He read it out. “Say, why’re you trying to track him down? Is there a story here?”

The poor sap had no idea.

Jack made up some mumbo jumbo about the “Bureau’s interest” in any group or individual supporting either “stricter gun laws” or any “opposed to government’s suspension of personal liberties.”

“Oh, that’s been done to death.” The reporter sounded bored and ready to return to happy hour with his friends. “But keep my number and call me if you come across anything newsworthy. On the QT, of course. I’d never reveal you as my source.”

Jack made a promise he never intended to keep, thanked the reporter, and hung up. Switching to a burner phone, Jack called the man with the odd name, and the gentleman himself answered.

He sounded like a nice enough guy, which made Jack feel bad for lying to him. But not too bad. He used a fake name to introduce himself. “I’m not taking a survey or trying to sell you anything. I’m looking for a long-lost classmate.”

He launched into a whopper about an upcoming high school reunion. “I’m in charge of finding people the class has lost track of. You’d think it would be easy, the Internet and all. But some have slipped through the cracks.

“Last night, me and the wife were watching the news, and, swear to God, I think I spotted Becky Watson in your group that marched on the state capitol. Even in high school Becky was politically active and a crusader for causes like gun control. Which, so am I, by the way.”

“Becky, you said? We don’t have a Becky in CWC.”

“Maybe she goes by Rebecca now.”

“Nope, sorry. Nobody named either Rebecca or Watson.”

“Gosh, I was positive that was her. The white spiky hair was exactly the same.”

“That sounds like Grace.”

“The lady I’m talking about was wearing a red coat.”

“Her name’s Grace Kent.”

Jack, heart bumping, scribbled down the name. He wanted to probe the gentleman for information about his fellow demonstrator: What does Grace do for a living? Does she have a daughter around twelve years old? Does she have a brother who visits her regularly? You can’t miss him. Big, tough-looking, dark hair, light eyes.

But he resisted the temptation to ask. He didn’t want the man’s curiosity aroused. He might feel obligated to alert Grace Kent that someone had called inquiring about her.

He sighed with exaggerated disappointment. “Oh well, not our Becky then. But it was worth a shot. Sorry to have bothered you. Thank you for your time.”

“No problem. Good luck with your class reunion.”

Jack’s fingers couldn’t move fast enough on his keyboard, but for naught. No one with the name Grace Kent was listed in the Seattle phone book. He ran a Google search, didn’t find anything. So he called Wes Greer and put him on it, then sat there and absently finished his sandwich, chewing mechanically, thinking.