Racing the Light (Elvis Cole #19; Joe Pike #8)(28)

Kandace Bohlen’s number led to another voice mail. This time, I left my name and number, and told her I’d like to speak with her about Rachel Belle Bohlen. She would call back, or she wouldn’t.

Richard L. was last. A young woman answered on the second ring, yelping out a hello in a cheery voice. She sounded like a teenager. I heard background voices, but they were probably on television.

I said, “Hey. Don’t hang up, okay? Picture me begging.”

This was me, laying on the charm.

She giggled.

“Who is this?”

“Every Bohlen I’ve called hangs up. Be a rebel. Resist the urge. Pretty please?”

“Who is this? Did Ronnie put you up to this?”

“Actually, no. I’m calling from Los Angeles. I need information about a Rachel Belle Bohlen.”

She didn’t respond. In her silence, the background voices were loud.

I said, “I take it you know her?”

Her voice was completely different when she answered. Hushed and low, like she didn’t want anyone to hear.

“Is she okay?”

“So far as I know. May I ask your name?”

“I can’t really talk.”

Her voice was so muffled she might have had a blanket over her head.

“My name is Elvis Cole. I’m a private investigator.”

“April.”

A whisper.

“Are you her sister?”

She didn’t respond.

“Did Rachel have a friend named Kim or Kimmie? Maybe went by Kaykay?”

“Can’t talk.”

The line went dead, and April was gone.

Can’t talk didn’t mean won’t talk. Can’t talk was promising.

I put the laptop aside and checked the time. Lucy and Ben were due to land and Joe would arrive in minutes. Dinner was prepped and ready to go. The house was clean, the guest room was squared away, and I had showered and shaved. Nothing left to do except wonder what Lucy wanted to talk about. I was deciding whether to check the guest room again when Terri Grafino called. Terri didn’t sound like her usual friendly self. She sounded subdued.

Terri said, “This number.”

That was it.

I said, “Couldn’t find the account?”

“I found it. I couldn’t get into it, but I found it.”

Her voice trailed away to silence.

I said, “Terri?”

“Be careful, Elvis. Don’t get stupid on me.”

I’d never heard Terri sound empty.

“I don’t understand. Is this about the phone?”

“The number, not the phone. It’s the account. Whose number is this?”

“Just a guy. Nobody special. I’m trying to find him.”

“The number’s account is caged. When I tried to access the account, which I did, a message appeared. Please contact the Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency, Department of Defense, Washington, D.C.”

I felt a dull throb behind my eyes.

“The Department of Defense.”

“I’ll probably be investigated.”

“Maybe you transposed a digit.”

“It’s the number you gave me. A DARPA number. It’s caged.”

DARPA handled research for the military.

“At least they said please.”

“These people don’t joke.”

“No. I guess they don’t.”

Terri Grafino hung up without saying good-bye. I went to the glass doors and stared across the canyon without seeing it. I felt angry and a little scared. Maybe more than a little. I called Wendy Vann.

“Did you get his call log yet?”

“Give me a break, Cole. I’m working on it.”

“Might be faster if you didn’t need to ask the Defense Department.”

“Take it easy.”

“Why does Josh Shumacher have a DARPA phone number?”

“Take it easy.”

“Who are you people?”

“His parents used to work for the government. That’s all. The phone’s a perk. That’s all it is.”

“How about you and Kurt? Are you a perk?”

“Forget the phone, Cole. You were hired to find her son, so find him. Do your job.”

“Answer my question. Who are you people?”

Wendy paused.

“Here’s my answer.”

She smiled. I sensed it. I didn’t like the smile or the reasons behind it or what she said next.

“Enjoy your tacos.”





17





Joe Pike and I had been partners since the day we bought the agency from old George Feider, my former boss. He’d been my friend even longer. Pike’s uniform du jour was jeans, a gray sweatshirt with the sleeves cut off, and military-issue sunglasses, which was pretty much what he wore every day. He leaned against the counter in my kitchen with his arms crossed. Pike stood as still as a tree. Arrows tattooed on the outsides of his shoulders wrapped forward across his deltoids as if pointing at me. The arrows were red.

I said, “It was a threat. They want me to find Josh, but they didn’t expect me to discover the DoD connection. Wendy was warning me to stay clear.”