The Case for Jamie (Charlotte Holmes #3)(45)

The agent was talking into his radio. By the door, the security officer perked up and turned my way.

Moments. I had moments. I needed a flight record, a complete one, and to know the next time Moriarty was arriving. Today was Wednesday. The day that Lucien always flew to New York, from what I’d seen from my weeks at Heathrow in London.

“Hey,” the agent said gruffly. “Hey, you! What are you doing?”

I’d found it.

Quickly I hit the Print key. The results tumbled out onto the carpeted floor. The agent was in sight of me now. “Stop! Stop what you’re doing!”

I gasped, dropped the phone, and crumpled to the floor.

He rounded the desk to find the screen blank, and me sobbing. “What—who are you? What are you doing? Young lady?”

“I’m having a panic attack,” I said, through the tears. “I have a Starway interview today—I couldn’t, I—I had to call my doctor. I couldn’t breathe. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry, don’t arrest me.”

Crouching, he picked the phone up off the floor and put it to his ear. I could hear the cheerful message. Press eight if you need to make an appointment. Press nine to hear these options again.

“You don’t have a phone?” he said, helping me to my feet.

I smiled at him shakily. “Not one that works in the States,” I said, my accent posh and plummy. “I’m just getting myself set up.”

The agent’s eyes went again to his monitor screen. It was blank. He relaxed, infinitesimally. Let him think he’d signed himself off.

“This might not be the best job for you,” he was saying, steering me back toward the information desk at the center of the terminal. “It gets pretty stressful here.”

“Does it? I bet it’s awful around the holiday.”

It was enough to get him telling a funny story, something about a girl in a reindeer suit, and when the bewildered clerk at the desk confirmed that I was, in fact, there for an interview, that I’d checked in five minutes ago, that he had spoken to me himself, the agent said, “Listen, Charlotte, don’t worry about it—but maybe don’t take this job,” and before either of them had another thought about calling the police, I was outside and in a taxi en route to Manhattan.

The driver raised an eyebrow at me when I fished a sheaf of papers out from under my skirt. I’d barely had the time to stuff them into my tights.

I flipped through them slowly, trying to make some sense of what I was reading. Michael Hartwell wasn’t flying to New York. Peter Morgan-Vilk wasn’t flying to New York. They weren’t flying to Boston or D.C. Nothing confirmed, nothing in the reservation system. I checked it through again to be sure.

That left the last page. The contingency search I had done at the last possible second. We bumped along in traffic, thick now as any London rush hour, and as the driver rode his brakes, I took a deep, steadying breath, then held the last page up to the light.

There.

Lucien Moriarty was flying to America. Tonight. As Tracey Polnitz.

I had waited for this for the last year and still I wasn’t ready. I—I couldn’t quite breathe. Why couldn’t I breathe? I needed to speak to someone, to someone who knew me well, and from before all this, someone I could trust.

Without even really thinking about it, without considering the repercussions, I picked up my mobile and called the only number I had thought to save.





Fifteen


Jamie


I’D ARRANGED TO MEET ELIZABETH OVER HER LUNCH break; I’d called her, so she knew for sure this time that it was me. The parking lot was near the far end of the quad, at the bottom of a slope, and I could see her walking toward me long before she arrived—the red flag of her blazer under her parka, her legs in tights, the scattering bright of her hair.

She was beautiful, and magnetic, and I was wasting her time.

I knew it especially when she passed me a hot paper cup from the cafeteria. “Cocoa,” she said. “I figured you wouldn’t want anyone to see you in there, since you’re sort-of suspended.”

“Thanks,” I said, cupping it in my hands. “I don’t think they have a watch out for me, but yeah, I’m trying to lay low.”

We looked at each other for a long minute.

“You’re not a good boyfriend,” she said, like it was simple. Maybe it was. “Someone is playing on that, I think. They want me to be mad at you. I am, but for different reasons.”

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“I know.”

“I thought that I could—I really like you. You’re really cool, and really pretty, and—”

“I know,” she said, a bit despairingly. “I think I am too.”

“And I just have my head somewhere else. I’m graduating, and last year was a mess, and I know I haven’t been good to you.” I had this urge to reach out to touch her, but I didn’t know what that would accomplish. “I don’t know if it’s because of that, or if I’m just not a good guy.”

Elizabeth shifted her weight from foot to foot. “Just because you know something about yourself doesn’t mean you should be forgiven for it.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, again.

It was over, then. It was for the best.