The Rescue(93)

“Give me a few minutes to send out a message to our teams in the valley. Meet you at the elevator,” said Kincaid, hanging up.

Reeves grabbed his field tablet from its charging station and stuffed it in a brown leather briefcase, along with a satellite phone. He’d need the phone to communicate with the plane. Before walking out of his office, he patted his coat, feeling his cell phone and his badge holder nestled inside the pocket. It wouldn’t be the first time he rushed out of here without one of those.

He met Kincaid at the elevator lobby, Reeves checking his watch the entire way down. It would take them longer to get out of the Wilshire Federal Building’s parking garage than it would to drive up the 405 to their destination—assuming the northbound traffic was clear. The Natural Foods on Sepulveda Boulevard in Sherman Oaks was just north of the hills separating the Los Angeles Basin from the San Fernando Valley, a route normally clear this late in the morning, unless there was an accident.

They could be on scene in under a half hour, which should leave them plenty of time to coordinate an effective surveillance effort, assuming Ms. Murphy hadn’t ducked inside Natural Foods for a snack. He suspected she was there to resupply the crew hiding somewhere nearby. She didn’t own property in the valley and could have chosen to stop at a dozen less crowded spots for a coffee or bite to eat. He expected her to be inside for a while.

When they pulled onto Wilshire Boulevard, he called Tori Breene, who had the unenviable task of authorizing and coordinating the use of the field office’s more controversial surveillance tools. Aircraft, drones, and cell-site simulators made the public’s A-list of protested assets—and she was responsible for all of them.

“Supervisory Special Agent Breene,” she answered.

“Tori. It’s Joe Reeves from Organized Crime,” he said. “I need a favor, if possible.”

“I thought you might have taken a vacation after the Penkin thing. Your division has been awfully quiet.”

“The past week has been one big game of musical chairs,” said Decker. “Except in this game, you end up with your throat cut from ear to ear if you don’t have a seat when the music stops.”

“Charming.”

“It actually hasn’t been that bad yet, which is why I need a quick favor.”

“Now it’s a quick favor?”

“I need to follow a car for about an hour. The target is parked at the Natural Foods in Sherman Oaks on Sepulveda.”

“That’s all you’re going to tell me?”

“The less you know about it, the better.”

“You mean the less your boss, who also happens to be my boss, knows about it, the better.”

“It’s related to Penkin,” said Reeves. “I’ve been chasing down a possible suspect in his murder, who may not be connected to the Russian mob at all.”

“Cartel?”

“No. Possibly a personal grudge.”

“That’s one hell of a grudge.”

“It’s a bit of a stretch,” said Reeves. “Which is why I want to keep this as informal as possible. I just need an hour. This crew ran circles around my ground surveillance teams recently.”

“This better be legit.”

“It’s completely legitimate—just such a long shot I’d rather not have it cross the SAC’s desk. All I’m asking for is a handoff once the target stops. My division will take over from there.”

“One hour. Everything will be logged as usual.”

“Understood. Like I said, this is completely legit.”

“It better be,” she said. “Do you have a satellite phone?”

“Yes,” said Reeves, scrambling to pull it out of his briefcase.

“Give me the number. They’ll call you when they’re over the target area.”

Reeves read the number off the back of the phone. “I owe you one, Tori.”

“If I had a dollar for every time I heard that here,” she said. “JANA is their call sign. Give them about fifteen minutes to get on station. They’re circling east of the city right now.”

“Thank you, Tori,” he said, but the call had already ended.

Reeves switched to his handheld radio, checking whether any of his units were in range. He got a few squawks in reply but knew radio communications with agents in the valley would be spotty at best on this side of the hills. His phone rang, caller ID identifying Sarah Vale, an agent on stakeout in Van Nuys. He answered the call.

“Agent Vale,” he said. “How far out are you?”

“A minute. I heard your call on the radio, but most of it was garbled.”

“Has anyone arrived ahead of you?”

“Negative. The next closest agent is Gaines, and he’s about five minutes away.”

“Do you have a GPS tracker unit?”

“I do not,” she said. “Neither does Gaines. Simonetti has one, but she’s a few minutes farther out than Gaines.”

“That’s fine,” said Reeves. “I have one of our surveillance aircraft on the way over. ETA fifteen minutes.”

“You don’t trust us not to lose them again?” she said, and he couldn’t tell if she was serious or joking.

“No offense, but I wouldn’t be too surprised if they were capable of ditching the aerial surveillance, too.”