Suddenly One Summer (FBI/US Attorney #6)(41)
“Actually, it’s the opposite. I’m hoping this isn’t the Peter Sutter I’m looking for.” Without mentioning his sister or niece, Ford explained the situation and said that he was helping to track down Sutter for a friend. “I have the list narrowed down to eleven men. Hopefully, after seeing the mug shot, we’ll be able to eliminate this guy as a possibility. For the rest, I’ll have to do some legwork to get their photographs.”
“The kind of legwork you’re talking about works best for someone who lives in a single-family home or a two- or three-flat,” Vaughn said. “You stake out the home, say, in the morning before work hours, and if you’re lucky you’ll get a shot of him coming out the front door. Or, you might catch him pulling his car out of the garage, so you follow him to work and get a shot of him exiting the vehicle. But even that’s going to take time.”
“I don’t mind putting in the time on this.”
“Fair enough. But if any of your Peter Sutters live in a large condo or apartment building, it’s going to be a lot trickier to snap a photo.”
Ford had already considered this, which was precisely why he planned to tackle the men living in single-family homes and two-flats first. Still, he had a Plan B if that didn’t pan out. “I can get license plate and VIN numbers from their social security numbers.” Which, in turn, would tell him the make and model car driven by each Peter Sutter. “If I have to, I can wait outside the parking garage, wait until the right car comes out, and then follow the guy from there.”
“This must be for someone important, if you’re willing to go through all that.”
Ford said nothing, merely took a sip of his coffee.
Vaughn chuckled. “Look, all these stakeouts might work. But depending on the address, some down and dirty undercover work could be a lot more efficient.”
Ford liked the sound of anything that could save time. “Such as?”
“You get a partner. Someone who could knock on a front door for some plausible reason and ask the guy if he’s Peter Sutter. Meanwhile, you are stationed somewhere nearby where you can snap a photo. If you can, I’d recommend a female partner for this kind of thing.” Vaughn pointed with his coffee cup. “A tall, built guy like you comes around asking questions, and people get their guards up. But both men and women are inherently less suspicious when it’s a woman looking for information.” He thought about that. “Maybe Brooke could help you out.”
“I don’t want to get Brooke involved in this.” Because Brooke, naturally, would want to know why they were tracking down eleven Peter Sutters, and Ford had specifically promised Nicole he wouldn’t share that information with his friends.
“Maybe one of your female co-workers, another reporter?”
The problem, Ford knew, was that any reporter he dragged into this would undoubtedly ask a lot of questions, and this was a personal matter. But . . . there was one woman who already knew all about the situation with Nicole. A woman who, as it so happened, had vehemently insisted that she be kept fully informed about the search for the missing Peter Sutter.
Ford looked at Vaughn. “I think I know just who to ask.”
* * *
AFTER LEAVING THE coffee shop, he walked to the corner of the three-way intersection of Milwaukee, Damen, and North avenues, and waited for the light to change. A Blue Line train came roaring toward the elevated platform on the opposite side of the street.
His eyes drifted up, drawn in the direction of the noise, and he saw a handful of people waiting for the train. Then he noticed—well, hello—that one of those people happened to be the very woman he’d just been thinking about.
Victoria.
Dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, she took a step back as the train entered the station and slowed to a stop. The doors opened, and she remained where she was on the platform, seemingly hesitating, until the train chimed.
Doors closing, said the automated voice.
As if propelled into action by the words, she sprinted onto the train, just beating the doors.
Ford watched as the train pulled away, having no clue what that was all about.
Another curious development in the mystery that was Victoria Slade.
Fourteen
FLUSH FROM THE high of her success, Victoria walked into her loft feeling like a victorious woman, indeed.
She had ridden the Blue Line a whole three stops and back, without incident. Granted, the train cars hadn’t been crowded, which was the very reason she’d chosen to ride on a Sunday morning. But it was progress, nevertheless.
In a celebratory mood, she pumped Alicia Keys through the loft’s speakers. This girl is on fire. She kicked off her shoes and headed into the kitchen, singing along with the lyrics. We got our feet on the ground, and we’re burning it down. She was no singer, far from it, but who cared? She had done something about her tiny panic issue. She could report back to Dr. Metzel, and for once he’d be able to scribble down an A+ in that little notepad of his.
The song finished when she was halfway through the banana she was slicing for a smoothie. Almost immediately, there was a knock at her front door.
She wiped her hands and crossed the room, checking the peephole.
Ford.
Great. She opened the door, wondering how long he’d been standing there.
“It is a catchy song,” he said, the corners of his mouth twitching.