Killer Instinct (Instinct #2)(45)

Enough said, at least about my father’s former life as an operative.

I was prepared to tell Elizabeth all about my morning. Meeting Eli. The fact that I now had a target on my back courtesy of some very impolite terrorists. But first there was something I needed to know.

“What are you even doing here?” I asked her. “You’re supposed to be out following—”

“Yes, I know,” said Elizabeth. “I was supposed to learn her entire routine. Everything she does. Everywhere she goes.”

“In other words,” I said, “tailing her for days.”

“Or maybe just hours,” she said. “I found out everything you need to know about Sadira Yavari. But we don’t have much time.”





CHAPTER 62


ELIZABETH WAS right, twice over. A beautiful little thing called serendipity had intervened in her reconnaissance mission. I no longer needed to know Professor Sadira Yavari’s daily routine, what her regular haunts were, or the particular park bench where she liked to go to read. Engineering my “chance” meeting with her had already been taken care of courtesy of the United States District Court for the Southern District of New York. In short, Sadira had jury duty.

Right now.

There was barely any time for the things I needed to do, let alone wanted to do. I wanted to head back up to the apartment, pack a suitcase, and say good-bye to the place. I’d be back, but I’d never live there again—not as long as the Mudir, or whoever was posing as Benjamin Al-Kazaz, knew the address. Can those two guys be one and the same? It definitely feels like it.

I also wanted to visit Irma in the hospital, whichever one the ambulance had taken her to. I think she was more shaken up than actually hurt, but the EMTs had wisely decided to play it safe. A night of observation made even more sense given her apartment was currently a crime scene, not to mention a complete shambles.

I had to put a pin in all those plans. Everything that could wait had to wait. Instead, I had to get downtown to the courthouse on Pearl Street and join the jury pool.

“How do you know Yavari’s name hasn’t been called yet?” I asked.

“It hasn’t,” said Elizabeth. “And it won’t be. I’ve made sure of it.”

“So you were actually there? At the courthouse?”

“Yeah. She’s wearing a white blouse with a gray skirt. Reading a book.”

“What’s the book?”

“I didn’t get that close to her,” said Elizabeth. “Forget about her book. More importantly, what’s your plan?”

I didn’t have one. Not yet. “Charm and charisma?” I offered.

“In that case, we’re doomed,” said my father, chiming in.

That got a chuckle out of Elizabeth. “I just got a glimpse into your childhood.”

“Yeah, nothing’s changed,” I said.

“If this Yavari woman is who you say she is, she’s hardly going to cozy up to any stranger,” said my father. “You need a Tebow.”

“Did you say a T-bone?” asked Elizabeth. “Like the steak?”

“No. Like the football player,” I said.

“Tim Tebow,” said my father, which did nothing to help Elizabeth. She looked at me, lost.

“A distraction,” I said. “Tim Tebow probably could’ve played a few more years in the NFL as a backup quarterback, but he was too much of a media distraction for teams, so they didn’t bother.” I turned to my father. “And I don’t need a Tebow.”

Elizabeth, who only ten seconds earlier didn’t even know what the hell my father was talking about, suddenly seemed intrigued. “What do you have in mind, Mr. Reinhart?” she asked.

“Please, call me Max,” said my father. Josiah Maxwell Reinhart never did like the shortened Joe for Josiah. Come to think of it, he didn’t much like Josiah either. He always thought it made him sound like a character in a Mark Twain novel.

“Okay,” said Elizabeth, obliging him. “What did you have in mind, Max?”

“That depends.”

“On what?”

“How fast we can get our hands on a flask, a flannel shirt, and a pocket copy of the Constitution,” he said.





CHAPTER 63


IT WAS like Renée Zellweger to Tom Cruise at the end of Jerry Maguire.

“You had me at flask,” said Elizabeth.

Even I had to admit, it was all just crazy enough to work.

The second I gave my blessing, Elizabeth was on the phone to a staffer at the JTTF named Freddie. She told him he had forty-five minutes to hit a Barnes & Noble and an REI store or “any other flannel-and-flask-loving outdoorsy place” to gather the necessary props and meet us at the courthouse. JTTF staffers aren’t accustomed to questioning their marching orders, but surely Freddie had to be wondering what on earth he was doing and why.

I feel you, Freddie …

Forty-five minutes later on the dot, my father was getting into character in an empty conference room at the courthouse. A sweaty and out of breath Freddie had delivered. No sooner had he handed off the goods to Elizabeth than she was scuffing them all up, making them looked used. Or, in the case of the flask, abused.

Meanwhile, through an open crack of the conference room door, I was watching everyone still remaining in the jury pool return from their lunch break. One after another they were filing back into the waiting area. Everyone except Sadira.