The Last Day

SEVENTY-SIX

Special FBI Agent John Mayes was at home in Harrisburg, North Carolina, having just arrived there, when the phone rang. He looked at the ID and opened the phone.

“Where are you?” Bill Firman asked him.

“I just got home,” he said. “Where should I be?”

“You know that duct tape the techs found under McCarty's BMW?”

“What about it?”

“I'm looking at the lab report, and there was a fingerprint on it.”

“That's great,” John said, stifling a yawn.

“Maybe not. The print belonged to Todd Hartman.”

“And?”

“The lab said that tape's been under the car for a very long time. You remember how ratty and filthy it was, right?”

“Yeah.”

“The fingerprint's been there since the tape went on. It was on the sticky side. According to McCarty he hired Hartman the day before the virus thing happened, right?”

“I believe he said something to that effect.”

“That brings up some questions, don't you think?”

“I'll talk to the McCartys,” Mayes said. “First thing in the morning.”

John Mayes hung up. As he stood there looking at the plate his wife had put on the table, his mind started turning that revelation over in his head. He decided that he should call the McCartys. He dialed all of the numbers he had, and each time the phones went straight to voice mail. He put his phone back into his pocket and looked at his watch.

Maybe he should take a run out there and make sure everything was all right. And at the very least, Todd Hartman had some explaining to do.

He dialed his partner's number and Firman answered.

“Bill, I tried the McCartys’ phone and they didn't pick up.”

“I suspect they're talking to people, or celebrating. I would be.”

“Well, I expect you're right. I'm going to eat dinner, and then, if they still don't answer, I'll probably take a ride to Concord and let McCarty know about the tape. Maybe he hired Hartman longer back than he told me.”

“You want me to go with?”

“No. Get some rest. I just don't want to leave it until the morning.”

Mayes hung up, and lifted his fork. The idea that Todd Hartman, a respected investigator, might have been up to no good was crazy. He needed some sleep, and family time-not three more hours in the field.

He set down his fork, and even before he stood, his wife had picked up the plate and put it back into the oven.