Under the color of law

Chapter 12

Sara booked a four-hundred-dollar suite at a downtown hotel, called for a cab, and hung up.

"I can give you a ride," Kerney said.

"Weren't we supposed to spend the weekend looking at some property?"

"We were."

"What's it going to take to get you to move out of here into something decent?"

"Enough free time to do it," Kerney said.

"You've got about six months," Sara said, patting her still-flat stomach.

"This baby isn't going to wait any longer than that."

"We won't be living here when the baby comes."

"Where will we be, I wonder." She made a dismissive gesture.

"Never mind."

Kerney followed her into the bedroom.

"Is that what you wanted to talk about?"

"Not now." Sara's gaze skimmed across the clutter of paper, files, and tapes, her eyes frost-green.

"We'd be up all night and I'm too tired for a marathon."

"Should I come to the hotel in the morning?" Kerney asked as he sorted through case notes and materials, passing pertinent items to Sara.

"Call me first," Sara said.

He gave her field notes, progress reports, document inserts, lists of names, lists of informants, and duplicates of Bobby Sloan's investigative reports.

"Perhaps we could meet at the hotel restaurant for breakfast," he said.

"I don't have much of an appetite in the morning, these days," Sara said.

"Just call, okay?"

He gave her Sloan's summaries of the videotape contents, his own chronological event log, crime-scene photographs, and transcripts of recorded conversations.

"Okay."

He pointed at the audio- and videotapes. Sara shook her head and zipped everything into her travel bag.

The taxi driver sounded his horn.

"Let me send the cab away," Kerney said. He passed her one of the new cell phones and a new number to use to get in touch.

"I'll take you to the hotel."

Sara grabbed her coat and stuck the cell phone in a pocket.

"I don't want you to. I'll see you tomorrow."

Kerney watched her walk out the door, wondering what they were really at odds about. He decided it was a bit of everything: the investigation, the baby, the marriage, the army, the cheerless cottage he lived in, their busted weekend plans.

Sara confirmed his observation when he heard the taxi door slam shut.

Two blocks from the Santa Fe Plaza, in the basement of the federal courthouse, Tim Ingram, just back from El Paso, reviewed transcripts of police radio transmissions and phone calls made to and from the Santa Fe Police Department.

Nothing appeared to be out of the ordinary.

Once a bomb shelter during the early days of the cold war, the basement had been converted to a sophisticated listening post that targeted suspected foreign agents working at the Los Alamos National Laboratory, thirty-five miles away. Within recent years a British Army major on detached duty at the lab and a visiting Israeli physicist had been uncovered trying to stick their hands into Uncle Sam's cookie jar of nuclear weapon secrets.

Four operators sat at consoles in the sealed room. Two worked the SWAMI data that flowed into computers from phone lines, cell phones, and wireless Internet devices. Much like the NSA computers, SWAMI automatically scanned for millions of key words and phrases and immediately downloaded any that were programmed for intercept. The current operating program was case specific to the Terrell-Mitchell containment operation.

A woman manned a Carnivore unit that tapped into the Santa Fe Police Department's on-line computers and retrieved electronic communications.

The fourth technician monitored vehicle tracking devices planted on key police department units, watched real-time video of the front of Kerney's house, and taped audio transmissions from external remote listening stations and the fixed bugs at the police department, Kerney's residence, and the state police chief's office.

Every person on duty was a member of a team of military intelligence specialists who'd been handpicked as watchers, listeners, and monitors.

When SWAMI launched in three months as a private corporate enterprise, every illicit, suspicious, or fraudulent electronic or wire transfer monetary transaction flowing out of Colombia would be tracked and either seized or frozen.

Because SWAMI could burrow into the data banks of financial institutions around the world, it would violate international laws, compacts, and trade agreements, and intrude on the sovereignty of nations.

Revolutionary in design and concept, SWAMI would also capture sensitive economic and financial data from foreign governments and multinational corporations. That capacity virtually guaranteed long-term continued American domination of technological intelligence gathering.

Ingram watched the videotape of Sara Brannon's arrival at Kerney's house, caught on camera by a transmitter placed on a neighboring house.

He watched Kerney's cautious approach and entry. He listened to the tape recordings of their conversations, including their after-dinner exchange in Kerney's truck that had been picked up by a mobile unit trailing a kilometer behind the vehicle.

Tim shook his head at the thought of Sara Brannon's involvement in the case.

With her army credentials and contacts, she just might be able to break through the Trade Source and APT Per forma corporate shields. While that wouldn't get her to the SWAMI secrets, it was unacceptable nonetheless.

Ingram knew Brannon personally. A recent blurb in the West Point alumni magazine had reported she'd been the first in their class to make lieutenant colonel and earn the highly coveted Distinguished Service Medal for exceptionally meritorious service while serving in Korea.

Elaine Cornell, aka Special Agent Applewhite, was a member of the same graduating class. He wondered how Applewhite would react to the news of Brannon's arrival.

He went to a SWAMI console, where one of the operators had locked into Sara's Internet server. The screen rolled data in from Saras laptop.

Information about Cornell from the West Point Association of Graduates Web site scrolled across the screen. It confirmed her cover as a resigned officer now serving as a special agent with the FBI. The next name Sara entered was his own.

Ingram clamped his mouth shut. How in the hell had she got onto him?

He was supposed to be embedded deep enough to be under anyone's radar.

Who had made him, and how? He had to report the breach.

Tim ran over the current body count in his mind. Too many had died in an operation that was supposed to be bloodless. Kevin Kerney they and Charlie Perry would soon join them. Would the brass be willing to neutralize Sara Brannon, too, one of their own?

Under the guise of national security it had been done to others before, quietly and away from public scrutiny. There were any number of ways to wind up accidentally dead in the military: training exercise disasters, chopper crashes, getting washed off the deck of a ship in choppy seas.

He wanted to call Sara, a woman he liked and respected, and tell her to get her butt on a plane back to Fort Leavenworth right away. But that wasn't possible.

He watched as names he didn't recognize got entered into government Web-site search engines from Sara's laptop.

"Who the hell are those people?" he asked the operator.

"One moment, sir," the operator said, switching his attention to a computer keyboard.

"I'll add them in as SWAMI key words."

He typed in the names and SWAMI answered back.

"People who attended Mrs. Terrell's funeral," the operator said.

Ingram pulled up a chair.

"Let's see where else she goes."

It was after midnight when Kerney knocked on Sara's hotel room door.

She opened up wearing shorts and a sleeveless tank top. She had a ballpoint pen clenched in her teeth.

Kerney resisted an impulse to take her in his arms. He leaned forward to kiss her on the cheek. She pulled back.

"You called?" he asked.

"Do you really want to hear my take on this?"

"I do."

Sara walked barefooted to the large writing desk in the nicely furnished sitting room, and picked up a notepad.

"First, Trade Source and APT Performa are legitimate companies with solid performance records as military subcontractors, and as far as I can tell SWAMI isn't being treated like some big secret government project. Instead, it's being touted as a private-sector technological breakthrough."

"I'm aware of that," Kerney said.

"But private outfits have been fronts for intelligence agencies before.

The CIA used both private companies and nonprofit aid agencies to run covert operations in Vietnam."

"True, and more recently they've done the same in Latin America. But that's the CIA. I've never heard of the military going outside their sphere of authority."

"Would it be possible?"

Sara moved to the couch and sat.

"Possible, but not likely."

Kerney took the easy chair.. "We have Thayer on tape referring to Ingram as 'major' and telling him the commanding general of INS COM-army intelligence-had ordered something done."

"It could simply be a matter of Thayer using military etiquette. I did some Internet surfing. Ingram and Cornell-that's Applewhite's real name-are West Point graduates. In fact, they were members of my class.

I was able to easily identify them from the photographs you gave me.

According to their alumni biographies they resigned their commissions as captains. But Ingram may be serving in the reserves as a major. I haven't checked that out yet."

"How well did you know them?" Kerney asked.

"Not well. They were in the middle of the class academically and both were hard-core jocks. Ingram seemed nice enough, Cornell was the competitive type who hated to lose."

"What were their service branches?"

"Both were in military intelligence before resigning and joining the FBI."

"That doesn't ring any bells for you?"

"Not in and of itself," Sara said.

"On the federal level its not difficult to transition between law enforcement and intelligence work. Stay with me, Kerney.

As I mentioned, APT Performa is an army subcontractor. It could be that Thayer was talking about a procurement fulfillment order for INS COM "Placed by the commanding general?"

"It's common practice to reference the highest authority for a procurement.

Especially one that has priority."

"That's a stretch, Sara, and you know it."

"It's within the bounds of possibility."

"I think you're seeing things the way you want to see them."

Sara gave him a withering glance.

"Let me finish, before you accuse me of shortsightedness. If Ingram and Applewhite are military intelligence, they could have a legitimate assignment that's connected to APT Performa's contract with INS COM "Like meddling in a civilian criminal investigation and posing as FBI?"

"You've heard of undercover work, haven't you?" Sara snapped. She tossed the notepad on the cushion.

"But since you brought it up, let's deal with it. You were told right at the top of the investigation that national security was involved and your role was to offer support. That's not meddling, to my way of thinking."

"The feds didn't play it that straight with me." Sara sighed in frustration.

"Because, if it's a national security matter, you don't have a need to know."

"What about Terrell's murder, Mitchell's murder, Stewart's murder? The disappearance of Terjo and Browning? I have a need to know about all of that."

"Do you have even one remotely credible homicide suspect?"

"No, but that doesn't address the fact that Charlie Perry and Applewhite took Terjo into custody and lied to me about it."

Sara shook her head.

"That's a guess you've made. Which means you're down to one missing person, Browning."

"That's right, I'm guessing. But I'm not guessing that Perry faked the lab results that turned Scott Gatlin into a murderer."

"Gatlin may well have been the murderer in spite of the faked physical evidence," Sara said.

"Granted, Randall Stewart had sex with Phyllis Terrell the night she was killed, and that does cast suspicion in his direction. But it proves neither Stewart's guilt nor Gatlin's innocence."

"Stop giving me the party line, Sara," Kerney said.

"I can get that from Charlie Perry or Agent Applewhite."

"You're acting like a blockhead, Kerney. If you came here expecting a knee-jerk endorsement of your theories, you might as well go back to that dump you're renting. Do you want to talk this out or not?"

Kerney composed himself.

"What else have you learned?"

"Here's where it does get interesting. Clarence Thayer is a retired army finance corps colonel. That could easily explain why he addressed Ingram by his rank. He was on the promotion list for his first star when he left the service. Lifers don't normally do that, so I called a friend who took a Harvard MBA and served under Thayer. He said Thayer was recruited to head up APT Performa, offered four times his salary, and jumped at the opportunity."

"That just makes my case about APT Performa stronger," Kerney said.

"Lifers are part of a good-old-boy club, Kerney. There are thousands of retired field-grade and general officers working in defense related industries. They recruit one another for plum civilian jobs. It's a common practice."

Sara peeked at her notes.

"What did grab my attention were some of the people who put in an appearance at Phyllis Terrell's funeral. The special assistant to the undersecretary for international affairs is a former lieutenant colonel.

He's a graduate of the Defense Language Institute in Monterey, fluent in Spanish, and served in DOD as a strategic intelligence analyst."

Sara flipped a notepad page.

"The treasurer of Trade Source is an ex-navy captain who served as deputy director of DOD financial services. At that level he was privy to information about all clandestine operations throughout all service branches."

Her finger ran down the page.

"Treasury sent the financial crimes enforcement director who was once an air attache at the U. S. embassy in Panama. Those postings normally carry intelligence-gathering responsibilities. And the Justice Department sent an ex-Marine JAG attorney who was on staff at the National Security Agency and who holds an adjunct faculty appointment at the Joint Military Intelligence College."

"Are you still thinking it's just a good-old-boy club and I'm having paranoid delusions?"

Sara put the notebook aside and curled her feet up on the couch.

"Not at all.

These are policy-level intelligence specialists who advise important decision-makers. I think you've cornered an angry mountain lion that's about to bite your head off."

"How do we crack it?"

"Are you really that naive? Missions like this have been blessed by the White House, cabinet secretaries, the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence, and every cooperating spy-craft shop, including the military."

"I can't walk away from this, Sara. People have been murdered, possibly by agents of the government. That can't be tolerated in a free society."

Sara's eyes stayed on Kerney's face.

"It violates what I believe in also, dammit. But you can't solve every homicide. Nobody can, nobody does. That only happens in the movies, or in bad pulp fiction. This time the stakes are off the chart."

"So, I'm out of my league. Is that what you're saying?"

"Put your ego away, Kerney. I want a life for us and our baby. Maybe I'm being selfish, but that's what's important to me right now."

"That matters to me just as much," Kerney said.

"Then act like it. I called Andy after I checked in. He thinks you've taken it as far as you can go. You're over the line."

"Maybe so, but it seems to be working. I've made some people very nervous."

"Congratulations," Sara said.

"I can use that as part of my eulogy for you, and I'll tell your child what a hero you were. Can't you ever just back off?"

"All I'm doing is listening and watching, Sara. There's not much risk to that."

"People get killed all the time because of what they know," Sara said.

"I'll be careful not to let that happen."

Sara swung off the couch, turned on her heel, went to the window, and stood with her back to Kerney. She thought about his hard-nosed bullheadedness, and the image of Jim Meehan's face floated through her mind. Meehan would have raped and killed her in the ruins of an old Mexican hacienda, if Kerney hadn't crossed the line, beaten a drug dealer's henchman almost senseless, and shown up in time to stop the action.

"You're a stubborn man, Kerney," she said.

"I know that."

Sara turned, squared her shoulders, and put on a determined look.

"Okay, there's work to be done. From what I've read, there are two big gaps in your investigation: no follow-up with Randall Stewart's widow, and no contact with Proctor Straley or his daughter."

"That's right," Kerney said, unwilling to say anything that sounded like an excuse.

"What else has been left hanging?"

"There's a remote surveillance video camera on a utility pole across from the Terrell residence. The FBI had denied any knowledge of it. I have an idea where the tapes might be, but I'm not certain. If I can pinpoint the location of the tapes, I might be able to ID the killer."

"Okay, that's three things that need doing," Sara said on her way into the bedroom. She came out with a blanket and a pillow and tossed them on the couch.

"In the morning we talk to Mrs. Stewart, pay a visit to Proctor Straley, and locate the videotapes."

"We?" Kerney said.

"That's what I said. Someone has to keep an eye on you. You get the bed, Kerney.

I'll sleep on the couch."

"That's not the best way for us to spend a night together in a four-hundred-dollar hotel suite."

Sara pointed at the open bedroom door.

"Go. I've got a little more digging I want to do and I need to use the laptop."

Kerney got to his feet. Sara stepped up and gave him a quick kiss.

"I'll be sick in the morning. It's not a pretty sight."

"You're not well?"

"Morning sickness, Kerney, that's all."

"You didn't tell me."

"I figured you'd find out about it firsthand this weekend. Go to bed, you look exhausted."

Sara ushered Kerney into the bedroom, gave him another kiss, closed the door, and started surfing the Internet looking for Proctor Straley.

When Applewhite arrived at the Santa Fe Airport without Charlie Perry, Sal Molina stayed put while Bobby Sloan tailed her. Later in the night Ingram showed and Molina followed him to the federal courthouse. He parked next to the pink-colored stone Scottish Rite Temple, where he had a clear view of the back entrance, and waited.

The temple confused tourists who thought it had to be either a church or a museum. Although it was a Santa Fe landmark, Molina knew very little about it. A guild or some sort of Freemason society owned it, and supposedly an old dead guy was buried beneath the front steps.

Time dragged for Molina. To keep awake he drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, hummed songs to himself, and kept the window open to let cold air circulate through the minivan. Ingram finally emerged.

But instead of going to his vehicle he walked toward the plaza.

Molina put his hand on the door latch and hesitated. There wasn't a person other than Ingram on the sidewalk and traffic was nonexistent.

Ingram turned the corner. Molina hurried on foot to the end of the block and slowed his pace when he saw Ingram making his way down the sidewalk.

He stayed well back. Ingram led him into the historic La Fonda Hotel, which touted itself as the inn at the end of the Old Santa Fe Trail.

Ingram peeled off into the bar adjacent to the reception area. Molina kept moving, counting one bartender, a waitress, and three customers as he passed by.

He walked down a corridor, through the entrance to the parking garage, and took up a position outside the hotel that gave him a view of the two main entrances.

The wind was biting cold and the temperature way below freezing. That suited Molina; he wasn't sleepy anymore.

Tim Ingram sat at the end of the bar, slugged down a single malt, and ordered up another. The television was off, the bar almost empty, and the silence deafening. It was too damn quiet and genteel. He needed a raucous dive that would force him to stop thinking — He rubbed his head and twisted his trunk in an attempt to loosen up the muscles in his back. He'd failed to call in a report on Sara Brannon, hadn't put her hotel room under electronic surveillance, and hadn't told anyone that his cover had been partially penetrated.

That still needed to be done. But not until he could think of an untraceable, safe way to warn off Lieutenant Colonel Brannon. She deserved that much consideration.

He decided on a plan, asked the bartender for a phone book, and paged through it until he found what he wanted.

Ingram left the La Fonda Hotel. Molina paralleled him from one street over to the courthouse. He got to the minivan just in time to see Ingram's vehicle with the broken license-plate lights cruising away from downtown toward St. Francis Drive. He hauled ass through a red light to keep Ingram in range.

Traffic lights showed green down the quiet thoroughfare that led to the Interstate, and Molina grouchily wondered if Ingram was heading back to Albuquerque. He didn't relish the prospect of making the drive.

Ingram turned off on St. Michael's Drive and stopped at a twenty-four-hour-a-day franchise copy service and print shop.

Molina took some blank property receipt forms off his clipboard, went inside, ran them through a self-serve copier, and watched Ingram fill out a form and hand it to the clerk. The clerk fed it into a fax machine and rang up the charges. Ingram paid the clerk, shredded the paper, and walked out.

Molina waited until Ingram left the parking lot. The vehicle tracking monitor and Global Positioning System would give him a fix on his travel direction.

He went to the clerk and flashed his shield.

"Did you see who that fax was sent to?" he asked.

"We're not supposed to look," the kid said, wide eyed.

"Did you look?"

The kid, no more than eighteen, shook his head.

"No."

"Can you call the fax number up on the machine?"

"I guess so."

"Well, do it," Molina said.

The kid came back with the number. Molina dropped a five dollar bill on the counter, went to the minivan, and got a fix on In gram's direction from the state police agent manning the tracking devices. He was heading back downtown.

Molina cross-checked the phone number in the city directory. It didn't show, but the next number down listed a downtown hotel.

Molina hung a turn onto the street, called the hotel night clerk, and identified himself.

"You just received a fax. Who was it for?"

"Colonel Sara Brannon. It's being delivered now."

Lights ran red up and down St. Francis Drive. Molina busted through them and picked up Ingram passing by the last downtown turnoff. He slowed and watched Ingram pull into the parking lot of Applewhite's hotel on the north side of town.

He found Sloan staked out in the Blazer, eased the minivan up next to him, and opened his window.

"I was just gonna give you a call, LT," Sloan said.

"Do you know a Colonel Sara Brannon?" Molina asked.

"Isn't the chief married to an army officer? I think that's her name.

What's up?"

Molina dialed Kerney's home phone. It rang unanswered.

"In gram just faxed her a message at a downtown hotel. I'm going there now. If he moves, switch off and follow him. I'll come back and baby-sit Applewhite."

"Ten-four. Why would the chief's wife be staying at a hotel?"

"Maybe they checked in together."

"Must be nice," Sloan said.

"I can't even afford to buy my wife dinner at one of those places."

Applewhite opened her door. Wrapped in a hotel robe, she stared up at Ingram from under heavy eyebrows. Indentations from a pillow ran across her cheek. Her sleepy face showed no signs of softness. She looked damn ugly without any makeup.

Ingram sucked breath mints. He told Applewhite about Sara Brannon's arrival on the scene, where she was, and her subsequent activities.

"Not good," Applewhite said.

"How did you get made?"

"I have no idea."

"Do you have listeners in place at the hotel?"

"They're setting up now. Give it thirty minutes."

"Why is it taking so long?"

"Everybody was tasked. I had to free up some people."

"Did you bring hard copies?"

Ingram dropped a file on the dresser.

"This is what she's done so far. It's all Internet surfing. I think we should go at this cautiously."

"What do you have in mind?"

"Find a way to have Brannon's weekend cut short. Let's get her back to Leavenworth and take her out of the picture."

"I'll run the idea by the ambassador," Applewhite said.

"Did you know that bitch made light colonel?"

A spiteful, jealous expression on Elaine's face almost made In gram flinch.

"Yeah, I know," he said, stepping to the door. He couldn't resist pushing Applewhite's buttons.

"And she was decorated with the Distinguished Service Medal. I heard they wanted to give her the Silver Star, but that would have meant admitting that she'd been in a hostile action with North Korean troops.

Isn't that something?"

"She's an ass-kissing bitch," Applewhite said.

"That's what got her the DSM and the promotion."

Sara fell asleep on the couch. She woke up to a knock, saw that a piece of paper had been slipped under the door, and looked through the peephole, expecting to see a bellhop waiting for a tip. Instead, she saw a man holding up an SFPD shield. Kerney wandered out of the bedroom groggy eyed and in his underwear as she picked up the piece of paper and unlatched the door.

Molina held up his clipboard with an attached piece of paper that read:

YOUR ROOM IS BUGGED.MEETME IN THE LOBBY.

Sara nodded, closed the door, and glanced at the paper. It was a handwritten fax message to her that read:

Go BACK To Your post.

A five-digit number followed the message. They dressed and hurried to meet Molina.

"Who wants you to go back to your post?" Kerney asked as they walked down the corridor to the elevators.

"And why?"

"I don't know," Sara replied in a troubled voice.

The elevator doors slid open on the ground floor to reveal Molina pacing impatiently. The night manager behind the guest check-in counter looked on with unabashed interest.

"How did you locate us?" Kerney asked Molina.

"Ingram faxed your wife a message," Sal said, holding up an office key.

"I've got a place where we can talk. What did the message say, Chief?"

Sara answered.

"Basically, it said get out of town."

Molina took them into the general manager's office and slipped a minicassette into his pocket tape recorder.

"This was just picked up from Agent Applewhite's room," he said.

"I recorded it off my handheld radio, so the sound quality isn't great, but you can still make it out."

Sara and Kerney listened to the tape of Ingram's conversation with Applewhite.

Molina glanced over Ingram's fax message. When the tape ended Sal asked,

"What do the numbers in the fax message mean?"

"Each West Point graduate is assigned what's known as a Cullen number,"

Sara said.

"It's named for the general who began chronicling biographies of every graduate in 1850. The numbers are assigned alphabetically and in sequence starting from the first graduate through the most recent class.

Everyone has a unique number. I'm betting this one is Tim's.

He wanted to make sure I'd know who sent the message."

"So that you'd take it seriously," Kerney added.

"He also gave Applewhite a suggestion on how to ease you out of the picture."

"Exactly. Something nasty is in the works and Ingram isn't happy about it. He risked a lot to warn me."

"How did he get onto you so fast?"

"I think I know," Molina said. He looked totally sleep deprived.

"Perry never showed at the airport, so Sloan took Apple white. I waited until Ingram arrived and followed him. He went directly to the federal courthouse, where he stayed for a good three hours."

"Did you keep a surveillance log?" Sara asked.

"I can give you exact times," Molina said, consulting his notepad. He read off a chronology of Ingram's movements in hours and minutes.

"He tapped into my laptop," Sara said.

"Either through Carnivore or SWAMI," Kerney said, swinging his attention to Molina.

"This is the second trip someone's made to the federal courthouse."

"Yeah, Perry last night," Molina said with a weary smile.

"But it feels like it happened a week ago."

"That's where the tapes are," Kerney said.

"How reliable is your informant?"

"Jake? He's a retired sheriff's captain."

"Perfect. That makes him a rock-solid source. See what more you can squeeze out of him. Get specific information about what's inside that room. Concentrate on communication equipment, radio and television monitors, computers-any kind of hardware that's used for electronic surveillance."

Molina took notes.

"He might not budge."

"Find a way to push him."

"Anything else?"

"Get background information on his law-enforcement career. I'll need to be able to show that he has expert knowledge of undercover operations and equipment."

"Are you going for a search warrant?"

"You bet I am. That room may hold exactly what's needed to break this investigation wide open. Where's Sloan?"

"Following Ingram back to Albuquerque."

"Someone has to keep an eye on Applewhite while you're busy with Jake.

Have Deputy Chief Otero backstop you. He's filled in on the operation.

If Charlie Perry makes an appearance, Larry covers him."

"How long do you want us to go with this, Chief?"

Kerney looked at his watch. It was four in the morning.

"We pull the plug in twelve hours, as originally planned. Can you hang in there?"

"Ten-four, Chief. Where will you be in case we need to make contact?"

"Sara and I will be paying some early visits to a couple of people.

I'll keep in touch with you by cell phone."