Kiss Her Goodbye

32

What exactly are you looking for?” Rachel asked. The tone of disapproval had been there since they’d left the hospital.

“I’ll know when I find it,” Donovan told her.

He sat in the passenger seat of her cramped Celica, working the keys of his laptop as she drove. The back of his left hand displayed a nasty black-and-purple bruise, the tiny IV needle-prick caked with dried blood.

The S.A.R.A. file filled his computer screen. A digitized photo stared up at him, Gunderson’s cruel eyes mocking him. He hit another key and the Known Associates list popped up.

Gunderson had made a truckload of friends and acquaintances over the years, most of the major players listed here. In the weeks after the attack on Northland First amp; Trust, Donovan and his team had repeatedly scoured this list, hauling in Gunderson’s buddies one by one for questioning.

Donovan had spent hours in the interrogation room grilling car thieves, drug runners, and suspected arms dealers, many of whom spoke openly until Gunderson was mentioned. The mere utterance of the name froze them up, as if they were afraid the man himself might break into the room and tear their heads off.

Rachel glanced over at the screen. “Sydney’s been through that list half a dozen times since yesterday.”

“There’s something here,” Donovan insisted. “There’s gotta be. Gunderson couldn’t have pulled off the kidnapping alone. He was too hot. He needed a front man. Someone to gather supplies and information and funnel it back to him.”

“What about Nemo?”

“Too much of a wild card,” Donovan said. “Nemo’s loyalty depends on his mood and the time of day. What Gunderson needed was a foot soldier. Somebody who did what he was told and didn’t ask questions.”

The image of a large man in a ski mask filled Donovan’s head. He remembered watching the guy stagger toward the overturned news van, blood dripping from a nasty gash in his left forearm. Despite considerable effort, Donovan’s team had never managed to identify the guy, and that anonymity would surely be attractive to Gunderson.

“Besides,” Donovan continued, “Nemo already served his purpose last night.”

“Meaning what?”

“Getting us to that train yard.”

Rachel frowned. “You think Gunderson wanted you there?”

“There were enough explosives in that yard to take out half the Chicago Police Department. Gunderson was a showman. He thrived on attention. And he knew Nemo would crack under the right amount of pressure.”

“I don’t think the show ended quite the way he expected it to.”

“Or anyone else,” Donovan said.

He hit the PgDn key and studied the list, running the possibilities through his mind, dismissing each name as he came to it. Gunderson’s man would have to have the freedom to move without fear of arrest. Contacts and money wouldn’t hurt either.

The image of Ski Mask continued to plague Donovan, but as he scrolled down to the R’s, a name jumped out at him like a slap to the face, and another image took center stage.

Reed. Tony Reed.

Sara’s brother. Part-time video director, full-time rich boy. Except for a minor pot bust when he was seventeen, Reed’s record was clean. Despite this, Donovan had managed to get warrants to search both of Reed’s houses, had even hauled him in for questioning, but came up empty each time.

Even though Reed was clearly distressed over the condition of his sister, he’d somehow managed to come across as a personable, even likable guy. Sure, he’d cop to occasional phone conversations with Sara-she was family, after all-but he claimed no knowledge of Gunderson’s activities.

“I like his politics even less than I like him,” Reed had said.

Still, Donovan had sensed a nervousness beneath the surface that reminded him of the hundreds of suspects he’d interviewed over the years. At the slightest provocation, this guy would bolt. No question about it. Politics or not, he knew a lot more than he was willing to say.

Donovan remembered standing in Reed’s living room a few days after the robbery, leg bandaged and throbbing like a mother, thinking, He’s been here.

Gunderson’s been here.

He’d just never been able to prove it. Two weeks’ worth of surveillance turned up nothing, and Donovan had reluctantly closed the book on Reed. But now, as he punched a button and Reed’s profile filled the screen, he wondered if he’d been too hasty.

A shot of Tony from Rolling Stone accompanied the profile. Rachel glanced at it skeptically. “Him again? He’s too good-looking to be a bad guy.”

“You’ve said that more than once.”

“It bears repeating.”

“Careful, Rache, your hormones are showing.”

Rachel gave him a good-natured scowl and returned her attention to the road. She did, however, have a point. With his wiry, rock-star good looks, Reed didn’t strike the casual observer as a threat, and he certainly didn’t fit the physical characteristics of Ski Mask. But what if Ski Mask was a red herring? Every case had its share of those.

“Got your cell phone handy?”

Rachel gestured to the floor near his feet. “Purse.”

Donovan snatched it up, dug around until he found the phone, then dialed Sidney’s number.

Waxman picked up after two rings.

“Hey, Sidney.”

“Jesus Christ, Jack, I just got a call from the hospital. What the hell are you up to?”

“I’m en route to Reed Communications. I want you to meet me there.”

“The brother? How many times have we talked to that idiot?”

“Doesn’t hurt to try again.”

“Come on, Jack, do you have any idea what’s going on out here? That little aquatics demonstration you pulled didn’t exactly convince the boys from D.C. you’re firing on all cylinders.”

“Fuck ’em,” Donovan said. “I don’t have time for their bullshit. Now get your ass in gear and meet me at Reed Communications.”

Waxman sighed. “You’re killing me, kemo sabe. Why the hell aren’t you still in bed?”

“Would you be?”

A momentary pause, then Waxman said, “Point taken,” and hung up.

Donovan snapped the cell phone shut, turned to Rachel. “Make a left at the signal.”