Private Beijing

Chapter 29

Justine and Sci had been parked outside the small house on Howard Avenue, Bridgeport for a couple of hours, waiting for any sign of Francis Johnson, the man who’d used a false Social Security number to get his job at Ryedale Engineering. According to his employee record, Francis was five feet ten, one hundred and seventy pounds, and his photo showed a hawkish man with short brown hair and a crooked nose, the result, he’d claimed in his job interview, of a childhood fall from a bike. Justine had emailed the Ryedale Engineering staff photo to Mo-bot who was running an image search against mugshot databases.

The Private staff vehicle was parked thirty yards south of Francis’s house on the opposite side of the street, giving Justine and Sci an unobstructed view of the property. Howard Avenue was in a blue-collar neighborhood of modest, well-kept one- and two-story homes on small lots. Most of the houses were clad in painted timber or aluminum and nearly all flew the Stars and Stripes from their porches or beneath the eaves of their roofs. The sight of the red, white, and blue displayed on the street reminded Justine of Jack and the service he’d given his country. She couldn’t wait to see him.

She had thought about calling him, but it was one of those situations where she didn’t want her personal feelings to cloud her professional judgment. She was worried about him, but other than the temporary relief and joy of hearing his voice, didn’t think anything useful would come of a conversation at present. She had no new information and Jack had assured her he’d call as soon as he had something worth sharing.

“He’ll be okay,” Sci remarked. “Jack, I mean.”

Justine nodded. “I wasn’t thinking about him.”

Sci smiled mischievously. “Really?”

“Well, maybe. But you’re right,” she replied. “He will be okay.” She heard the uncertainty in her voice and wanted to change the subject. “Where is this guy?”

They had tried the house a couple of times, ringing the bell and knocking on the front door, but there was no answer. The lime-green 1982 Volkswagen Golf parked in the driveway was registered in the name of Francis Johnson, suggesting wherever he was, he’d left without his usual means of transport.

“You want to take a look around the place?” Sci asked.

“Break in?”

Sci nodded.

“And if he walks in on us and calls the cops?”

“You can keep look out,” Sci replied playfully.

“I don’t think we’re there yet,” Justine said. “I’d rather wait.”

Despite their seniority, Sci and Mo-bot could sometimes behave like a pair of rebellious teens. Perhaps it was their decades of experience that gave them the confidence to do so?

Justine’s phone rang and she pulled it out to see Mo-bot’s name on-screen.

“Mo,” she said. “You’re on speaker with me and Sci.”

“The man posing as Francis Johnson doesn’t have a criminal record,” Mo-bot responded, “but I was able to identify him from an old photograph on Facebook. His real name is Billy Bostic.”

“Why’s he using a fake ID if he’s clean?” Justine asked.

“Maybe because his brother, Joe Bostic, has a long criminal record for illegal gun sales and dealing in unlicensed explosives,” Mo-bot replied. “Any vetting agency would find the link and no employer would take the risk of allowing him anywhere near detonators or high explosives.”

“What better way to access product than to have your brother on the inside of a firm like Ryedale?” Sci remarked.

“Does the brother have any history of violence?” Justine asked.

“No,” Mo-bot replied. “At least none that I can see on his record. He looks like a dealer. Nothing more. Why?”

“I want to know if he’s likely to pull a gun on us if he finds us inside his brother’s house,” Justine said, and Sci smiled. “Thanks.”

She hung up.

“You’re going to get your way. Come on,” Justine said, opening the driver’s door. “Let’s go take a look inside.”