The Backup Asset

…68

“I’m getting used to this place,” Alex said, looking at the familiar entrance to the Botanical Gardens and following the silhouette of a roaring jet taking off against the sunset sky. “I’m starting to like it,” she added, hungrily chewing a bite from a slice of pizza.

They ate near the hood of Weber’s car, standing on the sides with the extra large, extra cheese between them, eating as if there was no tomorrow.

“I think we’re done with this park,” Jeremy said. “With Smolin locked up, there’s no reason to visit anymore. Oh, and they’ll have your gun returned to you by tomorrow.”

His phone rang. He took the call hands free, recognizing the number.

“Weber here, go ahead.”

“This is Moore. The team finished reviewing the surveillance tapes again, and there aren’t any sandwiches starring in all those hours of film; none whatsoever.”

“But did you notice anything out of the ordinary at all? With anyone? I know you’ve looked before, but now we know more than we did back then. Pull older street video feeds,” Weber insisted.

“OK, give me a few,” Moore said and hung up.

They sat quietly, admiring how the sunset colors lit the sky, creating wondrous colors and shapes in the exhaust of passing jets.

“You hanging in there?” Alex asked quietly.

“Yeah…” Jeremy replied in his typical manner, after hesitating a little. “It’s not every day you hear the bullet coming, you know.”

“Yup,” she replied.

“And when it did, when I heard it coming, it was like it took forever, and all I could think about was my son. He… he needs me to come home every day. He needs me, so I gotta live,” he said, watching intently another jet gain altitude.

“And you will,” Alex said.

Moments of silence slipped by, as the sky turned darker and the first stars appeared.

“Thank you,” Jeremy said after a while.

“Don’t mention it,” Alex replied.

The phone rang again, almost deafening in the peaceful evening.

“It’s Moore.”

“Go ahead,” Jeremy said.

“We’ve seen occasional bike messengers pick up and drop off from Smolin’s residence, maybe two or three times in the past month. Then one of the agents remembered he’d noticed a couple of bike messengers pick stuff up from Bob McLeod’s residence, but didn’t think it was relevant.”

“Oh, God…” Weber said, and hopped behind the wheel of his Charger.