Split Second (6 page)

10

The loud, grating buzz of the
alarm clock near Jenna Morrison’s head finally managed to awaken her from what
had been the most profoundly deep sleep of her life, after more than a minute
of trying. She managed to slam her hand into the off button on the clock, still
disoriented as pain signals arrived from multiple locations on her now-rested
body. It took a few seconds for her to remember the previous night, but the
numerous scrapes and bruises that now demanded to be recognized made this an
easier task.

She had set the clock to go off
at noon, giving her almost exactly three hours of concentrated sleep, which had
left her more refreshed than she had expected.

She wallowed in the horror and
sadness of Nathan’s brutal death for several minutes before finally managing to
push this from her mind. She would mourn properly when this was over, but right
now she didn’t have the luxury of severe depression and paralysis.

After telling her story to Aaron
Blake earlier that morning she had once again hit a physical and mental brick
wall. An hour nap in a high school parking lot had rejuvenated her enough to keep
it together while bringing Blake up to speed, but exhaustion had caught up with
her again, and with a vengeance. Blake had kindly offered to let her sleep in
his bed while he worked.

So she had taken a quick shower
and donned a blue robe he had loaned her, which served its purpose despite
being too large. Blake had then insisted that he needed to do a load of laundry
and would include her jeans and shirt, since these were in as desperate a need
of cleaning as she had been.

Jenna smiled as she noticed her clothing
beside the bed, clean and neatly folded. She changed back into her own clothes as
she continued to shake off the fog of sleep.

She had a great feeling about Aaron
Blake. He had told her she’d come to the right man, and her instincts told her
this was definitely the case. He seemed bright and competent. Even better, he
had been eminently reasonable, asking all the right questions and coming to all
the right conclusions.

For the most part he looked like
a regular guy. The men who had been at her house had presented a more formidable
appearance, but Blake’s combat credentials spoke for themselves.

He was on the short side, maybe
five foot seven or five foot eight, maximum, and although he probably had a
wiry strength, she had somehow expected bulging muscles, fighting to burst
their way through his shirt, and an intense aura of a highly trained combat veteran
who had seen more death than the Grim Reaper. Instead, he had a lithe frame and
seemed friendly and relaxed, about as dangerous as a tax accountant.

Blake was at his desk, studying
his computer monitor, when she exited the tiny bedroom.

“How’s it going?” she said
hopefully.

He shot her an odd look, which
she had trouble interpreting, but it was almost as though he were studying her,
evaluating her all over again. She had thought he had gotten that out of his
system during their initial conversation, but perhaps not.

“I’m not so sure,” he said
tentatively. He waved his hand toward the chair in front of his desk. “Have a
seat.”

Jenna lowered herself into the
chair and looked at Blake questioningly.

“I’ve done some routine
checking,” he began. “Just to put check marks in boxes. For instance, I called
UCSD a few hours ago to confirm that Nathan didn’t show up for work.”

“
Of course
he didn’t. He was
murdered
.
What’s going on? Were you just
pretending
to believe me?”

“No. I believe you. But
investigations aren’t all about brilliant Sherlock Holmes type deductions and
flashy intuitive leaps. They are also about routine grunt work and the thorough
checking of all facts. It’s critical to never take
anything
at face value.”

“Okay,” she said, not entirely
mollified. “It’s your show. So you spent a minute and confirmed Nathan wasn’t
at work.”

“That’s right,” replied Blake.
He raised his eyebrows. “But I also learned that he had sent an e-mail at
seven-thirty this morning to several members of his department, explaining that
he wouldn’t be in for a few weeks. Seems he had a family emergency to attend
to.”

Jenna shook her head.
“Impossible! Obviously, the e-mail didn’t come from him. You do realize it must
have been sent by whoever kidnapped us last night. They must have figured, why
attract more attention than necessary? Better if no one knows that Nathan is
dead.”

Blake nodded. “I expressed
surprise and asked if they were sure the e-mail had come from Nathan, and
wasn’t just a practical joke. The woman I spoke with checked the message again,
and said it was definitely from him. It was sent from his e-mail address and
the greeting and sign-off were vintage Nathan.”

“Which means nothing. These men have
been monitoring his e-mails, so they would know his style well enough to mimic him.”

“Yes. That is very true. I’m not
saying I’ve drawn any definitive conclusions. I’m just reporting what I found.”

“Go on,” said Jenna.

“I checked the license plate number
of the Hostess truck you gave me. Either you got it wrong or the plates were doctored.
Either way, this plate number doesn’t exist.”

Blake paused to let this sink
in. “My time in the military allowed me to establish a number of connections
with high level people in the intelligence community. So I asked a friend of
mine, Sylvia Tagert, to pull some strings and get me the footage from dozens of
street cameras that cover your neighborhood. Footage from eleven to one last
night.”

Jenna knew what was coming. “And
you didn’t find a single Hostess truck anywhere, is that what you’re going to
tell me?”

Blake nodded.

“So we’re dealing with some very
formidable people. We already knew that. And they clean up after themselves.
I’m guessing in our digital world it wouldn’t take much effort to alter the
data stream captured by street cameras, provided you were high level enough to
have access.” She paused. “But my story is looking more and more like a fabrication,
isn’t it? So now what? Change your mind? Think I’m crazy, after all?”

Blake shook his head. “No. I
think what you think—that this is a demonstration of what we’re up against.
Obviously, I’d be lying if I said this doesn’t increase the chances that you’re
deceiving me in some way. But what is intriguing about this, assuming your
story is a hundred percent accurate, is what it says about the capabilities,
and savvy, of the groups involved. If you hadn’t managed to escape, no one
would be looking for Nathan. At least not for a while. And even after you
escaped, if you didn’t happen to take an MP5 SMG with you, no one would believe
your story.”

Jenna wasn’t familiar with the
initials SMG, but from context their meaning as an abbreviation for
submachine gun
was obvious. “Good
point,” she said. “The men after me didn’t know I had it. And I left both guns in
the car when I returned to my house for Nathan’s flash drive. In hindsight, I
should have brought the damn SMG.”

“Ever fired a gun?”

Jenna shook her head.

“Then you were far better off
holding your assailant at bay with a glass of wine.”

“If they had known I had the MP5,
I’ll bet you they would have found some magical way to discredit me. Maybe
report that a woman matching my description had robbed a private home and
stolen one, or something like that. Making sure to plant seeds of doubt in the
minds of anyone I might approach.”

“There’s more,” said Blake with
a frown. “Right after you went to sleep I called the local police station. I
told them I was a PI and had gotten wind of a BOLO on Jenna Morrison. I
reported that I thought I might have seen you.”

Jenna’s eyes narrowed. “BOLO?”

“Sorry.
Be on the lookout
. You told me you came here and not to the cops
because you worried the groups after you might have law enforcement in their
pockets. I thought this idea was worth a quick experiment. My call was nothing
more than a fishing expedition. I had no reason to expect there really was a
BOLO out for you. But the detective I spoke with was
very
interested, and certainly didn’t correct me.”

“Shit!” said Jenna. “So now
they’re looking for me in LA?”

“No. I used my cell in a mode
that makes it untraceable and told them I was calling from San Diego—which is
where they expect you to be. But there’s more. I told them I saw you in the stolen
car, to which the detective replied, ‘What stolen car?’”

“Just perfect,” she said
sarcastically, shaking her head in disgust. “So they’re hunting for me, despite
not having any official reason to be doing so.”

“Exactly. Which suggests that
you were right. Whoever is behind this can wield the police like so many pawns.”

Jenna felt ill once again. It
was all so . . . diabolical. She had been right. Had she gone to the cops she’d
be in the hands of the men who wanted her already. And if Andy Cavnar hadn’t
handed her a submachine gun on Palomar Mountain, everyone would think she was a
raving lunatic.

“I should also tell you that
about an hour ago,” continued Blake, “I went out and bought a fabric cover for
your car. One that hides everything, its make, model, color, and license
plates. I parked my car on the street and moved yours to my designated spot,
and then covered it.”

Jenna was impressed. This was a
simple but effective strategy to ensure the police never identified the stolen
car. “Thanks, Aaron,” she said sincerely.

“You’re welcome. That car is the
only link to you. When the groups after you figure that out, they’ll pull out
all stops to find it.”

Jenna tilted her head in thought.
“Speaking of cars, shouldn’t we consider going back to my house as soon as we
can? If that guy is still in the trunk of my car, you could interrogate him. Find
out everything he knows.”

“That ship probably sailed
before you even arrived here,” said Blake. “The guy you bested is part of a team.
When he didn’t check in, or his team leader couldn’t reach him, they’d have sent
someone to your house to investigate. So he’s long out of your trunk, and by
now they have so many cameras pointing at your house a ghost couldn’t get in
undetected.”

“I really blew it, didn’t I?”
she said miserably. “I should have made him tell me what this was all about
when I had the chance.”

“Not at all. You were freaked
out, you had no weapons or combat training, and you were busy holding off a
seasoned killer with a bluff. You didn’t know what end was up, or when more of
his team might be arriving. And you believed him when he refused to tell you
anything more and insisted that you’d pushed him to his limits. You’re being
too hard on yourself. The fact that you figured out a way to turn the tables on
him was brilliant.”

“Thanks,” whispered Jenna, but
his words didn’t help. Nathan was gone and she had blown her best chance to get
to the truth. Maybe her
only
chance.

“So what now?” she asked,
self-disgust still written all over her face.

“I’d like to take a drive to
Palomar Mountain. Recon the site and gather evidence. And let’s see just how
good these guys really are at cleaning up after themselves.”

She had a visceral aversion to
the idea of retracing her path of the night before, of revisiting the site of
Nathan’s death, but she pushed through it. Of course that’s what they needed to
do. What detective would take a case without first visiting the crime scene?

“Okay,” said Jenna softly.
“Palomar Mountain it is.”

 
“Before you commit, I should mention that it
would be safer if I went alone and you stayed here. I just thought that since
we want to get a handle on this quickly, going together will allow us to get to
know each other better and discuss the case. But if you’d rather not take this
risk, I understand. Are you
certain
you want to come?”

Jenna desperately wanted to take
the out Blake was offering, but instead focused on turning her feelings of
sorrow into a more useful emotion: Hate. A transformation that did the trick
almost immediately. “I did mention that these assholes murdered the love of my
life, right?” she replied in a guttural growl, wearing an expression intense
enough to intimidate the hardest of men.

One corner of Blake’s mouth
turned up in just the hint of a smile. “I’ll take that as a yes,” he said
simply.

He made a show of looking her up
and down once again. “But before you go anywhere we need to change your
appearance. Every cop in the area is on the lookout for you. So while I was out
getting the car cover, I picked up a long blonde wig.”

As he said this he lifted a glossy
white paper bag and set it on his desk. The word “Macy’s” was printed at the
bottom of the bag and a giant red star above this. “I got lucky,” he added.
“I’m told only three Macy’s stores in the country carry them.”

The pained expression on Jenna’s
face indicated that
lucky
was not the
word she would have used. “How long a wig are we talking about?” she asked
suspiciously.

“Halfway down your back.”

Jenna groaned, but otherwise
remained silent.

“I’m sure it won’t be your
favorite,” acknowledged Blake, “but this way we avoid dying your hair, and you
won’t have to duck down every time we pass a cop.” He paused. “Would I be right
in assuming you aren’t big on makeup or jewelry? Or was your appearance when
you arrived on my doorstep not typical for you?”

“No. You’d be correct,” said
Jenna. Her ears were pierced but she rarely wore earrings. “My engagement ring
is the only jewelry I usually wear, and little or no makeup most of the time.”

“So we’ll do the opposite. Don’t
wear the ring. Leave it here or put it in your pocket. And I bought a few pairs
of large hoop earrings,” he said, nodding toward the Macy’s bag. “I also got
some vivid blue eyeshadow I want you to apply—liberally.”