The Grid (18 page)

- CHAPTER FORTY -

In the interest of discretion, I figured perhaps my next course of action would be best discussed in person.

At 9:00
P.M
. I pulled into the parking lot of the Shangri-La Inn, a sixty-year-old motel where the FERC agents investigating the power outage were staying.

I counted twelve black Suburbans in the lot, the government SUVs easily outnumbering the other vehicles, a motley assortment of pickups and old American sedans.

The Shangri-La was the kind of place a murder victim in an episode of
Perry Mason
might have been found. Peeling cinder block, flickering neon, wheezing AC units mounted in the windows of each room.

I parked, got out of my borrowed Suburban, and strode to the room Whitney had finally managed to check in to, a ground-floor unit near the office.

She opened after the first knock, hand behind her back. She was dressed like a cat burglar—black jeans, a matching long-sleeve T-shirt, dark sneakers.

“Getting ready to do a little B and E?” I asked.

“What do you want, Cantrell? I didn’t figure you for the booty-call type.”

“Is that a gun behind your back?”

She hesitated and then nodded, letting her arm fall to her side, a pistol in hand.

“This isn’t exactly the Ritz,” she said. “I’m pretty sure the guy upstairs just OD’d on meth.”

In a room nearby, a TV set came on, the volume all the way up.

Whitney said, “You were getting ready to tell me why you dropped in.”

“I hate to ask, but I need a favor.”

“Again?” She sounded put out. “What happened to the self-reliant Texan?”

“Do you want to do your own off-the-books digging?” I asked. “Or keep me on the payroll?”

She stuck the gun in her waistband. “Your wish is my command, Sheriff Cantrell. Tell me what you need.”

I relayed the message from the Texas Rangers about the murder in Bowie County and how it might be connected to the death of my deputy. Asked her to reach out to the FBI for any information on the 1991 incident.

The case had an organized-crime feel, which meant there might be a file somewhere with a suspect list. Or an agent nearing retirement who might remember something.

She grabbed her phone and tapped out some notes as I talked. When I was finished she said, “The SAC in Shreveport owes me. If there’s anything to know about that murder, he’ll have it.”

“SAC” stood for “special agent in charge,” the head of an FBI field office.

“Thanks,” I said.

“What else?” she asked. “You look like you’re sitting on something.”

I didn’t say anything.

“Don’t be coy,” she said. “It’s not your style.”

“Somebody broke into my house.” I explained about the pictures and the Jeep Cherokee.

“Your ex, right?”

I nodded.

“Did you get a plate?”

I shook my head. “It was red, a late-1990s model. Two door.”

“You didn’t call the state police, did you?”

“No.”

I knew I didn’t have to explain to her why. It doesn’t exactly help the sheriff’s street cred to have his ex portrayed as a stalker.

“I’ll see what I can do.” She typed an e-mail, pressed Send. “Now I have a question for you. Have you heard from Price?”

I shook my head.

“He’s gone AWOL; nobody knows where he is.” She picked up a crowbar from the dresser. “You want to help me break into his room?”

In the end, I persuaded Whitney not to use the crowbar.

They weren’t real big on warrants and probable cause at the Shangri-La, so I flashed my sheriff’s badge to the clerk and got the key.

Price Anderson’s room was empty. No clothes or personal items. An unmade bed underneath a framed print of a longhorn steer in a field of bluebonnets. The air smelled faintly of pine disinfectant and unwashed sheets.

“When was the last time you saw him?” I asked.

“This afternoon. When his boss sent him to McCarty Creek.”

“You’ve called, right?”

“Of course. Multiple times. Each call goes straight to voice mail.”

“What do his people at Sudamento say?”

“They’re in the dark, too. He was supposed to be in on several teleconferences, but he no-showed.”

“You think he’s been in an accident or something?”

“Maybe. But his room is prepaid for a week.” Whitney looked around the empty unit. “Why would he pack up?”

I grabbed the wastebasket from underneath the desk, dumped its contents on the bed.

The trash was minimal. Several beer cans. A used-up tube of toothpaste and a half-dozen empty vitamin packs, the kind that you bought at a health-food store and that promised increased energy and sexual drive.

And three items that looked like credit cards, except each was missing a rectangle out of the middle, the empty space only a few millimeters in each direction, smaller than a postage stamp.

Whitney said, “Shit.”

The three items were SIM card carriers. The term “SIM” was an acronym that stood for “subscriber identification module.”

If you changed the SIM card in your phone, you changed the number. And your identity.

“Price is dirty,” I said.

“We don’t know that for sure.” Whitney shook her head.

“Let’s just call him unclean then.”

Whitney sat on the chair by the desk, her shoulders drooping.

“Call McCarty Creek right now. See if he ever got there. In the morning, send a team to retrace his route. Maybe he had car trouble or something.”

She nodded, a glum look on her face.

“Then you and I will head to San Saba like we planned.”

No response.

“It’ll be all right,” I said. “There’s probably a logical answer for the SIM cards and the fact that we can’t reach him.”

“It won’t matter,” she said. “He looks bent, and I was sleeping with him.”

I didn’t know what to say, so I kept my mouth shut.

She took a deep breath and smiled, the expression on her face obviously forced. “Breakfast in the morning?” She stood. “Before we make the drive?”

“Sure.” I nodded warily.

“Pick me up at seven. Don’t be late.” She left the room.

- CHAPTER FORTY-ONE -

The diner on the outskirts of town was full of customers at twenty past seven in the morning when Eric Faulkner, the CEO of Sudamento, walked in with his bodyguard trailing behind him.

Faulkner wore a denim work shirt and faded jeans, while his security guy had on a dark suit. The juxtaposition of the two made them appear to be working from completely different playbooks, not an uncommon occurrence for Faulkner, if I had to guess.

All the seats were taken, even at the counter.

Whitney and I were in a booth at the back, eating breakfast. Bacon and eggs, biscuits with sausage gravy, coffee.

Faulkner surveyed the room and then strode toward us. His bodyguard stayed by the front door.

He stopped at our table and gave us each the laser stare. He settled his gaze on Whitney and said, “What’s the status of the investigation?”

“Good morning.” I pointed to the insulated carafe by my plate. “You want some coffee?”

He cocked his head and looked at me, a puzzled expression on his face.

“You’re the sheriff, right?”

How quickly they forget. I wore civilian clothes, the badge out of sight on my belt.

“Yeah, that’s me. Sheriff Jon Cantrell.”

“The investigation is ongoing,” Whitney said. “We have several avenues to pursue.”

“What exactly does that mean?” he asked.

“It means we have some leads,” she said. “But we don’t know who’s responsible for the attacks yet.”

Faulkner’s skin was pale and drawn, and the dark circles under his eyes were especially harsh in the fluorescent lighting of the diner.

“Price Anderson,” I said. “What did he find out at McCarty Creek?”

The waitress came over before he could answer. “You want something to eat?”

“A glass of milk and two slices of dry toast,” he said.

The meal of a cancer patient or someone under a lot of stress.

He slid in next to Whitney, uninvited.

I said, “Please, join us.”

“Price never checked in from McCarty Creek.” Faulkner spoke with a lowered voice. “His phone’s off, too.”

Whitney and I looked at each other.

“When’s the last time you talked to him?” Whitney asked.

Faulkner didn’t reply. He drummed his fingers on the tabletop, taking shallow breaths.

“You okay?” I said. “You’re not looking so good.”

The waitress brought a plate of toast and a glass of milk.

“What?” Eric Faulkner looked around like he’d just woken up from a nap.

Whitney said, “How much sleep did you get last night?”

Faulkner drank half the milk, rubbed his eyes. “Do you believe in karma? Either of you?”

I shrugged. The CEO of a Fortune 500 company did not strike me as the type of person to ponder the metaphysical side of existence.

“I’ve got an earnings call in a couple of hours.” He took a bite of toast. “They’re gonna want my head.”

“The attack wasn’t your fault,” Whitney said.

“It’s all about perspective.” He slapped the table. “Actions that appear innocent to one person take on a different meaning when you’re looking at them from across the room.”

Silence.

“Sudamento has a market cap of seventeen billion,” he said. “Do either of you understand the way the piranhas on Wall Street work?”

“Have you broken any laws?” Whitney asked. “Is there any reason for someone to want to hurt your company specifically?”

“The Chinese man who died,” he said. “Is that one of your
avenues
?”

Neither Whitney nor I responded.

“They can’t throw me out of my own company if it’s terrorism,” he said. “The CEO of American Airlines didn’t lose his job after 9/11, did he?”

The waitress brought a fresh carafe of coffee.

“Who has access to the lake house at McCarty Creek?” I said.

“How the hell would I know?” His voice was shrill. People at nearby tables glanced our way.

“Well, it is your company,” I said.

“I’ve got bigger things on my mind.” He pointed his index finger at me. “Our stock has gone down twenty-three percent in the last week alone.”

The waitress came back over, asked if there would be anything else. I shook my head, and she left a check.

“The vultures are already circling.” He rubbed his eyes. “Another attack would kill us.”

“Has Price Anderson ever disappeared before?” I asked.

Faulkner shook his head again.

No one spoke for a few seconds.

“Can you think of any reason Price would want to hurt Sudamento?” I asked.

Whitney gave me a deadpan stare.

“He’s worked for me for five years now, ever since he came back from Iraq.” Faulkner rubbed his chin. “He’s a good employee. Loyal, honest. I’d trust him with my life.”

The bodyguard walked to our table, a cell phone in hand. He leaned down, whispered into his boss’s ear.

Faulkner looked at Whitney. “I have to go. One of our biggest investors wants to talk before the earnings call.”

He left.

“Bastard.” Whitney pointed to the check. “He didn’t even pay his share of the tab.”

- CHAPTER FORTY-TWO -

Sarah wakes at dawn in the master bedroom of her high-rise apartment. Before she gets out of bed, she turns on the tablet computer and searches for any fresh stories about the murdered deputy, the serial killer Cleo Fain, or the two dead hobos.

Nothing new has appeared overnight.

She slides from underneath the covers, pads to the window, and opens the curtains.

The apartment is on the northern edge of the central business district, and her bedroom looks to the south. The center of Dallas is a forest of glass and concrete, a pleasing shade of yellow in the early-morning light.

A sense of calm settles over Sarah. Everything is under control. She’s going to skate through this crisis.

Price will stop Elias.

The deputy’s murder investigation will stall. Progress already appears to have slowed. She covered her tracks well, so the odds of anyone putting her together with the dead man in the motel room are getting slimmer every day. Except for the good-looking sheriff in the parking lot, no one who counts saw her.

And as for Cleo Fain, well, who’s going to believe a serial killer anyway?

Sarah calls the nanny and checks on Dylan. Her daughter is still asleep but doing well after the surgery. Rosa doesn’t even ask when Sarah will be visiting today, a minor victory.

Next, Sarah puts on workout clothes—a pair of yoga pants, sports bra, Nike trainers—and takes the elevator to the gym on the third floor. There, she runs on the treadmill while watching the morning news shows on the tiny TV monitor mounted over the control panel.

The exercise soothes her. The higher her heart rate, the more peaceful she feels.

After forty-five minutes, she returns to her apartment on the thirtieth floor. Sweaty but content, she pads toward her unit, key in hand.

The door to each dwelling is recessed from the hallway, small alcoves that give the illusion of privacy and make the building seem less like a hotel.

Sarah is about ten feet from her unit when from across the hall a woman steps out of the shadows, fumbling with a cell phone.

She is Latino, in her midforties. Stout, almost six feet tall.

“Hello.” Sarah smiles politely.

The woman is wearing a pair of Wrangler jeans and a starched khaki shirt. On the breast pocket of the shirt is a gold badge, five stars inside a circle.

“Hi, how are you doing?” The woman moves into the middle of the hall.

Sarah approaches her door, keeping an eye on the interloper.

The woman is wearing a tooled leather belt with a matching holster on her right hip. The holster contains a stainless-steel semiautomatic pistol with mother-of-pearl grips.

“Is that your apartment?” The woman puts her cell phone away.

Sarah doesn’t reply. Her skin grows cold.

“My name is Sergeant Moreno. I’m a Texas Ranger.”

Sarah forces another smile.

“I’m looking for Debbie Wilson,” the Ranger says.

This is the name Sarah used to rent the apartment. Her college roommate, freshman year, who died in a car wreck right after graduation.

“Are you Debbie?” Ranger Moreno asks.

Sarah shakes her head.

“Who are you then?” The woman’s tone is amicable despite the intrusive nature of the question.

“I’m, uh, a friend of hers.”

“What’s your name . . . friend?”

“S-Sarah.”

Moreno points to the door of the apartment. “Is Debbie at home, Sarah?”

Sarah doesn’t reply. The sense of control has blown away like a tornado just hit town. Why is this Texas Ranger here, asking about the name she used to lease the apartment?

“Somebody who called herself Debbie Wilson bought a Buick LaCrosse last week,” Ranger Moreno says. “The address she used was this apartment.”

Sarah can actually feel the blood rush from her face. She imagines how white her skin must look. The LaCrosse was the car the sheriff had seen her get into at the motel. She’d left the vehicle at the abandoned Whataburger next door to where she’d boosted the old Monte Carlo.

She’d planned to report the LaCrosse stolen but had forgotten. Too many distractions.

“Debbie’s not here right now.” Sarah’s voice sounds small, hoarse.

“When will she be back?” Ranger Moreno moves closer.

“I’m not sure.” Sarah steps toward the door. “She didn’t say.”

“You live here with Debbie, huh? You two are roommates?”

Sarah slides her key into the dead bolt. Her hand shakes. “Uh, no. I’m just visiting.”

“From where, Sarah?” Moreno leans against the side of the alcove, watching Sarah fumble with the lock. “Where’s home for you?”

The door opens.

“I’m sorry you missed Debbie.” Sarah steps inside, turns to face the Texas Ranger. “I’ll tell her you stopped by.”

Moreno glides across the floor to the entryway, her feet on the threshold. “May I come in, Sarah? I need to ask you some more questions.”

“I have an appointment in just a little while. I need to get ready.”

“This won’t take long.”

“Sorry, I have to go.” Sarah starts to shut the door.

Moreno sticks her hand out, stops the door from closing. “What’s your last name, Sarah?”

Sarah doesn’t reply. She tries to shut the door again, but the Ranger’s push is too strong.

“I need your full name for my report,” Moreno says.

“Anderson. Sarah Anderson.”

She’s imagined something like this happening many times, scenarios where she has to outwit the police. In her fantasies, she always has a ready answer for any question because she is SarahSmiles.

The reality is so different. The fear has lowered her IQ, made everything fuzzy, hard to process. Price’s surname is the first thing that pops into her mind.

“Thanks.” Moreno smiles. “One more question.”

Sarah realizes her mistake—what she used as her first name, part of the profile ID for the website where she met the deputy. Her stomach ties itself in knots.

“You okay?” Moreno asks. “You’re looking a little queasy all of a sudden.”

“Low blood sugar,” Sarah says. “Shoulda had something to eat before I worked out.”

The Ranger stares at her for a moment and then says, “Do you by any chance own a Colt Python?”