“Clues?” asked Camille incredulously. “What are you talking about? Your backpack was full of a bunch of junk.”
“The receipt from the coffee shop,” said Art. “That’s a clue.”
“The receipt?” replied Camille. “That’s your big clue? You had a croissant and a hot chocolate. Mystery solved.”
“You don’t get it, do you?” Art asked.
“Get what? It’s just a piece of paper.”
“Do you ever go out for breakfast?” he asked. “Just you and your mom?”
“Sure,” replied Camille. “Almost every Sunday morning, we go to this little restaurant right down . . .”
Camille paused. A smile crossed her face.
“Every Sunday morning,” she began again, “we walk to the same little restaurant. It’s right down the street from our house.”
“Exactly,” said Art. “You don’t drive across town for breakfast—you go somewhere close to home. And maybe I did the same thing. Maybe I live near the coffeehouse and I go there with my parents all the time. Or maybe I was staying at a hotel close to the place, or maybe I was just passing through. Who knows? But it seems as good a place to start as any other.”
Art was right—it was a good place to start. But what if it led nowhere? What if it was simply a dead end? Camille was cold, and it was starting to snow. She knew her mother was worried to death. Everything about this seemed like a bad idea. But for the first time since she had met Art, he seemed to have a purpose—a goal. Camille could begin to see something more than the quiet boy who had arrived at her home the previous night. He no longer seemed completely lost.
“Well,” she said, “I guess we’d better find that coffee shop.”
“You’re not going to the coffee shop,” replied Art.
“What?!” exclaimed Camille.
“I’m going there alone,” he said. “They’re after me, not you. Give me a head start, and then you can go to the hotel and call your mom. Even if your mom’s phone is tapped, I’ll be long gone by the time she gets there—and you’ll be safe at the hotel.”
“Not a chance,” said Camille. “I made a promise.”
“A promise?”
“To my mom—to watch out for you.”
Part of the boy wanted to laugh at this short red-haired girl and her promise to watch out for him. But he didn’t. She was tough and brave, and Art trusted her. And to be honest, he could probably use a friend.
Eric McClain made it to the corner of Seventh Street and F Street just as the police cars arrived and headed toward the accident scene. The blue flashing lights filled the intersection. He looked back and watched the crowd surrounding the smashed vehicle move aside as the police cars approached.
McClain turned his attention back to his post. He glanced to his left, directly down F Street, the direction in which the kids had escaped.
Holy cow.
It took every bit of self-control not to react.
There they were—the boy and the girl—standing by a short iron railing just across the street and less than one hundred feet away. McClain turned away so the kids would not see him staring at them. He immediately notified the other team members, whose car was now within two blocks of the intersection. He quickly laid out his plan. Regina Cash would get dropped off at the opposite end of the block on Eighth Street. Nigel Stenhouse, the final member of the team, would park directly across the street from the Hotel Monaco and in front of the National Portrait Gallery. They would have the block completely sealed off. McClain would then approach the boy and the girl and subdue them with the tranquilizer darts. Stenhouse would converge with the car; they would pop both kids into the back seat and take off. It could be done in five seconds—perhaps fewer. They would pick up Regina a block away and head back to base.
Simple.
McClain nonchalantly glanced over his shoulder. The boy and the girl were still standing there.
Stupid kids, he thought. How did Lantham and Bazanov let those two get away?
McClain received the signal that Nigel Stenhouse and Regina Cash were in place.
Showtime.
Mary Sullivan sat in the front seat of the detective’s car and stared out the window. They were driving slowly down Madison Drive, just south of the museum. Detective Evans had explained that it was still too soon to put out an alert for Camille and the boy. They had been gone for only an hour, and it wasn’t the first time that a couple of kids had wandered off by themselves. There were certainly plenty of things to see in the area around the National Gallery of Art—things that might draw the attention of a couple of tweens. The normal protocol was to check the area around the museum before putting out any alerts. Mary knew this procedure made sense. But she also knew that Camille would not have left the museum without her permission. Something else was going on—and Mary suspected that Detective Evans felt the same way. Mary had begged her to do something—anything.
It didn’t take a whole lot of convincing.
Although she couldn’t issue a formal missing-child alert, Detective Evans had asked a couple of patrol officers in the area around the museum for a favor. She provided them with a description of Camille and Art and asked them to let her know if they spotted the kids. The officers readily agreed—they understood how the procedures worked, but they were also parents. They would keep an eye out for the kids.
The call came just as Detective Evans and Mary Sullivan reached the intersection with Twelfth Street. It was from one of the patrol officers. The detective listened as the officer spoke.
“Thanks,” the detective said. “Heading that way now.”
She ended the call and turned to Mary. “Car crash on Seventh Street, just a few blocks from the museum. Witnesses reported two kids running from the scene of the accident.”
The detective paused.
“One of them,” she finally continued, “was described as a young girl with bright red hair and wearing a polka dot jacket.”
“Camille!” Mary exclaimed. “A car accident? How?”
“We’ll figure that out later,” said the detective. “Let’s just find your daughter and the boy.”
Detective Evans turned onto Twelfth Street and headed north.