Jo left the restaurant the same way she entered, through the back door, on the far side of the building from the gas pumps where the security cameras were located. The restaurant had been nearly full, the lunch crowd, when she got there. The pay phone was tucked in a corner by the restrooms. The only camera in the restaurant was in the front, trained on the cashier’s location.
It was a quarter-mile walk back to the Elmira farmers market. She’d already packed up whatever she hadn’t sold that morning. As she walked she removed the Mets cap and sunglasses and shook her hair loose. When she got to the market there were a few vendors still on site, with a dozen or so customers wandering about. Jo checked the latch on the rear door of the GMC and was walking around the truck when she heard the voice.
“Hold on there.”
She turned to see a state trooper walking toward her. His hat was pulled low; she couldn’t see his eyes. Jo’s heart began to pound and she actually looked behind her, hoping he was speaking to someone else. He wasn’t. For a split second she considered leaping into the truck and driving off. Maybe his cruiser wasn’t close and she could get away. Urging her brain to work, she told herself that flight wasn’t an option. He would have the truck’s description out there within minutes.
She decided to turn and keep walking, off into the market, just another customer. As she moved past the front of the truck, he spoke again.
“Hold on!”
She stopped and looked back. His pace had quickened.
“Is this your vehicle?”
Jo looked at the cop and then the truck. She had nowhere to go now.
“I saw you latching the door,” the cop said. “This is your truck?”
She was caught. “Yes.”
The trooper crooked his finger. “Come here, I want to show you something.”
With no choice, Jo followed him as he walked over to the side of the GMC and knelt down, in front of the rear wheels.
“You have a fuel leak, ma’am.” He pointed underneath the chassis. “I smelled it when I walked by earlier.”
Jo, the relief washing over her, knelt beside the man and had a look. The fuel line was wet where he had indicated. It was not dripping though.
“It’s not real bad,” the trooper said. “But it needs to be repaired. I suggest you see to it ASAP.”
“Absolutely. I’ll have it done today.”
The cop straightened up. “I thought I should tell you.”
“I really do appreciate it, sir.”
She watched as the trooper walked away, swinging his arms out from his side in the manner that cops sometimes had, as if they were patrolling the streets of Dodge City in the days of yore. She waited until he was gone, got into the truck, and headed south.
She took county roads and two-lane blacktops and met Daniel at a Red Lobster just outside of Milton, Pennsylvania. He was there before her, sitting in a corner booth with a coffee and a brown envelope on the table before him. It was mid-afternoon and the place was nearly empty. Jo ordered coffee for herself and while she waited for it, she filled him in.
“He hung up,” Daniel repeated in disbelief. “Why would he do that?”
“I’ve been asking myself that,” Jo said.
“Did they have your location by then?”
“Yeah.” Jo took a drink of coffee. It was pretty bad, leftover from the lunch crowd, she suspected.
“And he hangs up,” Daniel said, more to himself this time, his eyes narrowing as he considered the act. “What the hell is that about? Standard procedure, they do everything in their power to keep you on the line.” He paused. “But for some reason he didn’t want to talk to you.”
“That was obvious.”
Daniel had a drink of coffee. “Or—he didn’t want to talk to you with the FBI standing there. Why wouldn’t he want to talk to you with them listening in?”
Jo shook her head.
“What were you talking about when he hung up?” Daniel asked. “Specifically.”
“I was just about to repeat the terms when he cut me off. He hung up quick.”
“All right,” Daniel said slowly. “That’s it then. He never told them. He’s not telling them your demands. Why not?”
“Because he doesn’t want to do it,” Jo said, realizing. “Apologize, that is. He probably doesn’t care about the million dollars. But he doesn’t want to admit he was wrong. Not in public. He’s never wrong.”
“And he’s running for Congress now,” Daniel said. “That was something we hadn’t counted on. When was the last time a candidate for office admitted he was wrong about anything? So he didn’t tell the FBI about the terms. Did he tell his anybody? His wife?”
“Maybe not.”
The waitress, probably bored with the empty restaurant, came over with the coffee pot to ask whether they needed refills. Daniel did. When she was gone, Jo indicated the envelope.
“That’s the account info?”
Daniel handed it over. “Pretty simple. The bank and the account number. He can do it by wire.”
“And how’s it going to get you out of debt?” Jo asked. “I mean how do you access it?”
“I’m still working on that,” Daniel admitted. “Not my area of expertise. And it’s not as if I can ask anybody.” He slowly rotated the coffee cup on the table.
“What’s with your hands?” Jo asked.
He looked at them. His fingernails were rimmed with white powder, the skin nicked here and there. “Putting up drywall for a guy.”
“Tough to pay off eight hundred grand doing that.” She had a drink and put the cup aside, done with it. “This is pretty risky business. You know, compared to drywall.”
“It’s not just the money, Jo. Those kids were killed in my hometown. You think you’re the only one who hates the guy?”
“I would hope not.”
He nodded. “The kid all right?”
“A little freaked out,” Jo said, not looking at him. She didn’t want to talk about it because she was having trouble thinking about it. “Henry’s looking after her like she’s a baby bird.”
“Let’s hope it goes down quick.”
“Let’s hope that,” Jo said. “He keeps saying he wants proof. Which is his way of avoiding the issue. I guess we’re going to have to give it to him.”
“What are you thinking?”
“Maybe a picture of her holding a newspaper. Like in the movies.”
“It would have to be a Polaroid and you’d have to send it snail mail and untraceable.” Daniel removed his notebook from his pocket. “I might have a better idea.”