117

 

THE LAB, 10:38 A.M.

Straddling his Ducati, feet braced on the soaking earth, Dan gazed up at the sky. He saw the helicopter rise above him and fly off. He couldn’t see who was inside. Visibility was bad. He ran to the intercom, buzzed repeatedly.

The door was opened by a beautiful black woman with long braids. She was holding onto Leo. She stood with two men. They all seemed to be leaving.

“Is Gwen here?” asked Dan. “Is she here?”

Atalanta eyed him coolly.

“Gone,” she said, nodding at the sky. “In the helicopter.”

Dan swore. “Any idea where it’s headed? Who she’s with?”

“You some jealous boyfriend?” quizzed Atalanta.

“If only,” said Dan, trying to tamp down his impatience. “Why’ve you got Leo?” he asked, reaching down to stroke the dog, who wagged his tail in enthusiastic greeting.

“’cause Gwen asked.”

“So, where’s she going?” Dan asked again, “and who with?”

“I know not,” replied Atalanta. She turned to the men. “You guys know?” They shook their heads. “She just told us to hightail it out,” said Curt. “Didn’t say where she was going, said it was a long story, then she upped and left.”

Dan thanked them, returned to his bike, analyzing, processing what little he knew.

Perhaps the bug in Messenger’s house might reveal something. He hadn’t listened in for over twenty-four hours. The wind was roaring and he could scarcely hear outside. He headed off to Roy’s Deli in Carmel Valley Village. The roads were almost empty. He angled the Ducati, leaning into the curves, accelerating along the straight stretches. Carmel Valley felt like a ghost town. But the Deli was still open, Dan noted with relief, despite the weather warnings.

A man he guessed to be Roy himself was realigning a wall full of black-and-white photos of local landmarks. He turned as the door chimed.

“What can I get for you?” he asked with a gruff smile.

“Black coffee and a haven for twenty,” said Dan with a smile of his own.

“You got both.”

Dan took a seat on a red padded banquette at a clean wooden table. He dialed up the device, got it to relay back to him. Earphone in his ear, he listened. Roy brought over his coffee. Dan nodded, sipped distractedly. The device only recorded when there were voices. It took twenty minutes to wade through Messenger’s anodyne conversations of the previous evening on the phone, conversations with his three sons in Germany by what little Dan knew of German. Then the recording moved to six fifty that morning.

Dan froze, coffee mug to his lips. He listened, switched off the relay, pocketed his earphones, took out a ten dollar bill. He leapt to his feet, leaving the note on the table.

He ran for the Ducati, calling the cops on his cell as he went.