The Book of Fate - Brad Meltzer [112]
“Just find Wes—he’s still the only one Boyle’s contacted, which means Boyle’ll reach out again,” The Roman added. “And even with the fake address Wes gave, you should still be able t—”
With a click, Micah hung up the phone. “Guy’s unreal,” he bitched to O’Shea. “First, he snakes in without telling us, now he wants to play quarterback.”
“He’s just nervous,” O’Shea said. “And personally, I don’t blame him.”
“But to let Nico out—”
“By accident . . .”
“You believe him on that?”
“Micah, Roman’s a scumbag, but he’s not a moron. He knows Nico can Hindenburg at any moment, which is why he needed to see if Boyle had been in touch. But let me tell you right now, if we don’t find Wes—and Boyle—quickly, I’m done. No joke. It’s enough.”
“Can you please stop with the ultimatums?”
“It’s not an ultimatum,” O’Shea insisted. “Just being here—snooping this close and giving this kid every reason to look us up—you have any idea what we’re risking?”
“We’re being smart.”
“No, being smart is walking away now, and being thankful we made some cash and lasted this long.”
“Not when there’s so much more cash to be made. The Roman said next month in India, there’s a—”
“Of course, it’s India. And eight months ago, it was Argentina, and eight years ago, it was Daytona. It’s enough, Micah. Yes, we added some feathers to the nest egg, but the giant pot of gold? It’s never coming.”
“You’re wrong.”
“I’m right.”
“You’re wrong!” Micah insisted, his finely combed hair flying out of place.
O’Shea stopped at the curb, knowing better than to keep arguing. It didn’t matter anyway—he’d made his decision the moment he got the call yesterday: If they could wrap this up quickly, fantastic. If not, well, that’s why he saved his money and bought that bungalow in Rio. Eyeing Micah, he knew that if it all cratered and it came down to finger-pointing, he had no problem breaking a few fingers.
“Everything okay?” Micah asked.
O’Shea nodded from the curb, both of them studying each house on the lush, narrow street. O’Shea checked windows and doors, searching for shadows and suddenly closed curtains. Micah checked front porches and pathways, searching for footprints in the light layer of sand that regularly blew across the Key West sidewalks. Neither found a thing. Until . . .
“There,” O’Shea said, marching diagonally across the street and heading straight for the peach cottage with the white shutters and gingerbread trim.
“Where?” Micah asked, still searching for himself.
“The car.”
A few steps behind O’Shea, Micah studied the old red Mustang parked in the driveway at 324 William Street. Florida license plate. Registration stickers up to date. Nothing out of the ordinary. Except for the ratty, weather-worn Washington Redskins bumper sticker on the back left bumper.
“Go Skins,” Micah whispered, barely able to contain his grin. Picking up speed, he followed his partner up the steps to the front door with the hand-painted wooden crab sign hanging on it.
“One sec,” Micah added as he reached into his suit jacket and flicked off the safety on his gun. Signaling to O’Shea with a nod, he took a half-step back, just in case they’d have to knock down the door.
With a jab of his finger, O’Shea rang the doorbell and checked on his own gun. “Coming,” a voice called from inside.
Micah checked the street behind them. No one in sight.
The doorknob twisted with a creak, and the door flew open.
“Hey there,” O’Shea announced, purposely not pulling his FBI badge. “We’re friends of Wes Holloway and just wanted to check in and make sure he’s okay.”
“Oh, he’s great,” Kenny said, purposely blocking the doorway, even though the only thing to see was his empty kitchen and living room. “But I’m sorry to say he’s long gone.”
Craning his neck to look over Kenny’s shoulder, Micah ignored the kitchen and living room and instead focused on the far back wall of the house, where a painted screen door led out to the backyard.
“Yeah, we thought that might be the case,” O’Shea said. “But even so, you mind if we come inside and just ask a few questions?”
66
So