The Book of Fate - Brad Meltzer [126]
“We could’ve done it on a regular basis—fifty, sixty, seventy million, easy. You know you agreed.”
“Then you should’ve listened to us and never approached Boyle first,” O’Shea said, his voice calmer than ever. “And unlike last time, I’m done letting a loose end come back to bite us in the ass. As long as Wes is out there with that photo, we’ve both got targets on our chests.”
“What, so now you’re putting Wes on your hit list as well? I thought you agreed he was just bait.”
Without a word, O’Shea watched as the seaplane angled past half a dozen pristine yachts and nosed up to the floating dock.
“Check out that sailboat in front of us,” the pilot announced as he pulled off his headphones and entered the back of the plane. “That’s Jimmy Buffett’s day sailer. You see the name of it? Chill.”
O’Shea nodded as the pilot opened the hatch, stepped outside, and tossed the grab line to the dock.
“O’Shea, before you get stupid, think about next month,” The Roman said through the phone. “If this thing comes through in India . . .”
“Are you even listening? There is no next month! There’s no India! Or Prague! Or Liberia! Or Lusaka! We brought our resources together—we created the perfect virtual informant—and we made some cash. But now I’m done, pal. D’you understand? The pot of gold—the seventy million—it’s bullshit. I’m over.”
“But if you—”
“I don’t care,” O’Shea said, heading for the door and stepping out to the edge of the plane’s floats. A short hop took him onto the dock, where he waved a thank-you to the pilot and followed the path toward the buildings of the boatyard.
“O’Shea, don’t be such a mule,” The Roman continued. “If you touch Wes now—”
“Are you listening? I. Don’t. Care. I don’t care that he’s bait. I don’t care that he’s our best bet for getting Boyle. I don’t even care that Nico might get to him first. That kid knows my name, he knows what I look like, and worst of all—”
There was a soft beep on O’Shea’s phone. He stopped midstep, halfway up the dock. Caller ID said Unavailable. On this line, there was only one person that could be.
“O’Shea, listen to me,” The Roman threatened.
“Sorry, signal’s bad here. I’ll call you later.” With a click, he switched over to the other line. “This is O’Shea.”
“And this is your conscience—stop having sex with men at truck stops. Go to a bar—it’s easier,” Paul Kessiminan said, laughing, in his fat Chicago accent.
O’Shea didn’t even bother responding to the joke. Tech guys—especially those in the Bureau’s Investigative Technology Division—always thought they were funnier than they were. “Please tell me you got a hit on Wes’s phone,” O’Shea said.
“Nope. But after taking your advice and watching his friends, I did get a hit on the fat kid’s.”
“Rogo’s?”
“For the past few hours, it’s quiet as death. Then ping, incoming call from a number registered to an Eve Goldstein.”
“Who’s Eve Goldstein?”
“Which is why I looked her up. Y’know how many Eve Goldsteins there are in Palm Beach County? Seven. One owns a Judaica store, one’s a school principal, two retirees—”
“Paulie!”
“. . . and one who writes the gardening section for the Palm Beach Post.”
“They switched phones.”
“Ooooh, you’re good. You should get a job with the FBI.”
“So Wes is still with Lisbeth?”
“I don’t think so. I just called the newsroom. She’s apparently on another line. I think she gave Wes her friend’s phone and ditched his on the plane or something. Telling you—boy’s smart,” Paul said. “Lucky for you, I’m smarter.”
“But you traced the new phone to his current location?”
“It’s an old model, so there’s no GPS. But I can get you to the closest cell tower. Cell site 626A. On County Road, just a few blocks south of Via Las Brisas.”
At the center of the long dock, O’Shea froze. “Las Brisas? You think he went to—?”
“Only one way to find out, Tonto. Be careful, though. With Nico out there, headquarters just opened their own