The Book of Fate - Brad Meltzer [81]
Gotta give the boy credit,” Micah offered, circling through the parking lot as Wes, Rogo, and Dreidel disappeared inside the Palm Beach Post building.
“Who, Wes?” O’Shea asked, watching from the passenger seat of their government-rented Chevy. “Why, because he’s running for help?”
“See, that’s where you’re underestimating. I don’t think he’s running. Once he steps inside that building, he’s zipping himself in a force field he knows we won’t pierce.”
“Either that or he’s running out of options.”
“Maybe,” Micah said, holding the steering wheel and facing his longtime partner. “But when I was trailing him yesterday morning, every single person he ran into was staring at his face. The valet, the doorman, the guests he passed in the lobby . . . if he can handle that on a daily basis, he can take more punches than you think.”
“And that’s supposed to impress me?”
“I’m just saying, the immovable object is just as deadly as our unstoppable force.”
“Yeah, but the unstoppable force is still the one people’re afraid of. And until we catch Boyle’s ass, that’s the one I’d rather be.”
“. . . because it’s served us so well thus far,” Micah said.
“You’re missing the point. Even if Boyle knows we’re searching . . .”
“. . . which he does. He’s known for years.”
“But what he doesn’t know is that Wes has suddenly become the best carrot on our stick. Turn—in there,” O’Shea added, pointing to the entrance to the two-story parking garage.
Rounding the turn and weaving up to the second level, it didn’t take long for them to pull up to Wes’s rusted black Toyota. As soon as he saw it, Micah hit the brakes.
“Just pull in back there,” O’Shea said, motioning to an open parking spot diagonally across from the Toyota.
Tapping the gas, Micah eased into the spot. Through the back window, the view of Wes’s car was perfect.
“We got the carrot,” O’Shea said. “When you hold tight to that, the horse’ll always follow.”
47
Crowding around the small TV monitor of the X-ray, we all stand frozen as the guard points to the screen. The rectangular outline of my lapel pin glows dark gray. Just below it, the two sculpted heads dangle like matching gray tears. But what’s far more interesting are the tiny metal pieces—they almost look like shards of shattered glass—glowing bright white at the center of the rectangle.
We’re all squinting, struggling to make them out, until the guard hits a button on his keyboard and pulls in on the picture. On-screen, the pieces—a coiled antenna, a miniature microchip, and an even smaller hearing-aid battery—bloom into view.
As always, Rogo’s mouth opens first. “Sonofa—”
I pinch his elbow and shoot him a look.
“That’s just . . . that’s my voice recorder—all digital—y’know, to save good ideas,” I whisper, trying to sound like I have a sore throat. “Cool, huh?”
“They make ’em even tinier than those little cassettes,” Rogo adds, quickly catching on.
“Here, try it,” I bluff to the guard as the conveyor returns my jacket. Folding it over my arm and shoving it toward him, I hold out the lapel to give him a closer look. He waves me off, satisfied by the offer.
Quickly heading for the elevators, we paint on fake smiles as if everything’s perfect. The way Dreidel’s eyes are dancing back and forth, he’s in full panic. I don’t blame him. Whoever’s listening knows about what he was doing in that hotel room. But now’s not the time. I glance back at the guard, who’s still watching us, then down at the metal White House, which is presumably still broadcasting.
Just wait, I say to Dreidel with nothing but an open palm aimed in his direction. His eyes dance even faster. As we step into the waiting elevator, he bites at his manicured thumbnail, unable to contain himself. But just as he’s about to whisper a response, Rogo grabs him by the biceps.
“What floor?” Rogo asks, leaning in and motioning upward with his chin. In the corner of the elevator, a security camera stares down at us.
“Second,” I reply as casually as possible.
“Just do me a favor,” Rogo adds. “When dealing with Lisbeth, let’s try to be smart about this, okay?