The FBI Thrillers Collection Books 1-5 - Catherine Coulter [612]
“I nearly did miss it. I had to run like mad to catch it. They were ready to close the gate and I just slipped right through.”
“I know. I spoke to the flight attendant who greeted you at the door when you came rushing onto the plane. She said you looked somewhat desperate.”
She sighed, but didn’t say anything, just crossed her arms over her chest and stared at him, still as a stone. “Come on, let’s hear the rest of it.”
“It didn’t take long to find you on that flight to Portland. Your fake ID was pretty amateur. I’ll bet they were really busy at the check-in counters in New York and Dulles for you to get passed on through. At least you were smart enough not to use that driver’s license again to get yourself a rental car. You waited an hour for a flight from Boston to Portland, then you took a taxi into Portland—yes, one of my people found the driver and verified that it was you—and went to Big Frank’s Previously Owned Cars on Blake Street. You wanted your own car. That told me that you had a definite destination in mind, a place where you were going to burrow in for the long haul. I got all the particulars out of Big Frank, including your license plate number, the make, model, and color of your Toyota. I called a friend in the Portland PD to put out an APB on you and it didn’t take more than a day to net you. Remember when you got gas at the Union 76 station when you were first coming into town?”
She’d paid cash. No trail. No record. “I didn’t make any mistakes.”
“No, but it turns out that the guy who pumped your gas is a police radio buff with an excellent memory for numbers. He heard the APB, remembered your car and license plate, and phoned it in. It got to me really fast. Don’t worry, I canceled the APB. Needless to say, I owe a good-sized favor to Chief Aronson of the Portland PD. Also I spoke to the kid who pumped your gas, told him it had all been a mistake, thanked him, and slipped him a fifty. Oh yes, I got a good laugh over the name on the fake ID—Martha Clinton—a nice mix of presidential names.”
“I did, too,” Becca said, wondering why she’d bothered at all.
“At least Martha was young and had blondish hair. Did you buy it off a street kid in New York?”
“Yes. I had to try six of them before I could find an ID that looked anything remotely like me. I liked the name. When did you get here to Riptide?”
“Two days ago. I went immediately to the only bed-and-breakfast in town and of course you had stayed there for one night. Scottie told me you’d taken the old Marley place.” He splayed his fingers. “Nothing to it.”
“Why didn’t you come to see me right away?”
“I wanted to get the lay of the land, watch you awhile, see what was happening, who you spoke to, things like that. It’s an approach I’ve always used. I’ve never believed in rushing into things, if I have a choice.”
“It was so easy for you.” She sighed, her arms still crossed over her chest. “That means that the FBI should be ringing the doorbell at any minute.”
“Nah, they’re not as smart as I am.”
She threw her empty coffee cup at him.
He snagged the cup out of the air and set it back on the table. His reflexes were good. He was very fast. She said, “I’m awfully glad I didn’t come any nearer to you. You could have nailed me in a flash, couldn’t you?”
“Probably, but that’s not the point. I’m not here to hurt you. I’m here to protect you.”
“My guardian angel.”
“That’s right.”
“Why don’t you think the cops and FBI will be here any moment?”
“They have to follow