Dominic grunted as he hung up. He didn’t give a crap about appearances, but some might suggest he didn’t need to, which was probably true and pissed him off.
Dominic’s email dinged and there was the case file number of Van’s death investigation and a permission key to access it sitting in his inbox. His mouth went dry, and his heart started to pound as his finger hovered over the button. He wasn’t looking forward to this. Not even a little bit.
*
Ava sat in her Bucar down the road from the home of the girlfriend of a prisoner who’d escaped from the Penitentiary of New Mexico. The converted older home had three apartments, one on each floor, and backed onto the city and historic Confederate Cemetery. It was mid-morning in a quiet neighborhood, not exactly conducive to surveillance when strangers sitting in parked cars stood out like flashing neon signs. She kept an eye on the front door by watching her rear-view mirror.
She’d dressed down in a The National t-shirt and her oldest, rattiest jeans ripped at the knees, and a pair of red Vans meaning she could run if necessary. She wore shades and a blue, evil eye bracelet her mother had sent her when she’d graduated the academy. Her gun was on her hip, with the shirt tugged over it. A backup strapped to her ankle.
Everyone else from the Resident Agency had been assigned to the investigation into yesterday’s shooting. It looked like she’d hamstrung herself by opening her big, fat mouth in front of the director. Rather than being involved she’d been sidelined. The knot in her throat threatened to choke her.
Van would be so mad at her for screwing that up. She didn’t care. She wouldn’t let it drop. He’d warned her to always make sure she followed the rules and to do her job properly.
The public relied on the FBI to get the bad guys off the street and agents had to be willing to get the job done no matter the sacrifice. Agents were allowed a personal agenda, but the Bureau’s work came first. He’d drummed that into her from the moment they’d met.
So here she sat outside Maria Santana’s apartment, drinking coffee and watching the door when she’d rather be tracing Van’s last movements or going door-to-door searching for clues as to the identity of yesterday’s shooter.
A fly buzzed, and she swatted it away. Despite it being early and her being parked beneath a large, leafy tree, it was hot as Hades inside the Impala. She had the engine and AC off and windows rolled down as an idling car would draw too much attention. This promised to be a long and tedious assignment.
Maria Santana’s boyfriend, Jimmy Taylor, had been held on charges of drug smuggling and two counts of first-degree murder, one of which involved a cop sent to arrest him. Ava had no idea how Jimmy had escaped custody but the idea he’d travel back to Virginia when he was right next to the Mexican border seemed ludicrous. So what if Maria was sex on legs? There was no way he’d come back here. This was a waste of her time.
Ava forced herself to not react when Maria emerged from the building looking pretty and feminine, wearing dark shades, a long floral skirt with a peasant blouse. Ava weighed her options. Follow Maria on foot or hang out here and wait for her to return home? Alternatively, she could drive around the block and park at the Sugar Shack and watch the apartment from there while refueling on donuts until Maria returned.
Follow on foot. She could do with the exercise.
Ava was reaching for the door handle when a big, black Suburban pulled up behind her down the street.
She froze.
The driver was a white male wearing dark shades and a red ball cap pulled low. Was it Jimmy? Nah. He couldn’t be that stupid, could he? Ava forced herself to remain still and not draw attention. At the same time, she peered in the mirror, attempting to make a positive ID.
Maria climbed in the truck and locked lips with the guy like she was gonna nail him then and there in the front seat. What the hell?
Holy shit.
It was Jimmy Taylor. Obviously, Maria was sex on legs and worth the risk of a lengthy prison sentence. Was that true love or the ultimate in stupidity? Considering Maria could have flown out to meet the guy anywhere in the world, Ava was hedging toward them both being morons.
She let them pull away and watched them turn down Sylvania Avenue before she started the engine and cut quickly down Mortimer, parallel, one street over. She floored it, catching sight of the Suburban crossing Littlepage, and floored it again. By the time she got to the next intersection, she’d caught up and watched them veer left before she indicated and did the same. She called dispatch.
“I have a sighting of the suspect, Jimmy Taylor, traveling west on William with his girlfriend, Maria Santana, in a black Suburban.” She gave them the license plate. “I’m in pursuit and need immediate backup. Get a chopper in the air if possible.”
Maybe she could patch into some local police cruisers, and they might be able to box Taylor in before he got away.
She squinted at the vehicle now traveling in front of her. Ideally, she’d be part of a team—unlike what Sheridan had suggested yesterday, she did know how to work as part of a team—and they’d operate in tandem changing positions and taking different routes, but today she was on her own. It was unusually quiet on the road, which was both good and bad. They took a right onto Highway 3, and she stuck closer than she wanted because she didn’t want to get caught at a light. She held her breath as they passed the exits to Route 1, grateful he didn’t take either. Unfortunately, they were only a mile from the intersection that took him onto Interstate 95, which ran the entire length of the east coast. The cops couldn’t afford a high-speed on such a busy road and if they lost him, Jimmy could escape to anywhere along the eastern seaboard.
She eyed the conditions. They were on a four-lane portion of Route 3 with a lot of shops and restaurants—too much of a risk to pedestrians to try what she had in mind.
“I’m going to attempt to pull him over as soon as I find some green space,” she said to dispatch.