COLBY, LONG ISLAND
Late Friday afternoon
Erwin exited the Long Island Expressway and headed to Colby. “About twenty-five thousand people live here, mostly retirees in houses too big for them. And about as many squirrels, ducking golf balls all over the golf courses. Good place for a safe house.”
Giusti said, “The house is at the end of a long block. It’s quiet and private, an easy perimeter. And yes, lots of squirrels.”
“And too many oaks and maples,” Erwin said. “I could get to someone in that house, no problem.”
“Yeah, so you’ve told us, Pip. But you’d have to find us first and have feet as light as those squirrels.” She turned to Sherlock and Cal. “Pip thinks he can walk in a room without anyone hearing him. What does your wife say about that?”
“All June ever said was she’d never cheat on me, not worth the risk of getting caught. Really, Kelly, I’m only saying there are too many spots for snipers in those trees. We can’t cover them all. If we lose Conklin, that’s how it’ll happen.”
“Everyone knows that, Pip. We have to deal with the site we have until they move us again, which will be soon. Nasim’s safer here than in federal lockup, without a doubt. No one followed us here, you and I made sure of that. Not that anyone would have known to follow us, in any case.”
They pulled to a stop at the curb of an out-of-the-way 1960s clapboard house at the end of a cul-de-sac. It was a weathered gray that needed serious touch-ups and maybe a new roof. It looked passable for the neighborhood, though barely, and didn’t call attention to itself. A fence enclosed the property, about six feet high, and Cal wagered it was alarmed, maybe electrified. Would anyone wonder about seeing a fence like that around such an ordinary, nondescript house?
Pip Erwin was right to worry about all the oaks and thick maples—not those on the property, where they’d been cleared near the house, but on the lots around it. The house windows were mostly small, at least, their curtains pulled. A deep porch surrounded the house, no doubt alarmed. Cal knew there had to be cameras discreetly placed, as well as motion sensors and listening devices. He wondered how often squirrels and rabbits tripped the alarms and made the agents inside skip a heartbeat or, worse, get complacent about them. Giusti was right, though. It would be difficult to get past them all. And only a few people could possibly know Conklin was here.
Giusti’s cell rang out the theme from Star Wars. Cal perked up, pleased at that bit of whimsy from Ms. Commandant.
She answered and spoke low. “Four of us, Pip and me and Agents Sherlock and McLain up from Washington. No sign of pursuit coming out of the city. Pip stopped off for sandwiches to make sure.”
And here Cal had believed hunger the motive for the stop for sandwiches. It was standard procedure.
A buzzer sounded and a discreet gate swung open. Erwin drove the SUV through with inches to spare on each side and stopped behind an old Chevy, beige and boring, not too new and not too old. Cal didn’t see a single agent. Good.
An agent opened the front door, came out to stand on the porch. He wore jeans and a Kevlar vest over a white T-shirt, an open shirt on top, a Glock held at his side. He shook hands, introduced himself as Elliott Travers.
He showed them inside the small house, closing and locking the door behind them. Before he said anything else, he walked to a front window, pulled back the dark curtains an inch, and looked out. He stepped back, nodded to Giusti, and called out, “Jo, no worries. All clear.”
A female agent wearing jeans and a blue Giants sweatshirt, doubtless with a vest beneath it, strolled into the living room, nodded to Erwin and Giusti. She was about Pip’s age, fit, with salt-and-pepper hair and shining blue eyes. Cal could imagine her cheering at the top of her lungs at a Giants game. “Back’s clear.” She smiled at Cal and Sherlock. “Welcome to our humble abode. I’m Jo Hoag.” She stuck out her hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Agent Sherlock. What you did at JFK—you made all of us in law enforcement proud. Kelly told you Nasim will only speak to you. He won’t tell us why, keeps repeating he wants to speak to the redheaded agent from JFK. You’d think you’d be the last person he’d ever want to see after what you did to him.”
She turned as another agent who looked to be in his forties and built like a fireplug walked into the room. “And this is Arlo.”
Agent Arlo Crocker stuck out his hand, shook theirs. “I thought we could talk him around, but no, he insists it has to be you, Agent Sherlock. You guys want some iced tea before Sherlock has a go at him?”