1999
“You have to talk to him, Uncle Harold. You can make him understand how important this is. I mean, this is my whole life here. This is a huge deal.”
Harold regarded the young man calmly. “I don’t think it’s quite that crucial, Will.”
“Every other boy in my class has his own car.”
“Every other boy in your class didn’t total a car while he still had his learner’s permit,” Harold pointed out.
“It wasn’t my fault. The road was icy.”
“And you were driving too fast.”
Will looked exasperated. “Whose side are you on, Uncle Harold?”
Harold smiled gently. “What’s her name, Will?”
“This isn’t about a girl!” the teenager sputtered. “God. You always think you know everything. And what if I told you it was a boy, anyhow? What would you say then?”
“The same thing I’d say about a girl,” Harold answered mildly, “only with different pronouns. If he or she is basing his or her decision about dating you on what kind of car you own, he or she is not worth your time.”
Will stared at him. Finally, his expression softened. “Susie,” he admitted. “Her name’s Susie.”
“Ahh.”
“You really don’t care, do you? I mean, if I’d said Sam instead, it wouldn’t matter to you.”
“Not at all.”
“My dad’s head would explode.”
“Yes.” Harold nodded seriously. “And then he would get over it. He loves you, Will.” The young man made a face. “And he won’t buy you a car because he doesn’t want you to die behind the wheel of a car, particularly a car that he bought for you.”
“I’d be really careful, Uncle Harold. I know I totaled the Lincoln, but I’m older now. More experienced. I swear …”
“I’ll talk to him,” Harold finally relented. “But give me some time. And in the meantime, take this.” He gave the teen a business card.
“A car service?” Will protested. “I don’t want a car service, I want my own car.”
“Use the service for now. My treat.”
“Uncle Harold …”
“Consider the advantages, Will.”
“There are no advantages ...”
“You don’t have to buy gas. You don’t have to worry about parking. And there are so many things you can do in a car with a young lady when you don’t have to keep your eyes on the road.”
Will stared at him with his mouth open. Then he laughed. “Uncle Harold …”
“I was your age once, Will.”
“Were you really?”
“No,” Harold admitted, “I was never seventeen. But that’s not the point. Use the car service.” He reached into his jacket pocket and brought out a narrow strip of aluminum packets. “And use these.”
The teenager blushed until his face was solid red. “Uncle Harold …” he started.
“Please,” Harold insisted, unperturbed. “Your father would kill both of us.”
Will looked away, but he reached out and took the condoms. “Yeah. He would.” He tucked the strip into his jacket. “You’ll talk to him? About the car?”
“I’ll see what I can do,” Harold promised. “But it would help if you stayed out of trouble while I try to convince him.”
“I’ll try.”
“Try hard.” Harold gave the young man a brief hug. “Go on. Go call your girl.”
As soon as Will was gone, Harold reached for his phone. “Nathan, you need to buy your son a car.”
Ingram sounded exasperated. “He came to you?”
“Dad said no. Of course he came to me.”
“Harold …”
“He wanted to know if I knew of a good car service.”
“He … what?”
“He seems to think that if he doesn’t have to keep his hands on the wheel, his dates with Susie can be a lot more interesting.”
“Susie,” Ingram snorted. “Is that her name?”
“I told him to buy condoms,” Harold contributed.
There was a moment of silence. “Damn it, Harold, whose side are you on?”
Harold laughed out loud. “Just trying to help, Nathan.”
“Don’t help me, Harold. Please. Don’t help me.”
_____________________________________________________________________________
2012
Finch made his way back to the library. A quick check told him that his facial recognition program still had not identified the man that Julie Essex had taken a picture of. It probably never would; despite all the filtering he could do, the computer simply didn’t have enough data points to work with.
He turned his attention to his second search. At a 100% match, the computer search had turned up Julie Essex herself, in various photos, all of which Finch had already found elsewhere. Nothing was more than a year or two old, and nothing led him to her history prior to her marriage. The broken nose, he knew, was impeding the search. If there were photos of her out in the ether, they were from before the break and the computer wasn’t recognizing her as the same person, even after adjusting for age.
At an 80% match he turned up far too many close matches. He moved the percentage up slowly, narrowing the field with every search. It ran much faster, of course, once he’d narrowed the field down from eight million.
He worked through percentage matches, and then he worked through fractions of percentages. The number of potential matches came down nicely. And then it stuck stubbornly at 93 and refused to drop any more, until he made the percentage so high that he was back to just their girl again.
Finch scowled at the data. It was wrong, somehow. An anomaly. No one had that many close relatives, that strong a genotype. There shouldn’t have been more than about two dozen. Something was wrong with the program. But it was his program, and of course there was nothing wrong with it.
He stood up and walked to the board. Glanced over the picture of Julie Essex, the glowing letters her previous clients had sent to her supervisors. He wondered if Will would ever be un-angry enough to write such a letter. Maybe he should write one himself, Harold thought. But he immediately shied away from any correspondence with the government “ from any of his identities “ that wasn’t absolutely necessary. A year from now, he’d suggest it to Will.
If the girl was still alive.
He was missing something. Something important, and he was beginning to think something obvious.
Finch shook his head and went back to his computer.
_____________________________________________________________________________
Will Ingram’s gambling buddies dropped him off at his hotel without incident. Reese watched him go in; the young man seemed remarkably cheerful, for someone who’d just lost several thousand dollars. Well, it wasn’t like he’d miss any meals because of it. As long as Will didn’t take it personally, John could think of worse vices.
Reese didn’t really mind having to be rescued by Finch. That had happened often enough that it was becoming routine, and though he wasn’t keeping score, he’d rescued Finch a lot more often. But having a State Department agent get the drop on him “ that stung a little. She was right, in a way; there was a certain condescending viewpoint built into every CIA agent, and he hadn’t shed his as much as he’d thought he had. He didn’t have any particular grudge against her. But he did have a little ego bruise that needed soothing.
So when Ingram’s cheating gambling pals stopped at a light right in front of him, in a classic sky-blue GTO with straight pipes, top down and the radio blaring, he couldn’t help himself and he didn’t try. He stepped off the curb and pointed his gun at the passenger’s head.
The man said, “What the f””
“Shut up,” Reese said, “and give me all your money.”
“What?”
“Money. Now. Both of you.”
“Screw you, man,” the drive said.
“You can drive away,” Reese said calmly, “but I guarantee you’ll be wearing your friend’s brains if you do.”
“Give him the money!” the passenger shrieked.
“Listen to your friend,” Reese advised.
There was some grumbling, but the driver finally reached into his pocket and handed over a stack of bills.
“Now you,” Reese said to the passenger.
“I … I … don’t have any.”
“You have half. It won’t do you any good with a hole in your head.”
The man swore, but he gave up the money.
“Thank you, gentlemen.” Reese stepped back from the car and put the money in his jacket.
The car squealed through the light, very narrowly avoiding an oncoming car, and vanished.
Reese put his gun away, strolled back toward the hotels, and touched his earwig.
_____________________________________________________________________________
“Where are you, Mr. Reese?” Finch asked.
“Back in the park,” Reese answered. “Ingram’s back at his hotel.”
“And Miss Essex followed him, I presume.”
“Yes.” Reese sounded puzzled. “But she’s going into the lobby.”
“Of his hotel? Why?” Finch wondered.
“I don’t know. She didn’t make any effort to catch up to Ingram.” They both listened through her cell phone while the woman checked in. She requested, and got, a particular room number“ the room next to Will’s. “She wants to keep a closer watch on him,” Reese mused.
“Isn’t that dangerous?” Finch replied. “If she’s right next door, he’s very likely to see her.”
“Unless it’s not for her.”
While he waited, Finch opened the list of the 93 close matches and sorted them alphabetically.
After a moment his partner’s voice returned. “She’s coming back out, Finch.”
“Keep your distance, Mr. Reese. I don’t imagine she’ll be pleased to see you a second time tonight.”
“Probably not. But at least I could give her handcuffs back.”
The young woman made a phone call. Finch put a trace on the number the instant she finished dialing. “She’s calling a … motorcycle repair shop,” he told Reese, puzzled
A gravel-voice man answered on the sixth ring. “Yeah?”
“Hey, Vince. Julie Essex. I’m sorry to wake you.”
“No problem. How you been?”
“I’m okay. You still got guys up for a little freelance work?”
“Sure. How many you need?”
“Two at a time. Handguns. Closed tail, twenty-four seven. Probably just for the next day or two.”
“Not a problem. Starting when?”
“As soon as you can get here.”
“Where’s here?”
“Central Park, across from the Mandarin.”
“Half an hour.”
“Thanks, Vince.”
As the call ended, Finch said, “Vincent Mauer. Owner of West Side Cycles. Vietnam veteran. And apparently, freelance security.” He adjusted his glasses. “You’ve frightened the young lady, Mr. Reese.”
“I tried to be friendly, Finch. If she’s spooked, why’s she going private? Why doesn’t she just call her handler?”
“She didn’t seem very happy with him earlier. And he didn’t seem convinced that Will was still in danger.”
“She can’t tell him that she’s being followed without telling him that I’m the one following her,” Reese contributed. “She doesn’t trust me, but she’s not willing to give me up. Complicated girl, Finch.”
“Yes.”
“She’s going to an ATM. Mandarin lobby.”
“On it,” Finch said. He identified the bank easily; cracking it would take a few minutes. “I tried to track the source of Mr. Kemp’s prime rib. It’s being sent from a local butcher who, sadly, keeps all his records on butcher paper. But it’s paid for with a corporate credit card. The company is called Cambria Electric.”
“Is that another State cover?” Reese asked.
“No. It’s a whole-owned subsidiary of …” Finch stopped, his eyes drawn to his most active screen. “Mr. Reese, Miss Essex has just withdrawn five thousand dollars from that ATM on a credit card.”
Reese whistled. “Got to be a pretty special card to pull that kind of cash.”
“It is.” He traced it. It was still in the name of Julie Essex. “It’s linked to a very low-activity account “ with a balance of over a hundred thousand dollars.”
“Tough to save that much on a State Department salary.”
“Next to impossible, I’d say.” Finch stabbed at his keyboard, opened his sorted list of near-matches. Many of the names produced were single hits. But sorted alphabetically, it was easy to see that one surname accounted for more than a third of the images. They were all related.
Finch sat back, feeling deeply satisfied with himself. “Cambria Electric is a whole-owned subsidiary of Carson Avionics.”
“Okay,” Reese said. “So what?”
“Carson Avionics,” Finch repeated. “Affiliated with Carson Oil. Carson Defense. Carson Aerospace.” He leaned forward again and swiftly entered a new search.
“And a thousand other Carson enterprises,” Reese said. “I know. Do you own them, Finch?”
“No. Well, I own stock in a number of them, but no controlling interests. Those are held by Robert Carson, Junior, mainly, and members of his immediate “ and very large “ family.” The search return came up and he nodded at it. “The youngest of Mr. Carson’s fourteen children is named Julie.”
Reese got it. “Julie Carson. Julie Carson.”
“I think we have learned two very important things tonight, Mr. Reese. Ms. Essex is indeed deeply devoted to Will Ingram’s well-being. And it’s certainly not because she’s after his money.”
“She’s worth as much as he is.”
“Potentially, I suppose. Although her father’s estate will presumably be spread over a great many heirs. In any case, the young lady is certainly comfortably set for life.”
“That opens a whole can of worms, Finch. Or suspects, rather.”
“I know.” Finch frowned at his monitor. “Although … the Machine alerted on her State Department identity.”
“Which she dropped almost as soon as she got her,” Reese argued. “I don’t know what that means, Finch.”
“Nor do I, I’m afraid. Her family name is a very closely-held secret, for obvious reasons.”
“The same reasons that they want Ingram to use a false identity. With his own name, anybody looking for a fast buck looks at him as a target.”
Finch nodded. “She’s actually done exactly what she encouraged Will “ through me, as a proxy “ to do. Change your name, hide your connections, and you eliminate the restrictions that your family’s wealth imposes on you. You can do whatever you want. If anyone knew her real identity, she’d be as vulnerable as he is.”
“Obviously someone does know her real identity,” Reese countered. “Family members might be aware of her cover identity. Her parents, anyhow. They’ve been in contact with her handler.”
“And desperate to get her home,” Finch agreed. “Although that may suggest they’re trying to protect her, rather than harm her.”
“No,” Reese said slowly. “The Carsons have the same financial resources you do.”
Finch snorted. “They wish.”
“If they had credible evidence that the girl was in danger …”
“... they’d do what I’d do,” Finch finished for him. “Put a very skilled team around her to protect her, regardless of her protests.”
“Or throw her in a bag and take her home.”
“So either they don’t know about the threat, or they are the threat.”
“Maybe another family member? Someone else who might have access to her identity?
“Possibly,” Finch agreed. “Although …” He stopped, clearly aggravated.
“Finch?”
Instead of a reply, Reese heard a tone on his phone. He brought it out and glanced at the picture. It was a group of people, probably a hundred of them, posed on risers. It could have been a class picture, except that the people were of all different ages, from early seventies to newborns. “Family reunion?” he guessed.
“Yes. And that’s not all of them.”
Reese scanned the picture. There were no blondes in it; the Carsons were uniformly brown haired and brown eyed. “I don’t see Julie.”
“I don’t think she’s there. Although I’m sure she’s not a natural blonde.” Finch sighed. “I don’t have time to sort all these people out.”
“You need an expert,” Reese suggested immediately. “Someone who knows all the secrets of high society families.”
“Yes,” Finch agreed. “Fortunately, we know one.”
_____________________________________________________________________________
When her freelance security men arrived, Julie Essex showed them a picture of Ingram, of Reese, and of the blond man in the car. “This is the one you’re protecting,” she explained, in order. “This one is dangerous as hell, but I’m not sure he’s after Ingram. If he turns up, just call the police, tell them they have a BOLO on him, and let them handle it. Don’t engage him if you can avoid it. And this guy “ I don’t know who the hell he is, but if he shows, I’d like to talk to him. And I don’t care if he’s a little banged up when that happens. He’s the one that’s keeping me awake right now.”
She gave them the cash, her phone number, and the door key for the room next to Will’s.
Then she went back to her own hotel room. Reese kept watch on her through the candy box camera. Or, rather, he watched her ankles. She put her feet up on the coffee table next to the box and watched bad television for the rest of the night. She might have dozed off, sitting there on the couch, but she didn’t go back to bed.
Reese felt vaguely guilty for contributing to her sleepless night. But then, he reflected, he wasn’t getting any sleep, either. And he didn’t have a comfortable couch to sit on.
_____________________________________________________________________________
At six the next morning, Julie Essex called room service and ordered breakfast “ carb-light, protein-heavy “ to be delivered at seven-thirty. Then, as Finch was able to verify from the hotel’s security cameras, she went for a long swim.
By eight-fifteen, she was showered, dressed, fed and waiting in the lobby for Kemp. She placed another phone call to the Washington number. “Crack of dawn technical services,” a sleepy woman answered.
“Sun’s been up for hours,” Julie said cheerfully. “You’ve got to get out of your cave more.”
“Fiery ball of death in sky. No like, no like!”
“Catch your monster yet?”
“Just about. They know where to look, anyhow.”
“Good luck.”
“Thanks.” The woman sounded more awake as the conversation went on. “You want to know about your guy in the picture.”
“Yes, please.”
“I’m sorry, Jules, but I got nothing. I tried every enhancement, pixilation, filter “ every trick in my considerable toolbox. Nothing. You got to get me a better picture.”
“I figured that.”
“Sorry.”
“Don’t be. I appreciate your trying. I know if you couldn’t get it, no one can. Thanks for your time.”
“We still on for storming Broadway?”
“You know it. Just tell me when.”
Julie disconnected the call. Then she dialed another number.
“Evans,” a man snapped.
“Essex,” she answered briskly. “Anything new?”
“Kid’s still asleep.”
“Good. Call me if you need me.”
“Will do.”
The woman put her phone away and stepped outside the hotel. She stood for a minute with her eyes closed and her face to the sun. Then she looked around slowly, right to left and the back to the right. Reese made sure he slid into the shadow of a tree before her gaze got to him. But she paused right there anyhow, as if she could sense him.
Lizard brain, Reese thought. Instinct. Some people had more than others. This girl had it in spades. And she’d learned to trust it. Will Ingram really did need someone like her beside him. Harold’s not-really-nephew had a lot of admirable qualities, as the girl had pointed out, but survival instinct wasn’t one of them.
Julie finally looked somewhere else. Reese stayed perfectly still. A few minutes later her handler, Joe Kemp, arrived. She got into his car cheerfully. The friction from the previous day had apparently been forgotten.
Reese wasn’t sure what prompted him to follow her. Lizard brain of his own, he supposed. In any case, he didn’t argue. He went after them.
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