“Hey, honey.”
A pause.
“What do you mean someone is in the house?”
I stiffened. Who knew I was here? Del Luca? But how? I searched the walls and ceiling corners for security cameras but didn’t spot anything. There were no alarm beeps when I’d entered. How would anyone know I was inside? But if this guy was CIA, I supposed he could have other resources providing security. I felt the panic inside me start to run wild. I had to get out right now.
“You got an alert on your phone?” I heard Gloria say. “I don’t hear anything in the house.” A pause. “Yes, I’ll go look around.”
Staying perfectly still, I listened closely to see which direction Gloria chose to go first. I heard her say “I am hurrying” from the living room. I moved to my left, opposite from Gloria, stepped farther down the hallway, and slipped inside the kitchen just as she entered the same hallway where I’d been hiding. Wasting little time in the kitchen, I quickly moved to the back door, cautiously opened it, and then darted outside. I was through the backyard gate and out onto the driveway a couple of seconds later. I noticed a white Honda Pilot now parked under the carport. Tucked in beside the neighbor’s fence, I carefully moved up the driveway toward the street. I didn’t take another breath until I was inside my rental car again and racing out of the neighborhood.
TWENTY-EIGHT
Thirty minutes later, I stood in the center courtyard of a glitzy four-story mall called Fashion Centre at Pentagon City, where Greta’s husband, Scott Malone, was scheduled to have a campaign event in a few minutes. There was a small stage set up in the middle of the courtyard with about ten rows of chairs. Campaign signs were posted everywhere, and already a crowd of about a hundred or so people had gathered. So far, I’d seen no trace of Scott or Greta Malone. They were probably off getting last-minute makeup and such done before stepping up on the small stage and pandering for votes. I was very eager to finally put real eyes on the mystery woman who had first entered into this equation by sending the text to Joe’s phone before I even knew he was dead.
I again thought about that text. Call me ASAP. I think we’ve been found out. Who was she talking about? Who had found them out? Mexican intelligence? A drug cartel? The CIA? Two of the people who had been in the bar at the Hay-Adams hotel the other day were now dead. Was Greta Malone in danger, too? I had no way of knowing without speaking with the woman. I sure as hell hoped she would be here today.
My phone buzzed in my pocket. I looked at the number calling me and recognized it as an El Paso area code. This got my attention. I had left a voice mail for a man named Blake Crosby a few hours ago. According to the Dallas Times Herald news article I’d found in the SMU archives, a man by that same name had been a technician at the small airfield the day the plane carrying Bruce and Daniel Gibson had crashed thirty-five years ago. I’d searched for the name in El Paso and happened to find someone who presented himself as a handyman and mechanic who—based off a picture in a cheap ad—looked like he was old enough to have been at the airfield on that day.
“This is Alex,” I said, answering the phone.
“Hey, did you call looking for a handyman?”
I hadn’t explained myself on the phone. “Is this Blake Crosby?”
“Yes, sir, at your service. What can I do for you?”
“I have a strange question for you, Mr. Crosby. Any chance you used to work at Burnett Airfield thirty-five years ago?”
“That is a strange question. But the answer is yes. How the heck did you know that?”
“I read an old newspaper story about a plane crash that killed two lawyers back when you used to work there. You were quoted in the story.”
“I’ll be damned. I do remember talking to a couple of reporters. But I never got a chance to read anything about it.”
“Do you remember much about the day that plane crashed?”
“Well, sure. Not every day you see a plane explode right in front of your eyes. It would’ve been pretty spectacular had it not been so damn tragic.”
“Where were you when you saw it happen?”
“You a reporter or something?”
“No, but I think I have a family connection to the two men who were killed.”
“Oh, I see. Well, I was over in a small hangar working on a prop plane. Looked up and watched a Cessna 152 that was just on the runway glide up into the air. Everything looked fine. Then all of a sudden, it just exploded. I mean, it was a real fireball. All of this debris just went everywhere.”