“Good morning, sir. I’m special agent Mary Sullivan. This is my partner, James Martin.”
“Is this really necessary on a Sunday morning?” the judge asked.
“I’m afraid it is, sir.”
The Federal Bureau of Investigation had a bead on one of its most wanted white-collar criminals, and years of searching had finally produced his whereabouts. Waiting for Monday morning and office hours and chambers time was not an option.
Judge Harris waved them both through the door. “Come on. Let’s see what you have. I’m leaving for church in an hour.”
Ten minutes later, the judge’s kitchen island was covered with the surveillance photos the agents had taken of the Lake Placid cabin, including a couple of long-range shots through the windows that captured the hazy figure inside. For thirty minutes the agents presented their evidence to the judge, who sipped coffee as he listened. They took him through the operation and brought the judge up to speed on the Bureau’s hunt for Garth Montgomery, and how they had, just this week, turned over the most damning evidence yet that convinced them the fugitive was hiding in the cabin featured in the photographs.
“Listen, Agent Sullivan,” Judge Harris said, “it’s a compelling case, and the Bureau should be applauded for the hard work it’s put in on this. But in order for me to sign off on a warrant, I’m going to need more than hazy photos of an unrecognizable figure in that cabin. I’ll need proof that it’s Garth Montgomery before I permit a SWAT team to crash through the front door.”
“We have it, sir,” Agent Sullivan said. “These”—she gestured at the photos on the kitchen island—“were just to show you that we’ve put in the legwork. This is our proof.”
Agent Sullivan removed her phone.
“Jim Oliver met with Claire Montgomery, Garth Montgomery’s daughter, on Friday afternoon. She provided us with proof that her father had attempted to contact her with a postcard that revealed his location. This was confirmed by a phone call she made to her father at the Lake Placid cabin. A call that she recorded herself and then delivered to the Bureau, on her own and without coercion.”
Agent Sullivan tapped her phone and Avery’s voice was heard.
Hello?
Dad? It’s me.
Claire?
Yes, it’s me.
You got the card. I knew you’d know what to do.
I have to see you, Dad. I don’t have a lot of time.
I’d love that. Where?
I’ll come to you. To the Lake Placid cabin. It’s safest that way.
When?
Sunday.
Okay.
Claire, I wanted to tell you— Not over the phone, Dad. Get off the landline. I’ll see you Sunday.
Okay.
Agent Sullivan stopped the recording. “We know Garth Montgomery is at that cabin, and we know he’s there today. Tomorrow, he might not be.”
Judge Harris put his coffee down and flicked his index finger at her.
“Give me the warrant. I’ll sign it.”
CHAPTER 64
New Orleans, LA Sunday, July 11, 2021
HE SAT AT AN OUTDOOR CAFé AND WAITED. THE LAST TWO DAYS HAD been filled with movement—hurrying, packing, and speeding along the dark highways. Now he waited, and it was driving him mad. The copious amounts of caffeine and taurine surging through his veins from the energy drinks were not helping.
A dozen round tables occupied the outdoor courtyard next to the cruise terminal. He wore sunglasses that hid his bloodshot eyes as he scanned the crowd. He had been careful over the years to trust only a select few people, in whose hands he was comfortable placing his life. But that had all changed in the last forty-eight hours. He waited this morning on a stranger—a woman he had never met, but whose presence was vital to the next leg of an impossible journey that began years ago.
He wore casual slacks and a collared button-down under his baby blue sport coat. Deck shoes covered his feet. No socks. He looked the part. The waitress approached and offered to refill his coffee. He accepted, but asked for decaf. He was wired enough. He checked his watch. Boarding would start in ten minutes. He looked around the café as his forehead beaded with perspiration. The chair across from him rattled across the pavement as it was pulled away from the table. A woman sat down casually.
“Meghan?” the man asked.
Meghan Cobb’s face stayed expressionless. She nodded.
The man sat back in his chair and dropped his head in relief. “Thank God. I thought we missed each other.”
“No, I was just doing what I was told to make sure no one was following me.”
“And?”
“How the hell am I supposed to know? I’m a goddamn interior decorator. This whole thing was sprung on me two days ago.”
“Okay, I’m sorry,” the man said. “I’ve been here for an hour. I think we’re fine.” He looked at the dock. “They’re starting to board. We better get going.”
He dropped cash onto the table to pay his breakfast bill, then they both stood and walked toward the giant cruise ship. Meghan took his hand as they joined the line of passengers waiting to board.
CHAPTER 65
Manhattan, NY Sunday, July 11, 2021
THE CABIN, JIM OLIVER HAD LEARNED DURING HIS MEETING WITH Claire Montgomery, was owned by Annabelle Gray, a cousin-in-law once removed from Garth Montgomery. The lineage was not difficult to follow once it stared him in the face. Garth Montgomery’s brother was married to a woman whose uncle had owned the Lake Placid cabin located at 777 Stonybrook Circle. The uncle died years ago and willed the property to his daughter—Annabelle Gray, the cousin of Garth Montgomery’s sister-in-law. The hours-long interview Claire Montgomery had given on Friday night revealed that Annabelle Gray was called “Ma Bell” by the Montgomery children. Her cabin had been an end-of-summer destination for the Montgomery clan.
Confirmation that Garth Montgomery was, indeed, the cabin’s current occupant came from the recorded phone conversation Claire had provided to the FBI. It was priceless. If a warrant were going to be granted, the recording—in addition to Claire Montgomery’s cooperation—would be what made it happen.
The call came through at 9:00 a.m. Sunday morning.
“Oliver,” he said into the phone.
“We got it,” Agent Sullivan said.
“No shit?”
“Judge Harris signed it while wearing his pajamas and slippers as he sipped coffee at his kitchen table. We’re on our way now.”
“How long?”
“Ten minutes.”
Jim Oliver had his team on standby. They waited only on the warrant. He placed the call to set them in motion. It would take four hours to get out to the Lake Placid cabin. In the meantime, since Thursday morning, agents had been dispatched to the hiking trails around the cabin. Their job had changed from surveillance to security. Their objective now was to make sure Garth Montgomery did not leave the cabin.
Thirty minutes later, Jim Oliver and his team were en route. A caravan of SUVs tore out of Manhattan and headed to the mountains of Lake Placid. His phone rang again.
“Oliver.”
“Sir,” the agent said. “We have a visual on the cabin and confirmation of a single occupant inside.”
“Hold tight,” Oliver said. “We’re on the way. No one leaves that cabin, understood?”