Exposed (45 page)

North Platte, Nebraska

Patsy Kowak couldn’t believe it. She fingered the envelope left for her in the middle of the kitchen table, its contents half sticking out: two first-class airline tickets to Cleveland, Ohio. She had found them waiting for her this morning when she sat down to have her coffee.

“I booked us a room at the Hyatt Regency,” Ward said from behind her. She hadn’t heard him come into the room. “That’s where you said you wanted to stay, right?”

“I said it. I didn’t think you heard it.”

“I listen to you.” He poured himself a cup of coffee and sat down across from her. He never took time out to sit and drink coffee. His usually went into a thermos to-go mug and out the door with him.

“These tickets are for Wednesday,” Patsy said, tapping them against the tabletop as if she still didn’t believe they were real.

“Yeah, well, we have a layover in Atlanta. It’ll take us most of the day to get there. I thought we could have all day Thursday to ourselves, to sit back and enjoy. Relax.”

She raised her eyebrow at him. “You sure you know how?”

“What? Relax? I think I can figure it out. Lee and Betty offered to look after things.”

She held up the first-class tickets. “Whatever got into you? Last time we talked you didn’t even want to go.”

“I realized how much it means to you.”

“But not to you?” She was disappointed in his answer. He noticed. Thirty-two years of marriage, how could he not notice.

“I don’t agree with Conrad’s choices,” he said, avoiding her eyes and staring into his coffee as though it held the correct answer. “I might not agree but he’s still my son.”

She reached across the table and put her hand over his callused one. He wasn’t much for shows of affection and quickly found a way to change the subject.

“Go get yourself one of those manicures,” he said, taking her hand in his and pretending it was only to examine it. “You work hard around here. Treat yourself.”

Her hands were an embarrassment, dry and red skin, raw gouges where she’d cut the cuticles too deeply. Yes, she’d treat herself.

She knew Ward would come around. Her husband was a good man. A good father. Patsy was so pleased, she had almost forgotten about getting out of bed earlier with a headache and a backache. All she had to do was stand up for an instant reminder. Her head throbbed with a thousand little hammers beating behind her brow. She cupped the palm of her hand over her forehead. A bit of a fever, too. She couldn’t come down with the flu now. In two days she’d be traveling to her son’s wedding. She refused to get sick.

She glanced at the wall clock, picked up the phone and dialed from memory.

“Conrad Kovak’s office.” The woman’s voice was abrupt in a way that discouraged callers from even responding. Patsy wondered if she should say something to Conrad.

“Is Conrad in?”

“Mr. Kovak will be in meetings all morning.”

“This is his mother.”

Patsy waited. With Conrad’s previous assistant, it made a difference. If Conrad really wasn’t in a meeting Renae would put the call through when she learned it was Patsy. With this assistant it obviously made no difference.

After a long pause the woman asked, “Do you want to leave a message?”

“Yes, I suppose so,” Patsy said, getting ready to tell her to have Conrad call later, but there was a click and buzz and suddenly another voice telling her to leave a message after the tone. The assistant had sent her on to voice messaging, something Renae would never have done.

“Conrad, it’s Mom. Just wanted to let you know we’ll be leaving for Cleveland on Wednesday. Your dad bought first-class tickets for us. And he did it all on his own. I didn’t even tell him about the money you sent. Call me later, sweetie.”

Patsy hung up the phone. Now she needed to take something so she didn’t end up with the flu.

Newburgh Heights, Virginia

Maggie left Benjamin Platt asleep in her spare bedroom. Satisfied with a couple hours of sleep and anxious to get back to her regular life, Maggie had put on a long-sleeve T-shirt, shorts and running shoes. She grabbed her cell phone and keys and set out for her morning run. She felt as if she needed to make up for lost time. That’s what she told herself when she launched into mile number two, but the tightness in her calves and the ache in her chest made her reduce her run to a brisk walk. Her lungs breathed in the crisp air, greedy like they’d been deprived for weeks.

She’d forgotten how wonderful a blue sky looked, scrubbed clean after the rain. A flock of geese honked overhead. The beagle up the street had already started baying, anticipating her approach. He’d be disappointed to discover Harvey not with her. Gold and orange mums competed in neighboring yards with purple ash trees and fiery-red bushes. Someone was serving bacon for breakfast.

It sounded like such a bad cliché but it was as if all of her senses had suddenly started firing again after a long stretch of paralysis. Even her daily routine seemed fresh. She had convinced herself to think positively. The virus hadn’t shown up yet in her blood. Maybe she could stop it.

But she couldn’t stop thinking about Cunningham. Her mind played over the details like a loop in her brain. Several things nagged at her but she couldn’t figure out why. She had awakened with the answer to one of the puzzle pieces, the answer so crystal clear she couldn’t believe she hadn’t seen it earlier. But she wasn’t sure it mattered. So what if this killer was an expert in crime trivia? Maybe the puzzle piece meant something. Maybe not. He could just be showing off.

She glanced at her watch and pulled out her cell phone.

He picked up quicker than she expected. “This is Agent Tully.”

“It’s Maggie.”

“My caller ID says they gave you back your cell phone.”

“Yes, and I’m back home.”

Silence. It lasted so long she thought she had lost the connection.

“They let you out?”

The way he said it made her smile. Was he really worried she had escaped without anyone knowing?

“Colonel Platt drove me home early this morning.” She thought she heard a sigh of relief. “Listen, I think I solved another one of the puzzle pieces. ‘Call Nathan.’ You said it was a blind impression left on the envelope?”

“That’s right.”

“I think it was in 1993. I’m not sure about that date. But the FBI offered a million-dollar reward for any information regarding someone named Nathan R. in connection to the Unabomber.”

“Okay, that’s starting to sound familiar.”

“There was an impression found on a letter the Unabomber sent to the
New York Times.
They thought he had slipped, that maybe he had written a note to himself on a piece of paper on top of the letter and it pressed through without him knowing. If I’m remembering correctly it read, ‘Call Nathan R. 7:00 p.m.’”

Maggie noticed a car up the street slow down, stop where there was no stop sign and continue up the street. This wasn’t a neighborhood with idle traffic. She decided to turn around and head back toward her house.

“I’m looking it up on the computer,” Tully said.

“It ended up being a mistake. I think it was an editor or someone else at the
Times.
He wrote himself a note on top of the letter before he realized the significance of the letter. It was his note that pressed through onto the Unabomber’s letter.”

“So it meant nothing,” Tully said. “And it means nothing in this Ebola case. Except that this guy is jerking us around.”

“It could be that law-enforcement officers in general are his target and the victims are just convenient pieces to his puzzle.”

“Could be.” The tone in his voice said otherwise.

“What is it?” She knew there was something.

“My ex-wife got a package in the mail this morning. Block-style lettering. A plastic Ziploc bag inside. The return address was mine.”

“Jesus, Tully. Please tell me she didn’t open the plastic bag.”

“No, she didn’t. I don’t know if this is something or just a cruel coincidence.”

“It’s not a coincidence. What’s inside the bag?”

“She said it looks like a stack of ten-dollar bills.”

Maggie winced. Could it be that easy? That simple to get someone to open a bag of Ebola without hesitating. She saw the car again. She was still about two blocks from her house.

“This thing with ‘Call Nathan R.’ Tully, George Sloane should have recognized it.”

“Yeah, the Beltway Sniper phrase, too. He was in a hurry that day. Impatient. He didn’t like that he had to work with me and not Cunningham.”

“I think we need to talk to Sloane again. Show him the note one more time. See if we can get a copy faxed to us of the mailing envelope the killer sent to the Kellermans.”

“Sure. If you think it’ll help.”

“Do you have any information on Chicago?”

“Ganza’s calling someone at the CDC.”

“I’ll call Sloane. See if he can meet with us. And Tully, one thing you really need to consider. Cunningham may have been right about this being personal. It just may be you, not him.”

“I’ve already thought about that.”

She could hear the car coming up behind her.

“Gotta go. I’ll talk to you later.”

Before she snapped her phone closed she heard the engine slow.

“Hey, lady. It’s about time you get home.”

Maggie turned to find Nick Morrelli in the driver’s seat of a dark blue sedan.

Newburgh Heights, Virginia

Maggie left Benjamin Platt asleep in her spare bedroom. Satisfied with a couple hours of sleep and anxious to get back to her regular life, Maggie had put on a long-sleeve T-shirt, shorts and running shoes. She grabbed her cell phone and keys and set out for her morning run. She felt as if she needed to make up for lost time. That’s what she told herself when she launched into mile number two, but the tightness in her calves and the ache in her chest made her reduce her run to a brisk walk. Her lungs breathed in the crisp air, greedy like they’d been deprived for weeks.

She’d forgotten how wonderful a blue sky looked, scrubbed clean after the rain. A flock of geese honked overhead. The beagle up the street had already started baying, anticipating her approach. He’d be disappointed to discover Harvey not with her. Gold and orange mums competed in neighboring yards with purple ash trees and fiery-red bushes. Someone was serving bacon for breakfast.

It sounded like such a bad cliché but it was as if all of her senses had suddenly started firing again after a long stretch of paralysis. Even her daily routine seemed fresh. She had convinced herself to think positively. The virus hadn’t shown up yet in her blood. Maybe she could stop it.

But she couldn’t stop thinking about Cunningham. Her mind played over the details like a loop in her brain. Several things nagged at her but she couldn’t figure out why. She had awakened with the answer to one of the puzzle pieces, the answer so crystal clear she couldn’t believe she hadn’t seen it earlier. But she wasn’t sure it mattered. So what if this killer was an expert in crime trivia? Maybe the puzzle piece meant something. Maybe not. He could just be showing off.

She glanced at her watch and pulled out her cell phone.

He picked up quicker than she expected. “This is Agent Tully.”

“It’s Maggie.”

“My caller ID says they gave you back your cell phone.”

“Yes, and I’m back home.”

Silence. It lasted so long she thought she had lost the connection.

“They let you out?”

The way he said it made her smile. Was he really worried she had escaped without anyone knowing?

“Colonel Platt drove me home early this morning.” She thought she heard a sigh of relief. “Listen, I think I solved another one of the puzzle pieces. ‘Call Nathan.’ You said it was a blind impression left on the envelope?”

“That’s right.”

“I think it was in 1993. I’m not sure about that date. But the FBI offered a million-dollar reward for any information regarding someone named Nathan R. in connection to the Unabomber.”

“Okay, that’s starting to sound familiar.”

“There was an impression found on a letter the Unabomber sent to the
New York Times.
They thought he had slipped, that maybe he had written a note to himself on a piece of paper on top of the letter and it pressed through without him knowing. If I’m remembering correctly it read, ‘Call Nathan R. 7:00 p.m.’”

Maggie noticed a car up the street slow down, stop where there was no stop sign and continue up the street. This wasn’t a neighborhood with idle traffic. She decided to turn around and head back toward her house.

“I’m looking it up on the computer,” Tully said.

“It ended up being a mistake. I think it was an editor or someone else at the
Times.
He wrote himself a note on top of the letter before he realized the significance of the letter. It was his note that pressed through onto the Unabomber’s letter.”

“So it meant nothing,” Tully said. “And it means nothing in this Ebola case. Except that this guy is jerking us around.”

“It could be that law-enforcement officers in general are his target and the victims are just convenient pieces to his puzzle.”

“Could be.” The tone in his voice said otherwise.

“What is it?” She knew there was something.

“My ex-wife got a package in the mail this morning. Block-style lettering. A plastic Ziploc bag inside. The return address was mine.”

“Jesus, Tully. Please tell me she didn’t open the plastic bag.”

“No, she didn’t. I don’t know if this is something or just a cruel coincidence.”

“It’s not a coincidence. What’s inside the bag?”

“She said it looks like a stack of ten-dollar bills.”

Maggie winced. Could it be that easy? That simple to get someone to open a bag of Ebola without hesitating. She saw the car again. She was still about two blocks from her house.

“This thing with ‘Call Nathan R.’ Tully, George Sloane should have recognized it.”

“Yeah, the Beltway Sniper phrase, too. He was in a hurry that day. Impatient. He didn’t like that he had to work with me and not Cunningham.”

“I think we need to talk to Sloane again. Show him the note one more time. See if we can get a copy faxed to us of the mailing envelope the killer sent to the Kellermans.”

“Sure. If you think it’ll help.”

“Do you have any information on Chicago?”

“Ganza’s calling someone at the CDC.”

“I’ll call Sloane. See if he can meet with us. And Tully, one thing you really need to consider. Cunningham may have been right about this being personal. It just may be you, not him.”

“I’ve already thought about that.”

She could hear the car coming up behind her.

“Gotta go. I’ll talk to you later.”

Before she snapped her phone closed she heard the engine slow.

“Hey, lady. It’s about time you get home.”

Maggie turned to find Nick Morrelli in the driver’s seat of a dark blue sedan.