“Has he done anything illegal yet?” Shaw asked.
“Violated a restraining order.”
“Misdemeanor. But there’d be a technical warrant. Police have a stakeout on her house, right?”
“No. FPD staffing, remember? Part of the reason I hired you. And probably another reason the board didn’t ask too many questions. The system’s always cut Merritt some slack. He was a cop, areveredcop. A hero. He was almost killed saving his partner’s life.” The scowl was broad. “And there’s some bullshit feeling that Alli was too fast to press charges. Should’ve gotten him some help instead.”
Nilsson muttered, “Seriously? Patting the little lady on the head, saying, oh, it wasn’t so bad.”
“Merritt?” Shaw asked. “Any possible connection to the theft of the S.I.T.?”
Harmon’s shoulders fell. “First thing I thought of when I heard about what he had in mind. But I can’t see it. If he evenheardof the S.I.T., it would’ve been over a year ago. And he was in prison when LeClaire was contacted by our friends.
“Now, Mr. Shaw... Colter. I’m in a real bind here.” His sniper eyes were trained on Shaw’s. “Alli’s a friend. I’ve known her for years. But—okay, you’ve guessed it—I need her. She’s my senior engineer. She’s developing another product that’s got to be finished before we can launch. And there’ll be others after that.”
His muscles were taut and veins that had been invisible rose and darkened. “I called the FBI again and they don’t have jurisdiction, unless he crosses state lines. And we know how much the police are going to help.
“I don’t have anywhere else to turn.” A pause. “You do this for a living—finding people. Will you? Find Alli and Hannah and keep them safe until he’s back in prison?”
Shaw was thinking of his meeting with the woman, whose mind danced from idea to idea regarding the logistics of how a thief might make off with the components—a session interrupted at one point when her mobile buzzed and a smile appeared. She’d said, “Excuse me. It’s my daughter. I have to take this.” And had answered.
Shaw said, “Let me get my notebook and pen.”
20
The helpful neighbor had refused the twenty that Jon Merritt had offered for assisting with the tire, saying, “No, sir, no, sir, thank you for the offer but it’s the Christian thing to do. Pay it forward. Put it in the plate at church.”
He’d be assuming that Merritt attended; any man that didn’t cuss at a flat tire had to be religious.
The instant he put the tools away Merritt had jumped into the truck and took off in the direction Allison had vanished.
He was now fifteen miles out of Ferrington. Moving quickly at exactly the magic—that is, safe—six miles over the limit. The road he was on, Cross County Highway, had few motels, he knew from his days on the force, when he worked Vice and was obsessed with ridding the city of sex trade and drugs. He doubted she’d stay this close to home anyway. Maybe Monroe or Pickford, but even those seemed unlikely. She’d go for distance.
And she wouldn’t fly. She’d know that he still had connections and maybe one of them could pull flight manifests. She’d want anonymity. And that meant escaping by car, bus or train. No, train was unlikely; there was freight service in Ferrington but no passenger trains for a hundred miles.
So, car or bus.
He continued on 55 to Herndon, which had the only bus depot nearby.
It was an old mill town, now devoted to outlet malls, healthcare and auto sales and repair. The depot was in the center of town, a neighborhood badly in need of a face-lift that would never happen. Merritt circled the terminal in his truck. In the back lot sat a half-dozen coaches, idling as diesel exhaust perfumed the air. There was a large parking area for cars contiguous to the bus tarmac. His ex’s 4Runner wasn’t here.
Pausing at an intersection, he ignored the horn of the driver behind him and looked up and down the street. He turned left, cutting off another car and earning a finger. About two hundred yards along the broad commercial avenue he pulled into a Walmart lot. He cruised the rows. After hitting them all, he steered into the back lot. Here, two dozen vehicles sat in the shade under a thick overhang of oak boughs.
One of them was her Toyota. Empty of people, empty of luggage.
The SUV had been left within walking distance of the bus depot.
He returned to the truck, fired it up and skidded back onto the highway, this time scoring two horns. A few minutes later he was at the station. A street dweller approached Merritt, hand out. The responding look seared the man and he turned and walked away fast, muttering.
Inside, a half-dozen waiting passengers sat on formfitting benches, talking and reading texts and playing games on their phones. He walked to the counter.
“Afternoon,” he said to the clerk, a heavyset man of dark complexion, wearing a light blue suit and red tie, white shirt. Merritt flashed his expired police ID and a fake badge that years ago he’d taken off a meth dealer posing as a federal agent. These had been in the U-Store, the bag his ex had dumped unceremoniously into a bin. Along with the trash.
He tucked them away immediately.
“Yes, Officer?”
Merritt displayed a picture of his ex and daughter. “Did these two individuals buy tickets in the last hour?”