The clerk’s eyes gave a flash of recognition.
Nobody read body language better than Detective First Jon Merritt.
“Hold on a second, sir.” The man’s eyes dropped to a screen and he typed.
Was he calling up sales records? Or security footage? There were several cameras here.
The clerk continued to type, then stopped, and a moment later they were joined by another man. Also Black, also in a suit. His name was Titus Jones, according to the plate on his lapel, and an additional line indicated he was the general manager.
“Sir, you’re police?”
No backing up now. “That’s right.”
“And you’re looking for those individuals in connection with an investigation?”
“Parental kidnapping.”
“I see. Well, we can’t give out any passenger information without a warrant.”
“I understand. I just happened to follow a lead here and stopped in. Thought maybe you could help me out, so I don’t have to go to the magistrate.” He smiled.
Jon Merritt could be the master of charm when he needed to be.
Jones said, “Mr. Randall here said you displayed an ID card. Who’re you with? Mr. Randall missed it.”
Merritt noticed an armed security guard in the corner, looking his way.
“Ferrington PD.”
“Let me take a look at that again. Maybe I’ll make a call and we can circumvent the warrant process.”
A pause. Tension rose. So did Merritt’s anger. He controlled it. Just.
“You know, Mr. Jones, it’s probably best to follow procedures. I’ll get started on that paperwork right now, back in the office.”
As he walked to the door, he snagged a timetable. Once in the cab of his truck, he sat back, calculating. She left her house at 2:50. Given that she would drive only slightly over the limit—like he’d done—she could be at the terminal at 3:45 if she came straight here. But he didn’t think this was the case. She’d had no warning that he was out of County. So she’d fled with only the basics. He guessed she’d stopped for money and—what he would have bought if he’d been in her shoes—a burner phone.
So add a half hour. He opened the timetable. What buses left around 4:15? There were two. One terminated in Detroit, the other St. Louis. The Michigan-bound bus was a local, making perhaps three dozen stops along the way. St. Louis was almost an express. It stopped at only four cities before it reached its destination.
Detroit... St. Louis...
Merritt stretched.
He thought back to a case years ago. He’d been working Narc and had been constantly stymied by a ruthless meth user, who was not your typical tweaker. He was brilliant. After robbing and killing a wealthy couple, the wiry skel vanished and no one could find him. This drove Merritt to rage. Finally, he forced himself to calm. He had to think not like the hunter, but like the prey. A week later Merritt kicked in the door of a cheap apartment in South Ferrington and with no little amount of satisfaction shot the man to death. He had, in effect,becomethe tweaker and realized, in a burst of inspired thought, where he’d gone.
Now his mind tried to get inside his ex’s. Oh, his thinking wasn’t nearly as sharp as it had been once. Could he do it?
Reciting to himself:
Detroit, St. Louis, Detroit, St. Louis...
21
Funny how men—some men—can have this dark side. You don’t see it. They keep it hidden. Completely camouflaged. Then it’s like a snake striking.” Fingers snapped. “That’sJon Merritt.”
Allison Parker’s mother, Ruth, was in Denver, speaking via Zoom to Harmon, Shaw and Nilsson, who had volunteered to help, an addition Shaw didn’t mind at all.
The CEO was behind his desk. The other two were on the couch again. When they’d sat their knees had touched and both moved away slightly. They now faced a large monitor on the wall.