Hang on St. Christopher (The Sean Duffy #8)

25. Middle Bay

CHAPTER 25

MIDDLE BAY

The Hertz desk at JFK.

“We don’t have any BMWs, Mr. Duffy. We only have American.”

“What’s the fastest car you’ve got?”

“Fastest? Carol, this gentleman wants to know what?—”

“Yeah, I heard. Tell him we’ve got a Buick GNX on the south lot. It’s the high rate and an extra twenty dollars a day for the insurance premium.”

I’d never heard of a Buick GNX, but when I got to the south lot it looked okay, and it was painted black which is always cool.

I studied the map carefully and drove from Hertz’s south lot onto the Belt Parkway. I got almost all the way to Rockville Center before I realized I was going completely the wrong direction. Swing a U-turn and back past JFK again. Over the Verrazzano-Narrows Bridge across Staten Island, and an intersection with the 95. I-95 to the 235, and the 235 all the way to Wilmington, where I stopped for gas and a Coke and cheeseburger at the Wendy’s next to the gas station.

It was fun driving on a continental landmass. In Ireland you could get only five or six hours away from your problems. Here you could drive to bloody Alaska if you wanted to.

I got another Coke for the ride.

Down through sleepy Delaware to the township of Middle Bay. Right on the Chesapeake here. Sand dunes, scrubby trees, boats, crab and lobster shacks. It was the sticks, but I guessed we were just within the outer limits of the commuting distance to Washington, DC, which seemed to be about thirty miles away on the other side of the Chesapeake Bridge.

I drove through the town. Nice place. An idyllic suburban community from a movie—from the first act of a Spielberg flick that establishes the deceptively anodyne vibe before the bad shit goes down in acts two and three.

I found 22 Ferry Street, which was a three-bedroom house overlooking the water. I don’t know about American house styles, but this one looked old—nineteenth century or perhaps even older. Its ancient timbers had been freshly painted white. A white picket fence enclosed a garden with a well-trimmed lawn and rosebushes. Unlike several of the houses on the street, there was no American flag flying from the porch, but in one of the upstairs bedrooms you could just make out a folded Stars and Stripes on a window ledge. The car parked outside was a dark-green Porsche 911. The house was only a short walk away from a wooden jetty where a small boat was moored.

I drove by slowly, turned at the end of the street, and drove past again. Little café about two hundred yards south of the house. I parked in the shade of what might be a maple tree, and went to the café to get a cup of coffee and a sandwich. They didn’t have any sandwiches, but I got myself a blueberry muffin.

I put my Walkman on and waited for about three hours listening to a classical music station coming out of Baltimore (four boring Beethoven pieces I’d heard a million times, and a completely new—to me—Handel symphony). The man came out of the house at just before six o’clock and got into the Porsche.

He was much more conspicuous than I was expecting. All those bloody eyewitnesses back in Ireland really could have helped me nail him, because once seen, he wasn’t easy to forget. He was taller than the CCTV footage would have you believe (six-two, perhaps) and very pale with close-cropped sandy hair. His posture was ramrod straight, and there was a bounce to his step. He was wearing a red plaid shirt tucked into dark-blue jeans, and white sneakers. He exuded confidence, professionalism, and togetherness. He’d stand out in Northern Ireland or England but perhaps not so much here. There was an easiness to him that I found irritating. If I’d killed a woman in cold blood just days ago, I wouldn’t be that easy.

He didn’t appear to have a concealed weapon on him, but there might be one in the car’s glove box, for all I knew. The Porsche pulled out of its spot and drove toward the center of town. I followed at a discreet distance and kept on him as he pulled into a supermarket car park.

He got out and went into the supermarket. He came out fifteen minutes later with a grocery bag, which he placed in the passenger seat of the Porsche. Back to the house. I parked in the spot under the maple tree.

The lights stayed on until just after eleven. I leaned the seat back as far as I could in the Buick and tried to get a few hours’ sleep. Tomorrow, I’d have to find a hotel nearby, but tonight I wanted to keep my quarry close.

Four or five hours’ broken sleep, and I woke at five-thirty when the café opened for business. Croissant/coffee/bathroom. I took a bathroom break, washed my face and hands, and carried the food back to the car just in time to see my man come out in shorts and T-shirt. He turned right and ran along the trail that skirted the Chesapeake. I walked up to his house and read the name on his mailbox. John Wilson. A phony-arse name if I ever heard one.

I returned to the car and waited until Mr. Wilson came back from his jog at six-thirty. He showered, shaved, and came back out to the Porsche wearing a short-sleeved blue shirt, no tie, tan pants, and brown shoes.

I followed him over the Chesapeake Bay Bridge, past the US Naval Academy, and into the outskirts of DC. Early enough so that there was little traffic, and he drove fast on the stretches of two-lane road. The Buick turned out to have a lot of pickup, and I had no problem discreetly keeping up with him.

Great little car, this, and I found myself patting the dashboard as it made its way easily through a red light where I could have lost him. “Buick GNX, eh?” I said to myself. Never heard of it before, but I’d remember it.

DC was a nerve-racking experience with its traffic and strange merges and exits. The Porsche drove fast at ten miles per hour above the various speed limits, and Mr. Wilson arrived at his destination at 7:30 sharp. The destination was CIA headquarters in Langley, Virginia. I was only mildly surprised by this.

I made sure I saw him drive through the gate, and when I was satisfied, I headed back to the Chesapeake Bay Bridge. I found a motel on the outskirts of Middle Bay and checked in. Thirty bucks a night, a swimming pool, cable TV with forty channels, and comfy beds. I ate well in a local diner that served crab cakes and hash.

For the next two days, I watched John Wilson leave for work at 6:50 and followed him over the bridge and all the way to Langley. On the third day, I followed him to the bridge, but as he drove on, I found the last exit and circled back to Middle Bay.

Lucky Che T-shirt, leather jacket, sneakers, gloves.

I walked to Wilson’s house and slipped around the back.

I zipped my leather jacket and quickly scaled his back fence. Up the garden path, on the alert for dogs. No dogs. I took out my big lock pick kit and I was through the back door in under a minute. I now had eight hours or so until he’d be back, which would give me all the time I needed to figure out exactly who Mr. Wilson was, who he worked for, and what he was doing in Northern Ireland.