Chapter 34 #2
“He’s at the office,” Tarrance said.
“Okay. Fine. Bring him in. I’ll be there in two hours. I wanna talk to him. Goodbye.”
Tarrance punched the phone, then dialed the number.
“Who are you calling?” Acklin asked.
“Bendini, Lambert one to Chicago on Northwest Flight 861, leaving at 10:15, and purchased in the name of Mitchell McDeere; one to Dallas on United Flight 562, leaving at 10:30, and purchased in the name of Mitchell McDeere; and one to Atlanta on Delta Flight 790, leaving at 11:10, and purchased in the name of Mitchell McDeere.
The ticket to Cincinnati had been bought with cash, in the name of Sam Fortune.
Lazarov entered the power office on the fourth floor and every head bowed. DeVasher faced him like a scared, whipped child. The partners studied their shoelaces and held their bowels.
“We can’t find him,” DeVasher said.
Lazarov was not one to scream and cuss. He took great pride in being cool under pressure. “You mean he just got up and walked out of here?” he asked coolly.
There was no answer. None was needed.
“All right, DeVasher, this is the plan. Send every man you’ve got to the airport. Check with every airline. Where’s his car?”
“In the parking lot.”
“That’s great. He left here on foot. He walked out of your little fortress on foot. Joey’ll love this. Check with every rental-car company. Now, how many honorable partners do we have here.”
“Sixteen present.”
“Divide them up in pairs and send them to the airports in Miami, New Orleans, Houston, Atlanta, Chicago, L.A., San Francisco and New York. Roam the concourses of these airports. Live in these airports. Eat in these airports. Watch the international flights in these airports. We’ll send reinforcements tomorrow.
You honorable esquires know him well, so go find him.
It’s a long shot, but what have we got to lose?
It’ll keep you counselors busy. And I hate to tell you boys, but these hours are not billable. Now, where’s his wife?”
“Danesboro, Kentucky. At her parents’.”
“Go get her. Don’t hurt her, just bring her in.”
“Do we start shredding?” DeVasher asked.
“We’ll wait twenty-four hours. Send someone to Grand Cayman and destroy those records. Now hurry, DeVasher.”
The power office emptied.
Voyles stomped around Tarrance’s desk and barked commands. A dozen lieutenants scribbled as he yelled. “Cover the airport. Check every airline. Notify every office in every major city. Contact customs. Do we have a picture of him?”
“We can’t find one, sir.”
“Find one, and find it quick. It needs to be in every FBI and customs office by tonight. He’s on the run. Sonofabitch!”