O’Hare Airport
Chicago Illinois
Special Agent Chris Ingersoll followed the TSA officer through the winding cinderblock corridors until his sense of direction became hopelessly muddled. Institutional placards marked every intersection with confusing acronyms that meant nothing to him. They seemed designed to make the facility unnecessarily challenging to navigate, adding to his suspicion that it was intended to discourage outside visitors. Finally, the officer swiped a card at an expansive glass door that led to a room heavily invested in flat-panel monitors. The screens were arranged to cover every inch of the three windowless walls, and the six rows of closely placed workstations were each equipped with an array of twenty-seven-inch screens.
“Agent Ingersoll,” said a small, disheveled man with short-cropped gray hair as he approached with an outstretched hand. “I’m Timothy Saunders. How can I assist the FBI today?”
Ingersoll took in Saunders’s coffee-spotted tie, threadbare shirt cuffs, and slightly askew glasses, fighting the urge to grind his teeth. Given how anxiously the man pumped his hand and his grip’s moist, clammy feel, at least he was eager to please. “Thanks for your time, Mister Saunders. I need access to surveillance feeds from last Tuesday afternoon. Could one of your people help me with that?”
“Certainly—certainly,” Saunders said with a rapid nod. He pushed his glasses backward on his nose and gestured toward a workstation on the far side of the room. “As requested, Niles has the footage prepared for your review. I also have the ticket agent standing by in an interview room per your office’s request.”
Ingersoll smiled and gestured for Saunders to lead the way to the computer terminal. He was enthusiastic to finish reviewing the video and move on to the interview as soon as possible, in case Saunders noticed that the call with the FBI field office secretary matched Ingersoll’s voice. He didn’t think the eager little man would piece the deception together on his own, but it was better to keep things moving along quickly.
“Do you need the timestamps?” Ingersoll asked as he leaned over the technician’s shoulder. The tech was operating the complex video control system in front of an array of computer displays. A traditional computer keyboard and mouse were complemented by a large, knob-like device surrounded by specialized buttons. A stubby joystick was also nearby.
“It’s already queued up,” the technician said, gesturing vaguely toward the top center most of the six displays. One screen showed a full-screen image of a concourse somewhere in the airport, while all the other screens displayed dozens of freeze-frame shots, presumably from all over the complex, arranged in three-inch squares. “I used the suspect photo your office provided,” he continued.
“You found him?” Ingersoll asked, surprise entering his tone.
Saunders interrupted, “I’m surprised you wanted to review this on-site. We make all our footage available in real-time via the fusion center, but you also have access to the cold storage archives.”
Ingersoll had hoped to avoid this particular conversation. The keenness of Saunders’s demeanor made him confident that the man would be so anxious to please that the question would be overlooked. Tapping the technician on the shoulder, Ingersoll said, “Play through the video, please.” As the recording of the pedestrian traffic on the crowded concourse began to play in real-time, he spoke without taking his eyes off the screen. “I’m told the video we have access to was corrupted. It’s only a copy, so I need to review the footage to see the original. The suspect in this case has an accomplice impressively adept at covering his digital footprints.”
Saunders chuckled, a squeaky, wheezy laugh shockingly fitting for the cartoon character that Ingersoll had quickly judged him to be. “He’s not that smart if we still have the local footage. I guess it’s like we see on TV—all the bad guys make mistakes.”
Fighting the urge to roll his eyes, Ingersoll simply shrugged. He’d been tracking Grady Ledger for over a year; none of what he experienced during that time could be classified as simple. This was the third time he had successfully located Ledger through a facial recognition search, with each occurrence resulting in his image appearing in the footage at a major airport, only to vanish from the archive shortly after identification. Each time, Ingersoll recovered the master footage by visiting the respective airport. This indicated that Ledger, or more likely an accomplice, possessed the skills necessary to erase the footage used by law enforcement. It also implied that Ledger was unaware of the footage until law enforcement accessed it, an intriguing aspect of his investigation. Additionally, Ledger’s access to the footage did not extend to the local copies each airfield kept on-site. That last detail was crucial if Ingersoll aimed to build a legitimate case against Ledger. However, since his case would never reach a courtroom, it was not a genuine concern. By the time Ingersoll collected the eight-figure bounty on the young terrorist, he could vanish to a non-extradition country where the US dollar went a long, long way.
Ingersoll watched the footage as Grady Ledger strolled along the O’Hare concourse, smoothly moving through the mid-afternoon commuter traffic. He pulled a small rolling bag behind him with the casual grace of someone used to this routine. When Ledger reached the edge of the camera’s view, the image shifted to another shot, and Ingersoll was impressed by how effortlessly the technician tracked Ledger’s movements through the facility.
“I can show you from the moment he gets out of the cab if you’d like,” the technician said—Ingersoll had already forgotten his name. “But I’ve watched the footage over a dozen times. He doesn’t talk to anyone other than the ticket agent. He doesn’t check a bag. He doesn’t even speak to the TSA agents as he moves through security. He’s got the look of a regular commuter. He just sort of rolls through here right up until we lose sight of him on the jetway.”
Ingersoll watched the video three times and found the technician’s analysis accurate. There was nothing suspicious about the footage. Ledger was merely an anonymous face in the crowd, quietly moving from one place to another. “And we confirmed his destination?” Ingersoll asked. “The flight he boarded was indeed destined for Tampa, Florida?”
“Confirmed,” Saunders said, nodding aggressively. He handed over a folder containing a thin sheaf of documents. “The flight left on time and arrived eleven minutes ahead of schedule—the crew reported no technical issues or passenger problems. I checked the maintenance logs just to be thorough. After landing in Tampa, a bulb was replaced above seat 38C, but your suspect was seated in first class. I don’t see how that could be related.”
A smile creased Ingersoll’s face. Saunders was going the extra mile to impress. “Not bad,” he admitted. “I’ll note that in my report, but I must agree. I don’t see how that could be related.”
His cheeks dimpled, and Saunders rocked back on his heels. “I considered applying to the FBI,” he said, but thankfully didn’t elaborate.
In a hurry to shift the conversation before the little man could dive into his life story, Ingersoll said, “Could you introduce me to the ticket agent now?”
Ingersoll eyed the ticket agent through the one-way mirror from the observation room beside the interview room. She was in her mid-twenties and of Latin heritage. He glanced at the personnel file to confirm that she was born in New Mexico. Beyond that, he wasn’t interested in the rest of the document. There was little chance she knew Grady Ledger prior to their brief interaction at her counter. He was more focused on anything he might have said or done that could provide insight into where the suspect had been before arriving at O’Hare or where he was heading after landing in Tampa. Admittedly, the line of questioning was a long shot. Every lead he was pursuing these days was tied to lengthy odds. Still, eventually, one of them was bound to yield something fruitful.
“Is Gabrielle a suspect?” Saunders asked, his voice cracking.
Shaking his head, Ingersoll tucked the folder beneath his arm and placed his now-free hand on the doorknob at the entrance to the interrogation room. He shot Saunders his most intimidating glare. “You’re welcome to observe from here. Under no circumstances are you to enter the interview room. Understood?”
Saunders’s head bobbed rapidly, but he didn’t make any verbal response. Fighting a smirk, Ingersoll pushed through the door and entered the next room. He gently eased the door shut behind him before turning to face Gabrielle Medina. She was positioned at the far side of the squat rectangular interview table, staring up at him with wide, unblinking eyes. Her long black hair was pulled back into a braid that hung over her shoulder. Though her face was round, it was attractive. Ingersoll observed that she sat near the edge of her chair, not leaning against the back. Anxiety was evident in her expression and posture.
“Please make yourself comfortable,” Ingersoll said, pulling out the steel-framed chair opposite her. “I only have a few questions for you, and then I’ll let you get back to work.” He had Gabrielle brought here and issued instructions, ensuring no one would disclose the reason for the interview. He wanted her anxious and concerned from the start of the meeting. Once he clarified the purpose of the discussion, he expected that explanation to put her at ease. This, he hoped, would also make her more forthcoming and willing to provide the answers he needed. Whatever her worst fears were going into the conversation, the information he sought would pale in comparison. “I have a couple of simple questions about a man to whom you recently sold a ticket.”
“A ticket?” Gabrielle’s voice trembled. “But that’s my job.”
“Yes, exactly. I’m hoping you can share more about the man. Anything you remember would be helpful. You’re one of the few people we know who has had direct contact with him, so any information you can provide is valuable.”
Gabrielle blinked slowly and then took a breath. She slid back in her seat and appeared to deflate as she relaxed. She nodded slowly. “Certainly. Anything I can do to help. Who was the man?” She paused and met Ingersoll’s gaze. “When did this happen?”
Ingersoll laid the folder on the table and flipped to a tabbed section at the back. He retrieved a printed screen capture from the security camera, taken from a distance and somewhat askew over Gabrielle’s shoulder as she passed documentation to Grady Ledger on the opposite side of the ticket counter. With a finger tap, Ingersoll pointed to the date and timestamp at the top of the page, highlighted with a yellow marker. “According to the footage, the transaction took two minutes and twelve seconds.”
Gabrielle studied the still black-and-white image. Ingersoll observed as her eyes slowly narrowed and her brows knitted together. Her head began to shake slowly. “I don’t remember seeing this man,” she said quietly, in a distant tone. She looked up at him. “Two minutes? How did he pay? What was his name?”
“He went by the name Alex Thurman, although that’s an alias.”
“What’s his real name?”
Tensing in his chair, Ingersoll realized he should never have made that statement. “That’s not important. He would have presented himself to you as Alex Thurman. What can you tell me about that? He paid for the ticket to Tampa in cash.”
Staring back at the photo, Gabrielle was slow to respond. “We don’t get much cash anymore,” she admitted. “Still, he doesn’t look familiar.” She remained quiet for several long seconds, and Ingersoll noticed her eyes moving purposefully back and forth across the photo. Finally, she shrugged. “I don’t recognize him. Not the face or the name. I wish I could be of more help.”
Ingersoll fought the urge to raise his voice. Inside, he was seething. Instead, he took a slow breath and counted to five in his mind. Tapping the time stamp on the printout once more, he asked, “What about the date? What can you tell me about that day? Did anything unusual happen? Does anything out of the ordinary stand out?”
Gabrielle looked at Ingersoll as if she didn’t understand the question. Then her gaze shifted, and her head tilted. As her eyes slowly drifted up and to the side, he realized she was trying to recall memories of that day.
Seconds passed, and Ingersoll grew more hopeful. He had gone through all of this with staff from two other major airports over the past month; both locations had video footage showing Grady Ledger’s brief visits. One was a layover on the way to another destination—the other was still puzzling to Ingersoll because it placed Ledger at Denver International Airport. It was less than an hour’s drive to ATG’s facility in Boulder, making that a likely connection. But, just as he was seeing today, no one who had interacted with Ledger seemed to remember him.
“I’m sorry, Agent—what did you say your name was?”
“Ingersoll,” he grumbled and shoved the photo back into the folder before flipping the lid closed with finality.
“I can’t say I remember this man at all. It’s strange. He’s kind of cute. I know it’s unprofessional, but I sort of can’t help but remember the cute ones and the really, really fugly ones, you know?” Gabrielle gave an attractive, embarrassed grin, but Ingersoll was not in the mood.
“Thank you for your time,” he grumbled, heading for the door.
Al Vincente pulled the phone away from his ear, wincing at the sharp pain from the high-volume expletives that distorted the receiver. The tirade had entered its third minute, according to the timer in the corner of the screen, and so far, the only thing Vincente had managed to contribute to the conversation was his greeting after accepting the call. “…I’m not kidding,” Ingersoll kept ranting. “Either this kid is Houdini, or the universe is just messing with us.”
Thinking his words would be lost in the verbal avalanche he was subjected to, Vincente muttered under his breath, “Could be both.” His timing had the one-in-a-million luck of catching the first pause Ingersoll needed to draw a breath and create the first legitimate break in the so-called conversation.
“This son of a—” Ingersoll’s diatribe suddenly derailed. “Excuse me?” He sputtered.
Vincente wasn’t going to be baited into repeating the argument they had two days ago. This was already well-trodden ground, and they both knew it. He closed his mouth and breathed slowly while the tips of the fingers on his free hand massaged the temple on the opposite side of his head, waiting for round two of the explosion, which was very near critical mass.
“If you have something to say, just say it,” Ingersoll demanded.
“This feels like a repeat of our conversation when you were in Houston.”
Some kind of organic grinding sound could be heard on the other end of the line.
“And Flagstaff,” Vincente added, a grin touching the corners of his mouth.
The grinding and crunching from the other end of the line stopped abruptly, leaving the call eerily silent. Vincente tilted the phone and checked the display to see if the call had dropped. The advancing timer on the screen indicated they were still connected, so he placed the handset back to his ear and waited patiently for his associate to collect himself.
“What did you find in Bozeman?” He responded after nearly thirty seconds of silence. When he spoke, his voice was flat and troublingly emotionless. “Tell me our magician has run out of tricks.”
“Unfortunately, no,” Vincente said with a weary sigh. “Similar act, just for a smaller audience. According to the manifest, Gary Winter chartered a Gulfstream G400 flying from Santa Barbara to Bozeman, Montana. As per prearranged instructions, the flight crew had no interaction with their sole passenger. Upon landing, a four-wheel-drive SUV was booked to meet the passenger on the tarmac. They never saw him during the flight, and no one saw him leave the aircraft.”
“And the airfield?”
“There’s camera coverage, but nothing near the hangar where the passenger disembarked. It’s a no-go for the car service, too. There was no driver. The SUV was left for the passenger, with the keys under the floor mat. The tracking package was disabled; however, the tech I had examine the system found no signs of tampering. The rental agency clocked just over twelve hundred miles on the odometer, so the mileage doesn’t tell us anything either.”
More expletives filtered through the phone’s earpiece. Vincente smirked and waited for the younger man to vent his frustrations. Ingersoll might hold the title of Senior agent, but he was not the better man.
“Think you can get more information if you apply pressure to the flight crew?”
Vincente suspected this question would come up. “Not a chance. I have a cousin who flies for a similar outfit in the UK. The successful outfits uphold their reputation by minding their business and doing right by their clients. Kyle says that Wenzel Avionics has a triple-A rating and won’t jeopardize it for anything.”
“So we have nothing.”
“I wouldn’t say anything. It’s another example of how freakishly careful this kid is. That tells us something. He’s moving all over the United States, doing it aggressively, and leaving the footprint and fingerprints of a ghost. He has to be well-funded and motivated to move the way he does. There’s no evidence he’s doing this alone, but if he is, we’re dealing with someone with serious intel. He’s got a bone to pick with Arlington Technologies Global, and possibly with Mister Breslin personally.”
Vincente paused to see if Ingersoll had anything to add or contest. When the other agent didn’t, he continued, “We might not have a lead that places us in the same town as him, but it’s only a matter of time. We’re learning more about this kid with each passing week.”
“That’s the problem,” Ingersoll grumbled. “This is taking weeks. Freaking months. This kid is making us look like clowns. Like you said—it’s just one kid.”
Vincente grinned and shrugged. It was true; Ledger was making them look bad. Still, they got paid either way. The frustration Ingersoll expressed hinted at a deeper issue. Recently, Vincente had grown to harbor an increasing suspicion that his so-called partner had another motivation for tracking the suspect. It was likely some kind of side deal with ATG—maybe even Kilmer Breslin himself. Ingersoll had never been above cutting corners to expedite an arrest, and it was possible he’d be willing to go rogue for personal gain.
“The office is back–tracing the financials,” Vincente said. “I think we both know what will come of that.”
A grown came from the other end of the line. “Yeah. Another dead end. Forged credit information seems to be one of this kid’s specialties.”
The comment caught Vincente off guard and made him wonder how closely his partner was reading the reports provided by the Washington field office. Grady Ledger had never used a fake or forged credit card. He had never falsified credit information at any point. Even according to the forensic accounting office’s A-team, his financing was always legitimate, albeit difficult to trace. Everyone who had supported the kid’s efforts had been paid in full as far as they could ascertain. Wenzel Avionics served as a perfect example. The charter had been financed in advance, and the pilot and copilot even received a generous tip at the end of the flight.
ATG was the only organization negatively affected by any of Grady Ledger’s activities.
Alison Springs, Maryland
Al Vincente moved slowly along the boardwalk; his wrinkled suit coat was draped over his shoulder, and his head tipped back to let the early afternoon sun warm his skin. He had driven all night and had overindulged in coffee to make the trip without incident. In the last six months, he’d traversed vast expanses of the continental United States, most of it solo. He and Chris Ingersoll worked better independently, though it was questionable just how effective either could be judged since neither had found a reliable lead on the current location of Grady Ledger.
This was Vincente’s detour for personal reasons, and he didn’t feel guilty about the excursion. His father had died during a military training exercise while Al was in high school, and his mother had recently passed away after a shockingly brief battle with brain cancer. She’d been diagnosed after complaining of persistent headaches, was immediately hospitalized, and then passed away just two weeks later. Fast forward two months, and Al and his younger sister Amy were still in shock.
Glancing at his wristwatch, Vincente noted that he was early. Amy was supposed to call at noon, and he had time to spare. The gurgling pain in his belly reminded him that he’d been running solely on coffee for—he calculated slowly in his mind, more slowly than was comfortable—almost fourteen hours. It was definitely time for a bite to eat. Hearing laughter further down the boardwalk, he was drawn to an open-fronted shop with a wide service counter and cash register. It was a sandwich shop with a short line at the register and a long list of creatively named, custom-made sandwiches chalked on a board above the cashier.
His order was placed about two minutes later, and he made small talk with the attendant while his food was prepared.
“Excuse me,” a wizened elderly man at a two-top table said to Vincente as he waited for his food. “Are you with the press?”
“Press?” Vincente said.
“Covering the submersible,” the octogenarian clarified. “Most of the reporters were here yesterday and the day before.” He scanned Vincente from head to toe. “By your outfit, I took you for a reporter.”
“No sir,” Vincente clarified. “Off–duty law enforcement. I’m just in town catching up with family.”
The mention of the submersible was vaguely familiar; Amy had said something about it in passing. At the time, he was more concerned with the logistics of diverting to meet her. Her company specialized in marine salvage, so he didn’t think much of it. He knew a high-priority project had brought her to Alison Springs, but now, as he reflected on it, he realized he had no idea what the project involved. The salvage of a submarine would certainly be interesting.
Am I really so far down the rabbit hole that I don’t know what Amy’s working on?
Vincente scratched his head. Amy had put her life on hold to handle their mother’s funeral arrangements. He was in town to sign papers so Amy could sell the family home. Now that he thought about it, he had dumped all of that on his little sister while focusing all his energy on the investigation that had consumed the entire last year of his life.
His name was called, and he picked up his sandwich from the counter. He stood lost in thought in the midst of six tall tables, most of which were unoccupied. Vincente’s mind whirled at the direction of his personal and professional lives.
“Officer,” the elderly man said. “You’re welcome to join me.”
His mind jumped back to the moment as Vincente looked at the man. Confusion was likely evident on his face. The old man used the walking cane resting against his leg to push the chair across from the table outward. He nodded to it with an encouraging smile.
Feeling as if he were running on autopilot, Vincente climbed onto the tall chair and unwrapped his sandwich. He popped the top on his soft drink and finally met the man’s gaze. “I’m Al,” he said with a nod.
“Robert,” the old man said. “Nice to meet you. What branch of law enforcement did you say you were with?”
“The Federal Bureau of Investigation, though I’m not here on official business. It’s strictly family matters. I came to meet my sister. She’s working around here, I’m told.”
Robert’s brows arched. “FBI? Impressive. Can’t say I’ve ever met a G-man. Then it’s Agent rather than Officer?”
Vincente laughed. “I can’t say I’ve ever been called a G-man before.” He stared at his sandwich. Once he bit into it, he quickly realized he was far hungrier than he had initially thought. The bites he took were large and aggressive. The massive hoagie was halfway gone before he noticed Robert’s amused stare and slowed his pace.
“Long drive,” Vincente said with a sheepish grin as he wiped mayonnaise and mustard from his mouth with a napkin. “I only stopped for drive-through coffee.” He glanced down at the mess on the square of butcher paper before him. He’d seen less messy crime scenes. “That might have been a mistake.”
“Do you like tuna?” Robert asked simply.
It was an odd non sequitur, yet Vincente nodded.
Robert pushed a paper-rolled, unlabeled sandwich toward him. “My eyes were bigger than my stomach. Please help yourself.”
Vincente sheepishly nodded his appreciation and started in on the second sandwich. This time, he demonstrated more restraint. “You thought I was with the press?” he asked. “Have there been many reporters around?”
“Heavens, yes,” Robert said with a nod. “The U-Boat was revealed to the public for the first time since it was salvaged. It’s big news for the bay, as you can imagine. The university was deeply involved in the restoration, and many locals were engaged when it came time to move the vessel from the marina to the transport trucks. The recovery took place some time back, but the tours and press event at the school were this week. Some photographers came back here for comments from the locals.”
Part of this was familiar. Amy had mentioned a U-Boat salvage and something about her company collaborating with the local university. Vincente scanned the dock. From their spot at the edge of the open-air shop, he had a clear view of much of the boardwalk and several piers across the marina. “It doesn’t seem like much is happening right now. I don’t see any press.”
Robert shook his head. “Most of the hoopla took place at the museum late yesterday afternoon. The school had a tour of the salvage vessel used to raise the wreck earlier in the day. That’s what drew a lot of the press out here and caused a ruckus. It was the first serious stir since the wreck was first brought into port.”
Vincente nodded. “You spend a lot of time out here?”
Robert nodded. “I was a fisherman for most of my life. When that stopped being viable, I changed with the times. I managed logistics for the university. Most of the boats they operate in their marine biology program were under my supervision. I didn’t like sitting behind a desk, so I took the opportunity to captain a boat whenever I could. It wasn’t the same as fishing, mind you, but I encountered many inspiring and creative young people toward the end of my career.”
“Impressive,” Vincente admitted. “Does that mean you were involved in the submarine salvage?”
Looking suddenly disappointed, Robert shook his head. “After my time, I’m afraid. That must have been one hell of a project. I was here when they towed the salvage into the bay and tied it up down the dock,” he explained. “I was sitting right over there,” he pointed to a bench made of weathered planking. It had been built into the boardwalk as a permanent fixture. Glancing along the visible path, Vincente noted at least three others evenly spaced. They resembled benches in the park, though the winds or waves would never wash these away.
“Actually, some of the press coverage is memorialized,” Robert said after a pause. “I’m not sure why I didn’t think of it sooner.” He pointed to the distant wall of the open-air shot, where dozens of framed photos hung haphazardly.
Even from a distance, Vincente could see that the frames were screwed into the wall to keep each one exactly in place. They were permanently hung. Some featured color photos scribbled with signatures, while others were news clippings.
Vincente quickly focused on the wall section dedicated to the submarine’s salvage. Color photographs captured the barnacle-encrusted wreck, which sat low in the water flanked by long, thin flotation contraptions. A specialized tugboat towed the sub. A couple of images showed the progress of the wreck entering port and being positioned near one of the wide-open expanses of the dock. News clippings with large print headlines described the salvage effort, praised the community support for the historic undertaking, and highlighted the university’s involvement.
When Vincente reached an eleven by seventeen frame, he paused and leaned in close. The photo stood out as it was one of only three frames this large. It contained a clip from the local newspaper, with nearly an entire page dedicated to the salvage. The headline read, “Nazi U-Boat Reaches American Shores!” The story wrapped around the black-and-white halftone image beneath the headline on two sides. The photo depicted a pair of broad-shouldered, athletic young men in university windbreakers. Each man stood at one end of the thirty-foot-long visible portion of the submersible, tossing mooring lines to deckhands aboard the U-Boat. The photo of the rope toss was perfect in its synchronicity, and the photo snapped with the lines just beyond the peak of the toss’s arc. It was impressive timing, creating powerful imagery.
None of this was the cause of Vincente’s rasp when his breath caught in his throat. He focused on the gathering of bystanders, seemingly captured incidentally at the extreme edge of the photo. A table of college-age boys and girls sat oblivious to the commotion just a couple dozen yards away. The kids in the frame laughed, clearly engaged in their own private concerns.
Vincente leaned closer to the photo and blinked. “What the hell?”
He pulled out his phone and snapped a wide shot of the entire framed news story, followed by a closer shot of the group of kids at the table. Zooming in on the screen, he examined the profile image he was increasingly confident was of Grady Ledger. The boy smiled and pointedly peered across the table at something. Ingersoll followed Ledger’s gaze and realized it wasn’t something but someone: a girl. She was roughly his age, with light hair and a pretty face.
He tapped the screen and sent both images in an email. A moment later, he made an outbound call. “Check your inbox,” he said without preamble.
“Good afternoon to you as well, Agent Vincente,” a gruff voice replied.
“Sorry, Mary. This is urgent. I need you to identify the individuals at the table along the edge of the photo in the news story.”
Vincente heard tapping and clicking on the other end of the line. “You’re joking, right? The quality here is… well… you’re messing with me, aren’t you? Just tell me this is a joke?”
“No joke. One of those is Grady Ledger—see that?”
A gasp. “No kidding. Where did you find this?”
“It’s a long story, but the newsprint should explain the location. The way it happened is complicated and not relevant. But it’s the best lead we’ve had in weeks if we can identify the people at the table with Ledger. At the very least, we’ll have a lot more information about his known accomplices.”
“You think these people are accomplices?”
Vincente rolled his eyes. “You know what I mean.”
A chuckle came from the other end of the line. “Just messing with you, boss. Do you want me to pass this along to your friend and mine, Agent Ingersoll?”
Vincente paused, but only for a breath. “Hold off on that. It might be nothing. He’s still chasing leads at the major airports anyway, right?”
“Chasing ghosts is more like it. He’ll stroke out if he doesn’t come up with something soon. That guy is wound up tight right now.”
“At least I don’t have to deal with him. Splitting up was the best decision we ever made.”
“You don’t have to deal with him, but I do. If this case doesn’t catch a break soon, someone better force him to take some downtime. I’m afraid he’s going to do something he’ll regret. He’s becoming more and more volatile.”
Nodding, Vincente said, “This could be the break we need. See what you can find for me, okay? Just keep it between us for now?”
“You got it, boss.”
