The Kiss after Midnight (The Midnight Trilogy) (26 page)

He reached into one of the black suitcases and rummaged through it until he found one of Annabel’s disposable touch-screen cell phones. He pulled his German passport from his back pocket and flipped to the last page, where a phone number had been scribbled with a black felt-tip pen. He glanced at his watch as he dialed. It was nearly 2:30 p.m., making it 8:30 p.m. in Germany.

The phone rang three times before a man answered in German. Tobias waited a few seconds, wondering if he could trust the man at the other end.
I have no choice.
After taking a deep breath, he spoke firmly, also in German. “Is that Erwin Diederich?”

“It is he,” the man said. “Whom am I speaking with?”

Tobias hesitated for a few seconds and glanced through the gap in the door. Annabel’s voice still filtered through.

“Hello,” Erwin said. “Are you still there?”

“This is Siegfried Eichelberger,” Tobias finally said.

“Siegfried?” Erwin exclaimed. He paused for a few seconds before continuing. “It’s so good to hear your voice. I’ve been trying to get in contact with you for such a long time.”

“I know. I need your help, Erwin. I don’t know who else to call.”

***

Annabel walked into the room five minutes later, and Tobias looked up at her with tired eyes. “Who did you call?” she demanded.

“Why?”

“Because I don’t like people speaking in other languages when it has to do with me. Now who was it?”

“Oh, I see. So it’s all right for you to keep secrets, but I can’t?”

“You were speaking in German, Tobias. Who with?”

He threw the cell onto the bed. “It was my guy in Germany if you must know. The guy I said could help us.” Annabel nodded and sat on the bed. “What about you? Who were you talking to?”

“It was my guy, too. He’s waiting for us a few blocks down. We’ll have to make a run for it soon.”

“Where’s he taking us? Can’t we stay here?”

“No.” Annabel pulled clothes from one of the suitcases. “They’re doing door-to-door searches, and even if they don’t find us, this area’s too hot. My man will let me know when we get a free window.”

Tobias stood up and frowned. “But how would he have that kind of intelligence?”

“He just does, all right?” She placed some of the automatic weapons on the floor and then neatly put some into her bag.

Their hostess walked into the room a minute later with a glass of white wine in her hand. “I think the side exit is clear.”

“We’ll wait for my guy’s call.” Annabel zipped one of the bags and bundled the other one and the rucksack into a wardrobe.

The woman nodded and left the room. Tobias walked toward the wardrobe and reached for one of the bags.

“What’re you doing?” Annabel asked.

‘My laptop.’

“It’s wiped clean, isn’t it?”

Tobias nodded.

“Then leave it.” She tugged the handle of the single bag by her feet. “Both our clothes are in here. Anything more will just be asking for trouble.”

They sat side by side on the bed, the number of running feet outside slowly decreasing. “So, what did your guy say?” she asked. “Can he get you in the bank without them arresting you?”

Tobias smiled. “Funny thing, but my grandfather owned the bank, so I guess
I
do now.”
Hopefully she’ll buy it.

They sat in silence for a few minutes. Tobias could smell the cigarette smoke filtering in from the corridor. Although he badly craved one, he was too nervous to even put one in his mouth.

Annabel’s phone rang, and the call lasted no more than ten seconds. “Let’s go,” she said.

Tobias took the bag from her and slung it over his shoulder. They ran down some side stairs, their path clear. Annabel peered outside for a second upon reaching the bottom. She then edged back toward Tobias. “I can see his car. It’s a black BMW.”

Tobias placed the back of his head against a wall and breathed deeply.

“On 3 you go,” Annabel said, “and don’t look back.”

Tobias nodded firmly. Annabel waited for a moment before counting. On 1, Tobias dashed out on to Pierrepont Street, the black BMW no more than twenty steps away. He heard Annabel’s footsteps close behind him. He reached out for the door’s handle, but a voice halted him.

“Don’t move,” a woman said. She pointed a Glock straight at his head. He put his hands up, and Annabel—inches behind him—did the same.

The woman was large-busted and had long dark hair—he recognized her as one of the agents in the park. She held her FBI badge up with her left hand, her right hand still pointing the gun at them. “I’ve got them,” the woman said into a radio. “We’re on the corner of—”

A gunshot pierced the air and blood spread from the woman’s stomach. She dropped to the ground, grimacing in agony. Tobias looked back and saw a tall man a few yards away holding a sniper rifle. He didn’t instantly recognize the man. From a distance, his arms and neck seemed to be covered with tattoos. Before he could study him any further, a black Mercedes sedan pulled up and he got in and was driven away.

“We’ve got to go, Tobias,” Annabel shouted.

The driver of the BMW—a brown-haired man—also urged Tobias to hurry. He put one foot in the car and looked back at the fallen agent, who was stirring on the ground. After closing the door, the driver spun around and sped off. Tobias looked back to see a couple of men rushing toward the injured woman.

Tobias rocked in the reclining chair in the living room, oblivious to how much time had passed since he had been sitting there. The clock said 12:30 a.m., but he was still no closer to making a decision about what to do. That Annabel had not come out once told him that she was fast asleep, as was their latest host.

Like the place they had hidden out in when the FBI was chasing them, this apartment was spacious and luxurious. Annabel had told him it belonged to Martin, the longtime acquaintance of hers who had picked them up. Like the woman in the other apartment, Martin didn’t talk much, and whenever Tobias tried to make conversation with him, Annabel interrupted and changed the subject. The constant developments and the lack of answers ate at Tobias and made him feel naked and in the dark. Who was the tattooed shooter? Why had Penelope been killed? Was his grandfather’s death connected to the others in any way?

He glanced at the suitcase by his feet and winced. Was he doing the right thing? He had no reason to distrust Annabel, but things were no longer adding up. He had to take control of the situation. He felt for the Glock in his pocket and the MPA he had taken from Annabel’s bag, tucked inside the front of his pants.

He took a deep breath and rose, the sheet of paper he had been holding for the past twenty minutes now slightly creased. He hated that he had to communicate with Annabel in this way, but a face-to-face conversation would result in her trying everything in her power to stop him. He lifted the note and read it for the third time since he’d finished writing it:

I’m extremely grateful for everything you’ve done for me, more grateful than you could ever imagine. I really wish we could have met in another life, but it is what it is. I don’t think I can run away to Germany while Penélope’s killer still runs free, but at the same time, being around you will just be putting you in more danger. I’ve also been doing a lot of thinking about my grandfather’s death as well as Connor Murray’s, and something just isn’t adding up. I’ve contacted some friends of mine, and they’ll help me get to the bottom of whatever’s going on. Hopefully, I might even be able to clear my name without running. I hope to see you again someday, but until then, stay safe.

Tobias.

He put the note on the coffee table in the middle of the room and placed the TV remote on top of it. He glanced around the room and walked toward Annabel’s room but stopped after three steps.
I can’t see her. Not now. Not till all this is over.
He picked up the suitcase and shook his pocket where the keys of Martin’s BMW were. He had heard him tell Annabel that it was theirs to use whenever they wanted to.
They’ll probably just get another one within a day anyway. She always does.

He took nearly a minute to shut the front door, trying to close it as silently as possible. The corridor that faced him was long and dimly lit. He flipped the hood of his jumper over his head and tiptoed for a few seconds before stopping to listen for any sounds. Nothing stirred. He felt for his guns again—they hadn’t moved. He continued walking toward the elevators, increasing his pace until he broke into a mild jog.

The doorman on the ground floor had his head against a large chair, his eyes closed and his mouth open. Tobias looked up at two security cameras pointing in his direction.
Nothing I can do about that now.
He walked steadily and paused when he was opposite the guard. The sound of snoring filled his ears, and he rushed out the door.

Outside, Tobias glanced right but didn’t immediately see the car. After twenty seconds of walking, the pearl-black BMW came into view. A press of the alarm button opened it, and he popped the trunk and put his bag inside. Just then, a light shone in his face—a car was coming down the road. He leaned into the trunk as if looking for something. He watched the car make a left turn seconds later and ran to get into the driver’s seat. After starting the engine, he drove down Columbia Heights and turned right onto Clark Street.

He parked the car fifteen minutes later near Fourth Avenue and stayed in the car for a few minutes. A number of pedestrians walked past, some drunk. He took his bag from the trunk and crossed the road, eventually emerging on Thirty-third Street. He pulled a sheet of paper from his pocket and glanced at it. Then he removed his hood and looked up. He had arrived at the correct hotel, the BPM.

***

The cappuccino scalded Tom’s mouth. He had never been a big fan of hospital coffee, but having had only an hour’s sleep on an uncomfortable chair, he needed as much caffeine as possible.

He returned to Emma’s ward and leaned against the door. He watched his partner lying motionless with an oxygen mask over her mouth. He could have kicked himself for not being able to prevent her shooting. The doctors had initially said her chances were slim. The bullet had been an armor-piercing type and ripped through her vest, causing extensive damage. But after emergency surgery, the hospital gave her a fifty-fifty chance of survival.

He pulled a chair to the bed and turned it backward. Holding her hand, he wished there were more he could do. He had sent her husband, Jeremy, home when it got to be midnight, promising to stay there all morning if he had to. He initially thought he was doing so out of obligation but soon realized he couldn’t have gotten himself to leave her if he tried.

Shortly after 2 a.m., the door opened and the deputy director walked in. “How is she?”

Tom turned back to his comatose partner and shrugged. “They don’t know exactly, but they say her chances have improved since she first arrived.”

Wheeler closed the door, walked in and put a hand on Tom’s shoulder. “What happened out there?”

Tom shook his head. “They knew everything we were doing. They knew just when to escape. We’d been covering that street most of the time, and just a few minutes after we rotated, they used that window. Emma must have decided to stay back when she saw them.”

“And the shooter?”

“We don’t know, but it couldn’t have been either of them, judging by the distance and the bullets. It was definitely a sniper. I’m telling you, sir, they knew.”

“What’re you saying? She has someone in the department, too?”

Tom stared at him dumbfounded. “What if we’re looking at this all wrong? What if she’s been working with Antonio all along, or even Juan? We’ve always known that they could have people in both the NYPD and the FBI.”

Wheeler pulled up another chair and sat down. “But that doesn’t make any sense. You even said it yourself—word on the street is that Juan and Antonio are both trying their hardest to find them.”

Tom put his hands on his head. “Whatever is going on, we’re always a step behind.”

“What about Annabel’s mother?”

“We’ve still got a squad car there.”

“Do you think it’s maybe worth talking to her again?”

“What’s the point?” Tom moaned. He hit his hand against the back of the chair. “Annabel won’t go back there. It’s all falling apart, sir. We have no other lead.”

“Not quite,” the deputy director said. He handed Tom a sheet of paper that looked like a flight itinerary.

“What’s this?”

“Take a look.”

“Hector Guerrero, coming here?”

“Exactly. Something major is going down for him to be coming.” He rose to his feet. “Now, I’ve got a few people on this, but I want you to establish a connection between all these deaths and Hector coming here. It can’t be a coincidence.”

Tom nodded and rubbed his eyes.

“When did you sleep last?”

Tom stared at him and shrugged. “I don’t need sleep. My partner almost died yesterday.”

Wheeler knelt beside him. “Go home, son. Get as much sleep as you can. This case is about to blow wide open, and you’ll need your strength. I’ll get someone to sit outside her room. She’ll be in good hands.”

Tom gulped down the rest of his coffee and nodded. Wheeler put his arm around him and they walked out of the room. As they headed toward the exit, Tom caught sight of two men walking in. He scowled upon realizing they were Antonio and Fernando.

“Sir,” Tom said, alerting Wheeler to their presence.

“Be cool, Tom,” Wheeler said. “Let’s just walk out of here.”

As they got closer, it became apparent that the
comisionado
had a wide grin on his face. “How we doing, Saddle?” Antonio said. “I’m sorry to hear about your pretty sidekick. I heard she took a bullet.”

Tom lunged for his collar and pushed him against the wall. “What the fuck do you know about that? Was it you?”

Wheeler pulled Tom away by the waist and slammed him against the opposite wall. Fernando stood beside the
comisionado
with his arms folded.