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She gets out and heads into the travel store. Tommy parks his car a block down from Marcie’s and waits for her to come out.
She isn’t in there long. She knew what she wanted,which apparently was a bunch of large duffel bags and a couple of luggage carriers to pull them.
Interesting.
Marcie returns to her vehicle and tosses her new purchases in the back. Then she crosses the street on foot, navigating through traffic. She walks down a block, and — yes, she’s headed to that bank after all.
She could have parked in the bank’s lot. But she chose not to. Instead, she chose to park far away. And enter the bank after dark.
Tommy can’t help but smile. Hiding something, Marcie?
He parks his vehicle a block farther still from Marcie’s. Then he jogs over to her car and jumps into the back seat.
He puts on his balaclava and waits.
SEVENTY-FIVE
“UNO,” CAMILLE CALLS OUT, setting down a card in the pile.
“You’re down to one card?” Grace looks over her cards at Camille. “Are you sure you’re playing right?”
“Why, are you accusing me of cheating?” Camille winks at her.
“I’m just saying …”
“You won’t havethiscard.” Lincoln sets down an ace into the pile.
“Camille Striker?”
Camille turns and sees a man, roughly shaved and middle-aged, wearing a button-down shirt and jeans.
“Wondering if I could have a word with you.”
Looks like law enforcement. She’s ready with a response — no comment — but not in front of the kids. “I’m watching these kids.”
“Understood. We’ll step over here. They’ll never leaveyour sight.” The man walks over to the threshold of the room and leans against the wall.
Presumptuous of him, but okay. “I’ll be right back,” she tells the kids.
The man has his credentials open as she approaches. “Francis Blair, FBI.” He quickly tucks away the wallet. “Wanted to have a word with you.”
“Shoot,” she says. “Doesn’t mean I’ll have one with you.”
“I understand. Sounds like Sergeant Janowski hasn’t had much luck with you.”
“But you think you will?”
He smirks, nods at the kids. “Funny — Sergeant Janowski told me that just the other day Marcie Bowers denied knowing who you were or ever hearing your name. And now here you are, babysitting her kids.”
“Maybe we just met,” she says, trying to stay on top of this but feeling like this conversation is going to be different from the others.
“Maybe. Yeah, maybe.” Blair works his jaw. “Sergeant Janowski also told me that you used to work for the US Marshals Service in Chicago as a computer technician. He thinks you’re Silas Renfrow’s girlfriend, and you hacked into some secret information and found out where Silas was being held. You helped him escape. Which would put you in the soup for the murders of everyone who was killed that day.”
“If that were true, yeah.”
“Is it true?” he asks.
She looks this guy over. Typical Bureau guy, in herexperience — one part cocky, one part self-righteous, but competent. In his case, she suspects, more than competent. “I’m not sure I want to answer that question,” she says.
