car then climbed in and drove out of the lot.
Neither of them could contain the laughter for long. They both roared. Finally Bett gasped and said, “That was the biggest load of hogwash I ever heard. ‘It’s the reason they hired a big, strong guy like you.’ You sounded like you were trying to pick him up.”
Wiping tears from his eyes, Tate controlled his laughing. “That was some pretty good double-teaming.”
Bett reached under her blouse and pulled out the twenty or thirty sheets of notebook paper she’d ripped from the Bust-er Book while Tate had distracted the guard with his absurd argument. “I figured I better leave the notebook itself.” She muttered, “The Bust-er Book? The Bust-er Book? Do people really take that stuff seriously?”
Tate drove about three blocks and pulled over to the curb.
“Okay,” she said, “Tuesday . . . Tuesday.” Flipping through the pages. “If the storm trooper back there’s the one who keeps the book he’s got handwriting like a sissy. Okay, Tuesday . . .” She nodded then read: “ ‘Two students reported a gray car, no school parking permit, parked on Sideburn Road. Single driver. Drove off without picking up student.’ ”
“A gray car. Not much to go on. Anything else?”
“Not then. But Amy said Megan’d been thinking she’d been followed for a while.” Bett flipped back through the pages. Her perfect eyebrow rose in a delicate arc. “Listen. A week ago. ‘M. McCall (Green Team)’—that’s her class section at school—‘reported gray car appeared to be following her. Security guard Gibson took report. Did not personally witness incident. Checked but no car seen. Subject did not know tag or make of vehicle.’ ” Bett looked at her ex-husband. “Why didn’t she tell me about it, Tate? Why?”
Tate shrugged. He asked, “Any description of the driver?”
“None, no.”
“What kind of car did her boyfriend drive?”
“White . . . I think a Toyota.”
“He could’ve borrowed one to follow her,” Tate mused.
“Could have, sure.”
More questions than answers.
Tate stared at the turbulent clouds overhead. The sun tried to break through but a line of thick gray rolled over the sky heading eastward. “We’ll come back and talk to Eckhard later,” he said. “Let’s go to Leesburg.”
Chapter Ten
Joshua LeFevre glanced down at the odometer. He’d driven another twenty miles along I-66 in his battered old Toyota since the last time he’d checked. Which put him about seventy miles from Fairfax.
Mr. Tibbs, the unflappable police detective within him, had finally figured out where Megan and her therapist lover were going: to the doctor’s mountain place. It was now chic for professionals to have vacation homes in the Blue Ridge or in West Virginia, where you could buy a whole mountaintop for a song.
The rain had stopped and he cranked the sunroof open, listening to the wind hissing through the Yakima bike rack on the roof.
It was early afternoon when he broke through the Shenandoahs and saw the hazy Blue Ridge in front of him. The rolling hills were not evocative gunmetal today, the literature major in him thought, but were tinted with the green frost of spring growth. Recalling that he and Megan had talked about a bike tour along Skyline Drive, which crested the ridge, later in the spring.
Without the rain LeFevre could see more clearly now and he realized that only the doctor was visiblein the car. Where was Megan? Taking a nap? Wait . . . Was her head resting in his lap?
He was considering this appalling thought, distracted and angry, when the Mercedes got away from him.
Never would have happened to Sidney Poitier.
Damn . . .
The Merce had pulled out to pass a semi and he’d followed. But as soon as the big gray car had cleared the cab of the truck the doctor had steered hard to the right and pulled onto the exit ramp as the truck driver laid on his air horn and braked.
LeFevre’s Toyota was caught in
Neither of them could contain the laughter for long. They both roared. Finally Bett gasped and said, “That was the biggest load of hogwash I ever heard. ‘It’s the reason they hired a big, strong guy like you.’ You sounded like you were trying to pick him up.”
Wiping tears from his eyes, Tate controlled his laughing. “That was some pretty good double-teaming.”
Bett reached under her blouse and pulled out the twenty or thirty sheets of notebook paper she’d ripped from the Bust-er Book while Tate had distracted the guard with his absurd argument. “I figured I better leave the notebook itself.” She muttered, “The Bust-er Book? The Bust-er Book? Do people really take that stuff seriously?”
Tate drove about three blocks and pulled over to the curb.
“Okay,” she said, “Tuesday . . . Tuesday.” Flipping through the pages. “If the storm trooper back there’s the one who keeps the book he’s got handwriting like a sissy. Okay, Tuesday . . .” She nodded then read: “ ‘Two students reported a gray car, no school parking permit, parked on Sideburn Road. Single driver. Drove off without picking up student.’ ”
“A gray car. Not much to go on. Anything else?”
“Not then. But Amy said Megan’d been thinking she’d been followed for a while.” Bett flipped back through the pages. Her perfect eyebrow rose in a delicate arc. “Listen. A week ago. ‘M. McCall (Green Team)’—that’s her class section at school—‘reported gray car appeared to be following her. Security guard Gibson took report. Did not personally witness incident. Checked but no car seen. Subject did not know tag or make of vehicle.’ ” Bett looked at her ex-husband. “Why didn’t she tell me about it, Tate? Why?”
Tate shrugged. He asked, “Any description of the driver?”
“None, no.”
“What kind of car did her boyfriend drive?”
“White . . . I think a Toyota.”
“He could’ve borrowed one to follow her,” Tate mused.
“Could have, sure.”
More questions than answers.
Tate stared at the turbulent clouds overhead. The sun tried to break through but a line of thick gray rolled over the sky heading eastward. “We’ll come back and talk to Eckhard later,” he said. “Let’s go to Leesburg.”
Chapter Ten
Joshua LeFevre glanced down at the odometer. He’d driven another twenty miles along I-66 in his battered old Toyota since the last time he’d checked. Which put him about seventy miles from Fairfax.
Mr. Tibbs, the unflappable police detective within him, had finally figured out where Megan and her therapist lover were going: to the doctor’s mountain place. It was now chic for professionals to have vacation homes in the Blue Ridge or in West Virginia, where you could buy a whole mountaintop for a song.
The rain had stopped and he cranked the sunroof open, listening to the wind hissing through the Yakima bike rack on the roof.
It was early afternoon when he broke through the Shenandoahs and saw the hazy Blue Ridge in front of him. The rolling hills were not evocative gunmetal today, the literature major in him thought, but were tinted with the green frost of spring growth. Recalling that he and Megan had talked about a bike tour along Skyline Drive, which crested the ridge, later in the spring.
Without the rain LeFevre could see more clearly now and he realized that only the doctor was visiblein the car. Where was Megan? Taking a nap? Wait . . . Was her head resting in his lap?
He was considering this appalling thought, distracted and angry, when the Mercedes got away from him.
Never would have happened to Sidney Poitier.
Damn . . .
The Merce had pulled out to pass a semi and he’d followed. But as soon as the big gray car had cleared the cab of the truck the doctor had steered hard to the right and pulled onto the exit ramp as the truck driver laid on his air horn and braked.
LeFevre’s Toyota was caught in
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