“Where?”

“Won’t say yet. Don’t want to jinx it.”

Whatever that means, Charlotte thinks. But he’s doing such a good job of tailing Pemberton, she doesn’t want to say anything to distract him.

They keep heading west; then Pemberton’s right-turn blinker starts flashing.

“Shit,” Luke whispers.

And that’s when Charley sees the sign for the exit Pemberton’s about to take: LOS ANGELES INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT.

“Shit on a stick,” she adds.

38

They follow Pemberton across Century Boulevard and into one of the vast and uncovered long-term parking lots right beneath the airport’s final approach path.

He bypasses several open spots close to the entrance. Heads for one in the middle of the shadowy sea of parked cars.

“Look at it this way,” Luke says. “At least I’ll be able to put a tracker on the Camry now.”

“What good will it do if he’s leaving town?”

Instead of answering, Luke drives past Pemberton’s freshly parked car. Slows as he comes to an empty spot two rows away.

“Besides, I thought the extras were replacements for his bike and his Caddy. They only have a sixty-hour charge, right?”

“Yeah, well, best-laid plans and all that.”

He’s parked them between an SUV and a van.

“Can you see him?” she asks. Her view is blocked.

“Yep. Oh, look. How handy? He already had a carry-on packed in the trunk.”

“Well, that’s some forward thinking. If he’s going to the terminal, we need to follow him.”

“No, I need to follow him,” Luke says. “You need to put the tracker on the Camry.”

“Which I don’t know how to do.”

“If he’s getting on a shuttle, you’re not getting on with him. Too confined. He’ll see you for sure.”

“What if he’s about to abduct someone?”

“Then he’s an idiot. LAX has their own intelligence service, and cameras everywhere. If he’s actually going to the airport, there’s no way. He’s either leaving town or . . .”

“Or what?”

“I don’t know. He’s walking to the shuttle stop. I’m going after him. At least I can find out what airline he’s taking.”

“You don’t have a bag.”

He reaches into the back seat, pulls out the backpack he’s been using to carry all the surveillance devices they’ve acquired over the past few days. He digs in it with one hand, pulls out a spare tracker, and hands it to her. But she still has no idea how to install and activate it, much less connect it to the tablet.

“I’m not fucking this up,” she says.

“Fine. Just wait till I’m back. But I need to go now, or I’m going to lose him.”

She nods.

He hops from the Jeep, slides the empty backpack up onto his shoulders as he jogs toward the shuttle stop. The bag looks too empty, she thinks. But there’s no fixing that now.

She steps from the Jeep and inches down its side until she can see Pemberton standing several deliberate paces away from the small group of suitcase-toting travelers waiting for their ride to the terminal.

A thought occurs to her. She pulls out her burner phone.

Still in Pemberton’s computer? She asks Bailey.

Yep.

Any evidence of travel arrangements?

Checking.

Luke’s made it to the shuttle stop. Like Pemberton, he’s standing several paces away from the other travelers, but on the opposite side of the group.

From a distance, he’s doing a decent job of looking like a nervous traveler; checking the time on his phone, pulling out some folded-up papers he found inside the bag, checking them as if they’re boarding passes.

She waits. Pemberton waits. Luke waits. The other travelers wait.

Then there’s a sharp hiss of bus brakes that makes the entire group straighten in anticipation. A few seconds later, a shuttle comes bouncing into the lot.

Almost too late, Luke seems to realize Pemberton is determined to board last. For a few seconds, she’s afraid his hesitation might give away his attention. But Luke recovers and steps up onto the shuttle, allowing a young couple and their two small children to fall in between him and their target, who’s now bringing up the rear.

Another hiss of brakes and the shuttle lurches forward. Once the low bellow of its engine fades, she’s left in unnerving silence. Then a wide-body jet blasts by overhead, so close she can read the codes painted on its belly, engines loud enough to make her teeth rattle.

She approaches the Camry.

It’s parked well outside the halo of the nearest sodium vapor light. Maybe that’s why he bypassed the first two open spots after entering. She looks around. In general the parking lot is badly lit. Badly lit and huge. And according to the posted rates, not all that expensive, either. And it’s hardly secure. The exhaust from the jets can’t be good for your paint job.

She peers through the Camry’s window. Gives her eyes a minute or two to adjust to the shadows.

There’s nothing inside. Nothing. Not a scrap of paper. Not an empty packet of gum. Nothing.

Even though it feels dangerous, she places her hand against the trunk.

She even knocks.

But it’s crazy, what she’s thinking. According to Luke, Pemberton just opened the trunk and pulled out a carry-on, and besides, he’s never dumped an entire body before.

The only part of one of his victims he allows the world to find is her face.

The terminal is packed.

Pemberton bypasses the long lines of customers trying to figure out self-serve ticket kiosks that seem to confound everyone equally regardless of their educational background.

He’s strolling, Luke thinks, and for some reason, it’s harder to maintain a tailing pace on foot than it was on the freeway.

He pulls a plain black carry-on that looks like almost every other carry-on in the airport. Just like the Camry looks like almost every other car on the road. His outfit, however, is startlingly bright. White jeans, one of those rumpled tan fisherman’s hats that reminds Luke of his late grandfather, a cream-colored T-shirt, and a tan windbreaker. It doesn’t seem to fit with the rest of his incognito routine. Then Luke imagines what the ensemble looks like against the polished white floors on a black-and-white screen, and the outfit choice makes sense.

So far Pemberton’s walked past one major airline, two regional ones, and the entrances to two different security checkpoints. He’s made no effort to weave around even the most sluggish of passengers who cross his path. In fact, he seems to stick with the nearest crowd wherever possible, as if he’s being gently sucked into the wake of every family or tour group or excited gaggle of college students.

Even if he is taking his sweet time, Luke’s still confident there’s not a chance he’ll strike here or anywhere else inside the airport. The minute he stepped off that shuttle, he gave up all hope of an abduction.

So what is he doing?

They arrive at the entrance to another security checkpoint.

Pemberton slows. So does everyone else around him. They’re pausing to debate whether or not this is the checkpoint for their gate. Digging in their bags and purses for their photo IDs. Using the little crowd as cover, Pemberton slips into the nearest restroom. Luke pauses, looking for some way to look busy without having to commit to any of the actual rituals of travel.

He walks past the bathroom, then out the nearest exit. There’s a wall of glass that allows him to see the bathroom entrance when he doubles back. Once inside again, he walks up to the spot where travelers are showing their IDs to the TSA agent, looks up at the nearest bank of arrival and departure screens. Then he looks back and forth between the screens and his burner phone as if he’s comparing what he sees on each.

After ten minutes of this, and no sign of Pemberton, he needs a new charade. There’s no Starbucks, no magazine stands, no stores of any kind this side of security, so it won’t be easy. And there’s still a good chance the guy’s about to fall into the security line and board a long flight. Maybe he checked in online. But why get off the shuttle at a stop so far from his gate? Why walk two and a half terminals first?

He almost misses the man who emerges from the bathroom. And that’s the idea, apparently. It’s Pemberton, but the fisherman’s hat and cream-colored outfit is gone. Now he’s in black running pants, a black baseball cap, and a black windbreaker with white stripes on the arms. He’s also added a pair of thick-framed glasses, and he’s moving at a different speed. Not rushed but clipped. He changed not only outfits but also demeanors; Strolling Leisure Traveler has been replaced by Just Landed and Have an Appointment First Thing in the Morning Traveler.

Luke follows him down the escalator to the arrivals level.

If he changes cars again, I’m gonna grind my teeth to dust, he thinks.

Pemberton heads to the nearest taxi line. Luke allows some space to develop between them, then joins the line himself. Is Pemberton actually going to get in a cab? At this point Luke wouldn’t be surprised if the guy whipped out a saxophone and began playing tunes for change.

The burner phone buzzes in his pocket.