"I'm not at liberty to discuss Ms. Pearson's business with-"
"It's okay. He knows all about it," Andie said. She didn't introduce him. If he'd wanted the agents to know his name, or any name at all, he'd have introduced himself. She wanted to heave a huge, frustrated sigh. If he had just told her he was coming to the meeting and given her a name beforehand, this situation could have been handled much more smoothly.
Agent Cotton wasn't pleased with Simon's presence. He said to her, "This isn't a good time. I'll be in touch with you about your plan. I think something can be worked out." He nodded at Simon, then he and Agent Jackson strode briskly toward the street.
Astonished, because she hadn't thought they would think there was any viability to a plan that could involve getting her shot, Andie bowed her head and stared at her feet as she fought the sting of tears. She couldn't look at Simon, couldn't face that impassive expression.
"Let's go," he said, taking her hand and linking their arms. He was silent during the walk back to the Holiday Inn, though they had plenty of opportunity to talk. He'd stated his position, and he didn't see the need to keep restating it.
She still felt compelled to offer what comfort she could. "It'll be all right," she finally ventured, to be met by a wall of silence.
Chapter Thirty-two
JACKSON WAS SILENT AS HE AND COTTON WALKED DOWN the street toward their car. He was patient, waiting until they had closed the car doors behind them and buckled their seat belts before he asked, "What was that about?" He couldn't think of any reason why Cotton would deliberately mislead Drea Rousseau-he had a hard time thinking of her as "Andie" anything-about the feasibility of any plan involving using her as bait. If Salinas were in hiding and they were trying to draw him out, maybe, but that wasn't the case. Physically, they could put their hands on him at any time. Their problem was getting evidence against him that would stick, and short of filming him killing her, there was simply no way to use her. The Bureau wasn't going to set her up as a sacrificial lamb, so the whole idea was a nonstarter.
Cotton studied the street, the people around them, before asking mildly, "You didn't recognize him?"
"Recognize him? Should I have?"
"He's the man on the balcony."
Jackson stared at Cotton, astonished. "The man on the balcony," as they called him, had been a source of frustrated conjecture for months. He had simply vanished, and they'd never discovered how. Jackson sat back in the seat and looked straight ahead as he mentally compared the man in his memory to the one he had just seen standing in the park. "I'll be damned. Good eye, Cotton." He drummed his fingers on his leg. "She's probably been with him all this time."
He hoped she had been, anyway. He'd never admit it to anyone, but he had a kind of soft spot for her. When she'd been with Salinas, he'd pitied her, because she'd been like this pretty, useless doll that Salinas dragged out whenever he wanted to play with her, but otherwise had no interest in her. Whoever the balcony guy was, though, she loved him. Jackson was a hard-core realist, but being a realist meant he recognized what was right in front of him. When the guy had appeared right behind them, as silently as a damn ghost, both he and Cotton had damn near had coronaries, but when she'd turned around her face had taken on a luminous expression-exasperated, but luminous, as if the sun had just come out in her world. She might be a tad pissed off at the sun, but she was glad to see it all the same.
She was different, and it wasn't just the shorter, darker, straighter hair. It wasn't that she no longer dressed to show. In a way she was more eye-catching now than she had been before, but not because of the flash. There was something in her expression, a serenity, that hadn't been there before. Sometimes her attention seemed riveted to something in the distance; once he'd turned around to check if someone was behind him, but there was nothing, and when he turned back she had refocused on him. That was another thing: when she looked at a person, she really looked, deeply and thoroughly. With that stare turned on him, he'd had to fight the compulsion to look down and check his zipper, to see if that was making her study him so intently.
Reading the guy wasn't as easy as reading her. Hell, his expression hadn't so much as flickered, and the damn sunglasses hadn't helped. He'd been as blank as a store-window mannequin. But Jackson had looked back and seen the guy take her hand and link their arms, and something in the way he'd touched her told Jackson that the feeling between them was mutual.
Jackson was glad, for her sake. From the conversation she'd had with Salinas on the balcony that day, they knew that he'd given her services to the guy as if she were just a whore to him. They knew she'd been extremely upset. Then, the next day, she was gone. They knew she hadn't packed her clothes and moved out, because they kept track of everyone who entered and exited the apartment building. The last time they'd seen her, she had gotten into a car with one of Salinas's thugs, and when he came back she wasn't with him.
When she'd disappeared, there had been a lot of upheaval in Salinas's routine, and Jackson had wondered then if she'd been killed and her body disposed of, for reasons they could only guess at. Thinking of those days immediately following her disappearance, he suddenly made another connection. "Hey! Remember that meeting Salinas had in Central Park? We couldn't get a shot of the other guy's face. Remember? I think that was him, then, too-the man on the balcony."
Cotton considered the possibility, dredging his memory for the few details they had of the man Salinas had met, and he gave a single, considering nod. "I think you're right."