Unsolved (Invisible #2) - James Patterson Page 0,80

keeps that agent’s noncommittal expression, but his smirk gives him away. “For about a year, Elizabeth hasn’t taken a single dollar out of an ATM or even directly from her bank. That’s hard to do. Even in today’s world.”

“Maybe she’s just one of those people who likes the convenience of credit and debit cards.”

“But she isn’t one of those people. She hasn’t used a credit or debit card to pay for clothes or shoes or groceries or dry-cleaning or—I don’t know, take your pick. Taxis, makeup, shampoo, perfume, nail polish.”

“She has great clothes.”

“Right, I know. She hasn’t bought anything like that with a credit or debit card for nearly a year. Her mortgage is on autopay. So is her car. Her insurance. Her cellular carrier. And her club membership. Those I can track by looking at her accounts. Otherwise,” he says with a shrug, “you’d think Elizabeth Ashland never bought so much as a frozen pizza or a tube of toothpaste, much less designer clothes and shoes.”

“You think someone’s giving her money.”

“I know someone’s giving her money.”

“You think it’s Citizen David.”

“Here, let me show you something.” He reaches down to the gym bag at his feet and takes out his camera, a fancy job with a zoom lens and plenty of bells and whistles. He pulls up previous photos and clicks through them. “See that?”

I move in, getting too close to him for comfort, having to stop myself from putting my head against his shoulder as I’ve done thousands of times. Feeling the heat radiate off him. Feeling drawn to him like a magnet.

The photo he’s showing me is a close-up of a cell phone and a manicured, polished fingernail that belongs to Elizabeth Ashland.

“That’s a burner phone,” says Books. “It’s a prepaid job. She didn’t buy it with a credit or debit card. It’s not her personal cell phone, and it’s not a Bureau phone. It’s her third phone, Emmy. And it’s untraceable.”

I think it over. “Shaindy Eckstein’s communicating with her source through a burner phone. But lots of people use them nowadays, not just drug dealers and mobsters.”

“That’s true. People who want to experiment with a service plan before committing to one. Or people who want to rein in their teenagers’ phone usage. Sure. But not single people with money who already have their own personal cell phones. Why does Elizabeth Ashland need a second personal phone?”

“And why pick a cheap, untraceable one?” I add.

“Exactly.”

Wow.

“I followed Elizabeth tonight to the Payton Club,” he says.

“That club over on Third Street Northwest? Fancy,” I say. “Exclusive.”

“You can’t even get through the door of that place unless you’re a member or a member’s guest. She’s been a member for about a year. You know who else belongs?”

I shrug.

“A certain reporter for the Washington Post.”

“Shaindy Eckstein belongs to that club too?”

Books smiles the smile of someone who loves working on the puzzle—and loves even more when he fits in a big piece. “Can you think of a better place for them to meet than a private club?”

“She contacts Shaindy with a burner phone,” I say. “And if necessary, she meets her in person at the Payton Club.”

“Right. I’ve been there as a guest. It’s a big place. They have all kinds of rooms. Or, who knows, maybe she drops a handwritten note in Shaindy’s locker in the women’s locker room,” he says. “So Shaindy wouldn’t even have to be there at the same time as Elizabeth. They’d never be seen together. It would be so easy.”

It would. He’s right. I see the animation in his eyes, the thrill of a breakthrough.

“How does David get the money to her?” I ask. “Not through wire transfers.”

“No, no, of course not. She’s a financial-crimes whiz. She knows that would be easy to trace. No, my guess is he paid her in cash up front. Or he’s meeting with her and handing her cash.”

I put my hand on my forehead. “Elizabeth Ashland,” I mumble. “And I just told her everything.”

Books looks at me. “You told her all about Darwin?”

“Yep.”

“You told her you suspect him, not Citizen David, in the Chicago bombing?”

“I sure did.”

Books falls back against the cushion. “Then she needs to get word to David that he’s in the clear. We’ll be reading about it soon in the Washington Post.”

80

AN HOUR and a half, a precious ninety minutes, is all the sleep I get before my phone blares out the sound of harp strings. I leave behind the whispers of a dream, not about serial