C T Ferguson Box Set by Tom Fowler

Author:Tom Fowler [Fowler, Tom]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Tom Fowler Writes
Published: 2019-03-16T22:00:00+00:00

Chris called Brian from the Caprice. He was waiting for us. Brian and Chris hugged. Then they both got in the car before I could tell them we needed to keep going. Maybe Chris was learning. I got back on I-95 and headed toward Columbia. “Where’s this safehouse?” Chris said from the rear seat.

“Columbia,” I said.

“That’s convenient to a lot of things,” Anna said.

“It’s most convenient to staying indoors and not being seen,” I said. “The place is part of Joey’s business. It gets professionally cleaned three times a month . . . more often if necessary. He also has someone keep the pantry stocked. I’ll buy you some perishables once you’re there.”

“Is there an alarm?” Brian said. I was glad someone asked the question but wished it came from one of the adults.

“Yes.”

“You know the code?”

“No, but I know how to find it. It changes every time he puts someone up in the house.”

“Your friend takes security seriously,” Chris said.

“He has to,” I said, finding Chris’ eyes in the rearview mirror. “I wish everyone took it so seriously.”

Chris frowned. “I guess we deserved that.”

“You did.”

We made the rest of the drive in silence. I turned onto Puppy Breath Court—which is the most Columbia street name in the city—and drove slowly. The houses here were all large Victorians, many with unnecessary pillars surrounding their front doors, and two-car garages. I doubted any of them could be purchased for less than $600,000. Joey put his clients up in style. Signs on the street advertised a neighborhood watch, and most houses posted alarm system signs in their manicured front yards.

I pulled the Caprice into the driveway of Joey’s house, sitting right before the end of the cul-de-sac. “Stay here for a minute,” I said as I got out. I didn’t see anyone paying extra attention to us. No one followed. Still, I walked around the exterior once, checking the doors and windows and finding nothing unusual. I waved at Chris, Anna, and Brian, and they got out of the car. Joey texted me on the drive, and I looked at his message now.

Sir Laurence Olivier really hated Picasso.

His text meant the alarm code would be 387657. It also meant Sir Laurence’s myriad talents included a keen eye for weird art. I used the key Joey gave me and unlocked the door. The alarm emitted a quiet but shrill whistle as we walked in. I entered the code; the screen flashed ALARM DISABLED, and the whistle fell silent. I tossed the keys to Chris. “Don’t make copies,” I said. “There are only two. One of you won’t have a key. Too bad.”

“I understand,” Chris said.

“You’d better,” I said. “Joey is helping you here, and you haven’t even paid him yet.”

“I don’t know that I want a fake ID.”

I bit down my initial and very uncharitable reply. “It’s a new life,” I said in a measured tone. “You get all new papers, Social Security numbers, job history, everything. And it stands up to scrutiny.”

“How does your friend do it?” Anna said.

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