Whitewashed Lies by G K Parks

Author:G K Parks [Parks, G K]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781942710097
Publisher: Modus Operandi
Published: 2018-06-12T04:00:00+00:00

Twenty

“Seriously?” I glared at my phone and dropped my fork.

“Don’t answer it,” Martin suggested.

“I have to.” I recognized the number as belonging to our fraud unit. Pushing the room service cart away, I got up from the couch and answered on my way to the bedroom. “Did we get a hit?”

“Two of the credit cards are showing recent activity. They were used to purchase train tickets less than ten minutes ago.”

“Where?” I stowed my nine millimeter in my shoulder holster and grabbed my jacket.

“At the two southeastern kiosks near the central transportation hub.”

“How long ago?”

“Seven minutes on one. Three on the other.”

“Send teams to intercept, but keep this quiet. I want people on the platforms. Did you notify Jablonsky?”

“He didn’t answer.”

“Try him again and keep trying until he gets his ass down there. I’m on my way.” I hung up the phone. Our hotel was only two blocks from the hub. I was the closest agent. “I’ll be back later,” I yelled over my shoulder, dashing out of the suite and into the waiting elevator.

When I hit the lobby, I broke into a run. The two blocks flew by, and I slowed when the transportation hub came into view. From here, a person could take a bus, the subway, or a long distance train. That didn’t take into account the dozens of taxis and private ride-share vehicles that idled nearby. Kiter was executing his escape plan. I just didn’t know what it was.

Slowing my pace to a brisk jog, I remained across the street, watching the pedestrians milling about. It was early evening. The streetlights had come on, but the sky hadn’t gone completely dark yet. Visibility wasn’t great, but with the number of lights outside the hub, Kiter would surely be picked up on the security cameras.

“Where the hell are you?” I whispered, narrowing my eyes while I headed for the kiosk. Once I was close enough to avoid making a scene, I pushed my way to the front of the line and held out my badge. “Federal agent,” I announced to the disgruntled customers, “step aside.” The ticket agent waited, knowing what I was about to ask. “Sir, you just sold a train ticket to someone named Randolph Kramer. He paid with a credit card. It happened less than ten minutes ago. Do you have any idea where the man went?”

“Sorry.” He shook his head.

My eyes scanned the vicinity, noting the security cameras. “He probably had a hat or glasses. Something large and gaudy. Did anyone like that buy a ticket?”

He shrugged. “I don’t remember.”

“Okay. I need you to pull up the credit card transaction and tell me where this guy is headed. Randolph Kramer,” I repeated. “It’s extremely important.”

As soon as I knew the destination, I phoned it in. Before I could go in search of the second kiosk where the other ticket had been purchased using a different credit card, two dark SUVs pulled to a stop in the no parking zone. So much for keeping things under wraps.

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