I drank my coffee and watched Molly melt into the morning fog. My cell phone chirped. I didn’t recognize the number and didn’t answer.
I left the shop and walked north on Plymouth Court. The unmarked cruisers were still at the end of the block. Lights still flashing. I walked over to a silver Crown Vic with tinted glass. Vince Rodriguez popped the locks, and I eased into the front seat.
“You responsible for this?” I said.
“Shooter sees all the blue, he thinks twice.”
“Thanks for helping out.”
“Not a problem. Molly Carrolton just walked by.”
“I know.”
“You want someone on her?”
“Leave her.”
“All right. You want to tell me who it is that wants to pop your ass?”
“Might be better if you didn’t know.”
“Might be better if I did.”
Rodriguez was right. At least from where he sat. So I told him about the man with the limp.
“His name was Robert Crane. Homeland Security ID. I suggested he take an early retirement. He was more than happy to disappear.”
“Probably should have killed him.”
“That what you would have done?”
“No. Sounds good, though, doesn’t it?”
“Someone in Washington is nervous, Vince.”
“If they only knew how little you know.”
“Not quite.” I pulled out the report on Gilmore and tossed it across the car. “Molly got a DNA hit on the cigarette I gave her. Former operative for the Agency.”
Rodriguez’s eyes glowed as he read through the file.
“She also got an address.” I took out the slip of paper Molly had given me and held it between my fingers. “Says he might be holed up there right now.”
Rodriguez whistled. “Goddamn.”
“Exactly.”