Loren started working the phones. First she tried the cop sitting in front of Hunter’s residence in Irvington. He informed her that Matt and Olivia Hunter still weren’t home. Loren knew that this was not good news. She started a quiet search because she didn’t want to sound off too many alarm bells yet.
She’d need to get a subpoena for both Matt and Olivia Hunter’s recent credit card transactions—run it through TRW. If they were on the run, they’d probably need to access money at an ATM or check into a motel—something.
From the monitoring screen, Loren could see that Cingle had finished her phone call. Cingle held the phone up to the camera and signaled for someone to hit the audio switch. Loren complied.
“Yes?”
Cingle said, “My attorney is on his way.”
“Sit tight then.”
Loren switched off the intercom. She leaned back. Exhaustion was starting to set in. She was nearing the wall. She needed a little shut-eye or her brain would start going hazy. Cingle’s attorney wouldn’t be here for at least half an hour. She crossed her arms, threw her feet on the desk, and closed her eyes, hoping to doze for just a few minutes, just until the attorney showed.
Her cell phone rang. She startled up and put it to her ear.
It was Ed Steinberg. “Hey.”
“Hey,” she managed.
“The private eye talking?”
“Not yet. She’s waiting for her lawyer.”
“Let her wait then. Let them both wait.”
“Why, what’s up?”
“The feds, Loren.”
“What about them?”
“We’re meeting them in an hour.”
“Who?”
“Joan Thurston.”
That made her drop her feet to the floor. “The U.S. attorney herself?”
“In the flesh. And some hotshot SAC from Nevada. We’re meeting them at Thurston’s office to discuss your phony nun.”
Loren checked the clock. “It’s four in the morning.”
“Thank you, Mistress of the Obvious.”
“No, I mean, I’m surprised you’d call the U.S. attorney that early.”
“Didn’t have to,” Steinberg said. “She called me.”
When Ed Steinberg arrived, he looked at Loren and shook his head. Her hair was frizzed out from the humidity. The sweat had dried, but she was still a mess.
“You look,” Steinberg said, “like something I once left in the bottom of my gym locker.”
“Flattering, thank you.”
He motioned at her with both his hands. “Can’t you—I don’t know—do something about your hair?”
“What, this a singles’ club now?”
“Evidently not.”
The ride from the county prosecutor’s office to the U.S. attorney’s was three blocks. They entered via the well-guarded private underground garage. There were very few cars at this hour. The elevator dropped them on the seventh floor. The stencil on the glass read:
UNITED STATES ATTORNEY
DISTRICT OF NEW JERSEY
JOAN THURSTON
UNITED STATES ATTORNEY
Steinberg pointed at the top line and then the bottom line. “Kinda redundant, no?”
Despite the power of the office, the waiting room was done up in Early American Dentist. The carpet was threadbare. The furniture managed to be neither fashionable nor functional. There were a dozen different issues of Sports Illustrated on the table and nothing else. The walls seemed to plead for a paint job. They were stained and barren, except for the photographs of past U.S. attorneys, a remarkable lesson in what not to wear and how not to pose when taking a picture for posterity.
No receptionist was sitting guard at this hour. They knocked and were buzzed into the inner sanctum. It was much nicer in here, a totally different feel and look, like they’d stepped through a wall into Diagon Alley.
They turned right and headed toward the corner office. A man—an enormous man—stood in the corridor. He had a buzz cut and a frown. He stood perfectly still and looked as if he could double as a squash court. Steinberg stuck out his hand. “Hi, I’m Ed Steinberg, county prosecutor.”
Squash Court took the hand but he did not look happy about it. “Cal Dollinger, FBI. They’re waiting.”
That was the end of that conversation. Cal Dollinger stayed where he was. They turned the corner. Joan Thurston greeted them at the door.
Despite the early hour U.S. Attorney Joan Thurston looked resplendent in a charcoal gray business suit that seemed to have been tailored by the gods. Thurston was mid-forties and, in Loren’s view, excessively attractive. She had auburn hair, broad shoulders, tapered waist. She had two sons in their early teens. Her husband worked at Morgan Stanley in Manhattan. They lived in ritzy Short Hills with a vacation home on Long Beach Island.
In short: Joan Thurston was what Loren wanted to be when she grew up.
“Good morning,” Thurston said, which felt weird because outside her windows, the skies were still night black.
She shook Loren’s hand firmly, meeting her eye and softening it with a smile. She gave Steinberg a hug and buss on the cheek. “I’d like you to meet Adam Yates. He’s the FBI Special Agent in Charge of the Las Vegas office.”
Adam Yates wore freshly ironed khakis and a bright pink shirt that might be the norm on Worth Avenue in Palm Beach but not Broad Street in Newark. He wore loafers without socks, his legs too casually crossed. He had that whole Old World, came-over-on-the-Mayflower thing going on, what with the receding ash-blond hair, the high cheekbones, the eyes so ice blue she wondered if he was wearing contacts. His cologne smelled like freshly cut grass. Loren liked it.
“Please sit,” Thurston said.
Thurston had a spacious corner office. On one wall—the least noticeable wall—was a smattering of diplomas and awards. They were put out of the way, almost as if to say, “Hey, I need to put them up but I don’t like to put on airs.” The rest of the office was personal. She had photographs of her children and her husband, all of whom—big surprise—were gorgeous. Even the dog. There was a white guitar autographed by Bruce Springsteen hanging behind her head. On the bookshelf were the usual assortment of law books, along with autographed baseballs and footballs. All the local teams, of course. Joan Thurston had no photographs of herself, no news clippings, no Lucite-block awards in view.
Loren sat down carefully. She used to tuck her heels underneath her to gain a few inches, but she’d read a business self-help book about how women sabotage their own careers, and one of the rules said that a woman must never sit on her heels. It looked unprofessional. Usually Loren forgot that rule. Something about seeing Joan Thurston brought it all back.