Collateral Damage (Stone Barrington 25)

“Shit!” Kelli said. “So they could listen to our calls?”

“Not only that, they could listen to anything we said in the apartment. The sound was transmitted to a black box on the roof, which could re-transmit it just about anywhere from midtown to the Battery. The equipment is on my desk.”

Holly switched views and saw Kelli go to the desk and pick up one of the units, then she returned to the kitchen. Holly switched back.

“Did you ask him who uses that kind of gear?”

“Yeah, he says it’s not government issue, FBI or CIA. You can buy it at those spy shops or on the Internet. Nothing to installing it. Can you think of anyone—not government—who would want to listen in on us?”

She seemed to think that over. “No, I can’t. What about you?”

“Me? Who would want to listen in on an architect?”

“I don’t know, a design freak, maybe?”

They both laughed.

“But,” Kelli said, “who would want to run me over in the street?”

“Let’s not make too much of that. It could have just been a bad driver. After all, you said you were about to jaywalk from between two cars.”

“Maybe.” She didn’t sound convinced.

“Anybody try to kill you today?”

She slapped him on the back of the head. “You shut up!” They both laughed.

—

Holly called the New York station and asked for Mike Theodore.

“Yes, Holly?”

“I’m glad you’re still there. How many black SUVs do we operate out of your station?”

“Six or seven, I think.”

“Is there any record of their whereabouts yesterday, late afternoon, early evening?”

“Hang, and I’ll check.” He put her on hold, then came back a moment later. “One on Long Island, one in Brooklyn, two in the garage all day, two in Manhattan, but never below Forty-second Street.”

“Thank you, Mike, that’s good to know.” She hung up and looked back at the screen, then laughed. Kelli was sitting on the kitchen counter, and Rutledge was standing up, his pants around his ankles, fucking her. Holly switched off the images but realized she was aroused by what she had seen.

—

Later that night, in an office in midtown a man made a call.

“Yeah?”

“It’s me. We’re not getting transmissions from the Rutledge apartment.”

“Equipment failure?”

“My equipment doesn’t fail. I buy the best. I went down there and checked the transmitter on the roof: it was gone. I tested the system with another unit and got nothing. That means that the mikes were removed from all the phones in the apartment. Then I checked the recordings and this morning, Rutledge called somebody who said he would send down somebody to sweep the apartment. A man showed up later, and the last thing we recorded was Rutledge saying he was going to a movie. After that, there were some noises, then the guy left the apartment. He must have found the rooftop transmitter, because we got nothing after that.”

“What now?” the man asked.

“I bill you for the equipment, that’s what, and it’s going to be expensive.”