“Yes, ma’am,” Scotty said, and left the room.
—
Habib let himself into the apartment and found Jasmine in the living room, pointing a gun at him.
“You should call first,” she said.
“I’m afraid to use my cell phone,” he replied. “The police have been to my office and interrogated my employees. They will certainly try to track my cell phone.”
“How did they get on to you?”
“I’ve no idea. I’ve been racking my brain about that.”
Jasmine dug into her bag and produced a throwaway phone. “This is good for a hundred hours,” she said. “When it runs low, buy a couple more.”
“Right. And
now I have to move in here.”
“That seems sensible,” Jasmine said. “After all, there are three bedrooms. Take the one farthest from mine.”
“Thank you. I will.”
“What are you driving?”
“A rental car.”
“In your own name?”
“Yes.”
“Take it to a neighborhood you don’t frequent, wipe it down, and abandon it.”
“But the rental car company will—”
“You don’t get it, do you, Habib? You’re a fugitive—you don’t deal with rental car companies unless you’re using false ID.”
“I’m sorry, what I meant by my own name was the ID I’m using.”
“Shred it and manufacture a new one, and make it good.”
“Right.”
“Habib, I think we’re both going to have to leave New York soon. We’re getting too hot.”
“I can do that.”
“You have cash?”
“Yes.”
“Buy a good used car and register it in the name of your new ID. I think we’re going to have to travel by car.”
“Travel where?”
“I haven’t decided yet, but we need to hook up with one of the other teams around the country.”
“Can we go to Los Angeles?”