Tonton (A Hunter Kincaid Novel)

“Fifteen minutes.”

“I will call. Thank you, Agent Kincaid. The Haitian people also thank you.”

He hung up before Hunter could say anything. She said to Andre, “We’ve got a good one to check out, you ready to go?”

“I’ve got a Danish in the microwave, can’t we wait thirty seconds?”

“One Danish?”

“No, duh. I’ve seen you eat. There’s one for you, too.”

Hunter grinned, “Okay, we’ll wait, but we’re on the clock. I need to make a quick call and meet you at the car.” She started out the door, “Bring a couple of paper towels, I don’t want to get gooey on the steering wheel.”

“Gotcha.”

Hunter dialed John Quick’s cell as she walked to the sedan. He picked up on the second ring and said, “Hey.”

She filled him in on Dessaline’s phone call, then said, “Something about this feels a little hinky. If you aren’t busy, could you come over and unofficially keep an eye out from down the street, just in case things go south?”

“Sure, give me the address.” He wrote it down and walked out of the police station for his car. “I’m on my way.”

John parked where the residential street made a slight bend and left him with a little foliage to hide the car. He beat Hunter and Andre to the area and settled down to scan the other homes and yards for anything that stood out.

And there it was.

John thought at first that what he saw was a tall mannequin, almost hidden between two large oleanders. But the more he looked, the more sure John became that it was a man, a man who was looking in the same direction he was, and maybe fifty yards closer to the address.

He moved the car at an idle down the street, stopping again maybe twenty yards from the man in the oleanders. The man never turned to look. Hell, John thought, he never even twitched. A car pulled up to the address and John watched as Hunter got out of the driver’s side and walked to the front door. When he glanced back at the tall man in the oleanders, there was no one.

Hunter rang the bell and Jean Claude opened the door before the chimes stopped. Hunter was close to him now, maybe three feet, and his eyes were still creepy, although she could now see that the outer edges of eyeball were a muddy brown, not black like his irises. She said, “Jean Claude, you are under arrest. Please turn so I can handcuff you.” He turned and she ratcheted on the cuffs, turned him and started to give him his Miranda rights when a slender white man stepped from inside the house to stand beside Jean Claude.

He said, “I’m his attorney, Jack Woodson,” he handed Hunter a card. “No need to Mirandize him, I’m already here.”

Hunter was a little surprised, but not much. “I’ll finish giving him his rights, just so it doesn’t come up in court that a failed to do it.” Hunter gave the Miranda, and Woodson nodded, smiling a little. She thought something had been left unsaid in her conversation with Marc Dessaline. She said, “Okay, how do you want to play it?”

“Oh, I’ll follow you to your station, and be with him through the entire process.”

“You trust him to be with us in the car?”

“Yes. He is innocent, Agent Kincaid. I am merely a precaution to ensure fair treatment under the law, and I feel sure you won’t abuse your authority in the next ten or so minutes while we drive to your station.”

“Fair enough.” She escorted Jean Claude to the car, put him in the back seat and slid into the driver’s side.

Andre said, “Who was that?”

“His attorney. He’s following us to the office.”

Andre said, “You want me to call so the circus can start?”

“Sure. In the next half hour we’ll probably have more Justice Department Attorneys and FBI Investigators at the station than we have Agents.”

“Well, they need the publicity.”

Hunter shook her head, “That’s some dry humor you have there, Benton.”

“Like the Sahara.”

“Call ‘em.” While Andre called the U.S. Attorney’s Office, Hunter glanced in her rearview and saw John on foot, checking some bushes near a house. What the heck? That would be something to ask him about tonight. And Randall would be home, too. That thought made her happy.