“Of course they did. And then they saw you there.” Bunting felt a dull ache in his head. “And then they followed you. They’re probably standing outside your office as we speak.”
“Oh shit.”
Bunting rubbed his temples. “Did you notice anyone that looked like Sean King on your flights?”
“No, but I really wasn’t paying attention.”
Bunting nervously tapped the top of his desk. “Did you cab it from the airport?”
“No, I had a driver meet me at the airport.”
Bunting ground his teeth together. “So they have your name now, too. Okay, they followed you to the office and have no doubt discovered that you work for BIC. From BIC it’s only a Google search to Peter Bunting.”
“But, sir—”
Bunting hung up on him and paced his large office, nervous energy feeding his system like liquefied rocks of crack.
He calmed himself, sat back down. He had to think. Even if King had connected the dots to BIC, he had no proof of any wrongdoing because there was none. But that wasn’t the point. Revealing to the public what Edgar Roy really was could be catastrophic.
And now Bunting had no one he could really trust.
Except myself, apparently.
Right now that was small comfort.
CHAPTER
42
KELLY PAUL SAT at her desk in her hotel room in New York and looked around the small, comfortable space. How many such rooms had she inhabited over the last twenty years? She wouldn’t sound clichéd and say too many. Actually, the number had been just about right.
She didn’t doodle with the hotel-supplied pen and paper because she might inadvertently leave behind some clue that might one day lead back to her. Her bag was packed, her traveling documents in order. She carried no weapon with her but had ready access to any she might need only five minutes from here.
She had learned of Carla Dukes’s death at six thirty a.m. She didn’t spend much time wondering who had killed the woman. The answer to that question was important. But not as important as the matters she was focusing on presently.
By now Peter Bunting had to know about the woman’s death, too. His inside source at Cutter’s Rock had allowed him to take certain liberties in seeing her brother. Well, Paul had her own sources, and they had told her that the prisoner’s condition had not changed.
Keep it that way, Eddie, keep it that way. For now. Don’t let them get to you.
She glanced down at her cell phone, hesitated, and then picked it up. She punched in the number. It rang twice.
“Hello?”
“Mr. King, it’s Kelly Paul.”
“I was hoping to hear from you. Do you know about Carla Dukes?”
“I heard.”
“Theories?”
“Several. That’s beside the point right now. Where are you?”
“Where are you?”
“East Coast.”
“Me too. I’ve had an interesting search on the Web this afternoon.”