Free Watchlist by Jeffery Deaver Page B

of lacy lingerie. One hand rested on her chest, as if she had grabbed at her heart, the other at her side.
    “Oh Mother.” Whimpering, she took a step forward, then stopped, lightheaded, and grasped the counter for support.
    Her husband inched toward his mother-in-law’s body, careful to avoid the blood. He squatted and checked her pulse.
    Struggling to come to grips with what had happened, she shifted her gaze. It landed on an item peeking out from under the cabinet. She blinked, focusing. A candy-bar wrapper. With the toe of her shoe, she nudged it out. Milka, a European brand, one difficult to acquire in the states. She tilted her head. This one was from Poland.
    She stared at it, blood thundering in her head. Her father’s favorite chocolate. His secret passion. One that they shared.
    “She’s dead, Charley.”
    “We’ve got to get out of here. Now.” She snatched up the candy wrapper and stuffed it into her pocket.
    “What are you doing? Charley, that could be evidence. We’ve got to call the police.”
    “They’re going to try to pin this on Harry.”
    “Have you thought that maybe he did—”
    “Never, not Dad. He sent me that text message because I’m in danger too. Mother was as well. I don’t know why this is happening, but I trust him.”
    “With your life? With mine as well?”
    “Yes.” She pressed her lips together as the full meaning of what was happening set in. “We’ve got to find him.”
    “How?” Perez dragged a shaking hand through his hair. “We’re not wanted by the police, but I’m sure they’re looking for us.”
    She looked back at her mother, fighting back despair—and the urge to crawl into her husband’s arms and sob. She was Harold Middleton’s daughter. She would hunt down whoever had done this. And make him—or her—pay.
    In the distance came the sound of sirens. “The lake house,” she said, starting for her mother’s bedroom and a change of clothes. “Eventually, Harry will look for us there.”

6
    JOHN RAMSEY MILLER
    I n the Dulles parking lot, FBI Agent In Charge M. T. Connolly watched homicide detectives process a policeman’s corpse. A deep ligature mark around the murdered cop’s neck and blossoms of red in the white of his eyes made cause of death obvious, the same way the security videos made just as obvious the identity of the man who killed him, stole his uniform and stuffed him into the back of a Jeep, where he now lay.
    The detectives had arrived in response to the shooting of a state trooper in the concourse. Despite early reports to the contrary, Trooper George was still alive, but in grave condition. Three bullets had deformed against his bulletproof vest and one had gone high and deflected against the collar and severed an artery. He wasn’t expected to live. If he did, he could have serious brain damage from blood loss.
    Accompanied by homicide detectives, Connolly had gone from the parking deck to the security offices to view the video surveillance. She got a good look at the fake cop who’d fired at the passenger identified by customs as Harold Middleton. Middleton had taken away the assailant’s gun and subsequently fired in self-defense. Trooper George assumed the cop was in the right and his target a felon—an understandable mistake. Initially, she had jumped to the same conclusion in the melee, but she had been shackled to her idiot prisoner and couldn’t give pursuit until it was too late. She’d assumed that the fake cop had chased Middleton to capture him, but it was now clear he’d run away from her and other security officers who’d come rushing at the sound of gunfire on the concourse. It was also apparent that the fake cop had drawn his gun on Middleton right after Middleton seemed to recognize him.
    After Middleton captured the Beretta and used it to defend himself from the trooper’s gunfire, he’d fled through an emergency door. The fake cop, wearing the purloined and somewhat ill-fitting uniform, had vanished