Free Trader of Secrets: A Paul Madriani Novel by Steve Martini

it.”
    “It’s not your fault.”
    “Yes, it is. I should have been watching her more closely. You trusted me and I let you down.”
    “You did what you could. Besides, it was my job. I’m her father. I should have been there.”
    “You couldn’t be everywhere,” says Harry. “We agreed I would be the one responsible for keeping an eye on her and I failed. Simple as that.”
    “Let’s not talk about it,” I tell him. “The important thing is, she’s alive.”
    “No thanks to me.”
    Harry and I are seated in the two tufted wingback chairs in the living room of a safe house in Washington, D.C. It is a high-rise condo courtesy of Thorpe and the FBI. At the moment none of us knows how long we’ll be here. The place is decked out with rented furniture and contractor-painted eggshell-white walls. With all the blinds drawn it has the ambiance of a whitewashed cave.
    “Any idea how Liquida found the two of you on the farm?” I ask.
    Harry nods. He’s gazing down at the floor, still half asleep. “They think he used an electronic tracking device. The fucker’s devious,” says Harry.
    “I thought Herman had the cars all swept. He found the one attached to your car and had it removed,” I remind him.
    “He did. Liquida mailed another small tracking device to Sarah at the house, figuring she probably left a forwarding address with the post office. The FBI found the tracking device in one of the drawers in her bedroom in Ohio. The note with it said it was from you, that you’d explain what it was the next time the two of you talked on the phone. When you talked, Sarah forgot to mention it. All Liquida had to do was read the tracking information on his computer. It led him right to the farm.”
    “Son of a bitch.”
    “She didn’t tell me about it because the note said it was a surprise for me.” The craggy gray lines down Harry’s face appear like ravines on a mountainside. He seems to have aged five years since I saw him last in Coronado. That was less than a month ago.
    Our law practice in California is now a shambles. Neither of us has been in the office for weeks, forced into hiding by Liquida. No doubt clients are now complaining to the state bar that their phone calls are not being returned. Before long the bar will be trying to punch our tickets to practice. Harry and I can take down the shingle and start selling pencils out on the street. Our lives are unraveling.
    “Coffee’s ready.” Joselyn sticks her head through the open doorway to the kitchen.
    “Be there in a minute,” I tell her.
    “You two need to stop talking about this. Dredging up all the little details isn’t gonna make it go away. What’s happened has happened. The more you pick at it, the worse it’s going to get.” She’s been listening through the open door.
    “So what are we supposed to do?” I turn and look at her.
    “Get off your ass and come get something to eat.” Before I can say anything more, she disappears back into the kitchen.
    “Yeah, I can see how she could be good for you,” says Harry. He looks up at me and winks. “How’s Herman doing?” He changes the subject.
    “They moved him out of intensive care yesterday.” We get up and start walking toward the kitchen. “He’ll be on the mend for a while. But he’s starting to get irritable.”
    “That’s a good sign.”
    “The doctor’s telling him six weeks to two months before he can do any heavy lifting.”
    “Take bets,” says Harry. We enter the kitchen. “Give you three to one Herman’s back out on the bricks in less than a month.”
    “At death’s door one day, fighting to go home the next. Herman’s always been a quick healer,” I tell him.
    “More power to him,” says Joselyn. “Either one of you would be laid up for a year.”
    “You see what I have to put up with? What a hard-ass.” I look at Harry and smile.
    “Yes, and it’ll be a long time before you touch it again with that kind of an attitude.” Joselyn has her