Nick of Time by John Gilstrap Read Free Book Online Page A

copy of an e-mail he’d sent himself this morning with an itinerary for some flights he had no intention of taking.
    Once at the concourse, Brad had to wait for the mark to distract himself, and then it was time to move in. The wallet, of course, had been easy, but the keys were a work of art, if he did say so himself. It had been years since he’d pulled that particular gag.
    The bright red Mustang lay dead ahead, nosed into the curb right where Campanella had left it. Brad paid cash to get out of the parking lot, then meandered his way to the eastbound lanes of the access road, which in turn led to the Braddock County Parkway. He figured it would take the better part of an hour to get to the Brookfield bus station, thanks to the 3.4 million traffic lights.
    Before settling in for that commute, however, Brad had a couple of phone calls to make. As he was lifting the wallet from Vincent Campanella’s pocket, his fingers had brushed the man’s cell phone, but he’d decided to leave it there, lest the guy got the urge to make a call.
    Brad pulled into the parking lot of the Giant Food store in Jefferson Farms, and went inside to the customer service desk to find the number he needed in the phone book. The manager was nice enough to offer the house phone to make a local call, but Brad declined, preferring instead to use the pay phone on the wall outside.
    â€œRitz-Carlton, Mason’s Corner,” said the accented voice on the other end of the line.
    â€œReservations, please,” Brad said. As he waited for the call to be connected, he pulled from the pocket of his jeans the slip of paper he’d used to jot down Vincent Campanella’s credit card numbers.
    * * *
    Detective Christopher Tu arrived within minutes of Carter’s plea for assistance. He’d been the chief investigator on the Deni James case, and Carter knew him to be an unparalleled whiz at all things computerized. Thanks in large measure to a glowing letter that Carter had written for the younger man’s file, Chris had only recently been bumped up to detective first class, and he was clearly anxious to give his friend a hand.
    Carter met the detective at the door and ushered him into the foyer.
    â€œHave you learned anything since we talked?” Chris asked. His body language showed that he fully appreciated the urgency. Born and raised in America as the only son of Chinese immigrants, Chris nonetheless spoke with a distinct accent.
    â€œI haven’t touched a thing,” Carter said, leading the way upstairs. “I didn’t want to screw anything up.”
    â€œWhat exactly are we looking for?” Carter had told him the essentials over the phone, but had not gotten into the details. Chris recoiled from the blast of pink as he entered Nicki’s room.
    â€œI loaded that security software you told me about, and I was able to find the chat logs where she talked about running off, but I don’t know how to figure out the identity of the other party.”
    Chris helped himself to Nicki’s desk chair. “Piece of cake,” he said. He took a few seconds to review what was already on the screen. “So this is the guy you’re worried about? This BW477?”
    â€œThat’s him. I figure if I can find out where he lives, I’ll know where Nicki went.”
    Chris went to work, his fingers flying on the keyboard. As the detective leaned forward for a closer look at the screen, Carter found himself leaning in right with him. When Chris leaned back again, they bumped heads.
    Carter apologized.
    â€œWhy don’t you go get me a soda or something?” Chris suggested.
    Carter hesitated, then nodded. He’d seen Chris pull the “I’m thirsty” trick before, and recognized it as the detective’s polite version of “Get lost.” He took his time getting a Coke from the refrigerator and pouring it over a glass of ice, stalling to give the detective as much