Sweet Mercy by Naomi Stone Read Free Book Online Page A

gear Fluke had mentioned plus small containers of oil and wiper fluid. She began shifting them around.
    ~ * ~
    Fluke ducked low enough to move unseen between the parked cars. He’d spotted the blue Toyota parking half a dozen cars down their row. Staying low, working around from the next row, he approached his quarry from behind.
    The driver appeared only in silhouette beyond the reflection-veiled glass of the car’s windows, but sat positioned facing the Porsche where Rachel busied herself at the trunk.
    Dropping to hands and knees, Fluke came up close enough to read the numbers of the license plate. He opened a link to the Team secretary. What was her name? Trina. He read them out to her. “See if you can get us some info on the driver.”
    With that, he stood, brushed off the knees of his hundred dollar jeans and approached the driver’s side door. He tapped on the glass. “Excuse me.”
    The window rolled down a couple inches. The face peering out at him couldn’t be Albert Johnson. For one thing, her tightly curled gray hair looked nothing like that of the balding man in the sketch produced after Rachel’s session with the police artist.
    “Yes? What is it?” No recognition showed in her narrowed eyes.
    “Sorry, ma’am, but I saw you behind us on the highway. Have you been following me?”
    “What? I’ve never seen you before in my life.”
    “The red Porsche? You seemed to be watching it just now.”
    “Nonsense. I’m just taking a minute before I go in to the Bingo games. Now get away from my car before I report you to the police.”
    “Yes, ma’am.” Fluke backed off, holding his hands out in a placating gesture, and returned to Rachel
    ~ * ~
    “The car belongs to Mabel Atkins, 451-33rd Street South, Minneapolis.” Trina reported over a conferenced specs channel.
    “That’s right around the corner from the ashram!” Rachel leaned against the car, all the strength gone out of her legs.
    “He must have recruited one of your neighbors to follow us, and to find some logical reason for going wherever we wound up—she thinks she’s here to play bingo.”
    “He must have instructed her to report back somehow, too.”
    “If she has a cell phone, which she probably does, she’s already made the report.” Fluke took Rachel’s elbow, helping her stand without the support of the vehicle. He grabbed both bags, slinging the straps over a nicely broad shoulder, took her elbow again and propelled her toward the hotel. And a good thing he did. The thought of an innocent neighbor being dragged into this flooded her with guilt she worked to defuse. She wasn’t responsible for Johnson’s behavior, she reminded herself. She meant to stop him anyhow she could.
    “The question,” Fluke went on, steering her through the wide main doors into the hotel lobby, “is what’s he up to while Mabel keep tabs on us?”
    Centered again, Rachel freed her elbow. “At a guess, something to  do with his original targets. He’s got it in for the Capital Finance board.”
    “True, and that’s enough to show he’s not firing on all cylinders—
    the board has whole new members since the company foreclosed on his house ten years ago. But now he knows the Team is on to him and will interfere if he makes a move on any of them.” Before he joined the queue of guests waiting to check in at the hotel’s front desk, Fluke approached an older woman who stood uncertainly nearby.
    “The bingo games are next door in the casino, Mabel,” he told her. “You can tell him we’re checking in here under the name ‘Coward.’“
    “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she snapped. “I was just wondering whether to plan on staying overnight, Mr. Coward.” She sniffed and turned away.
    Rachel noted the exchange with some amusement. When the name reached Johnson it would be as good as a taunt. Fluke rejoined her.
    “My guess is Johnson’s doing his research—finding out everything he can about the local Team,