CHAPTER 40

YOU LIVE LONG ENOUGH, you practice your trade long enough, and you develop skills that help define your identity. Playing the piano, say. Or blacksmithing Damascus-steel knives. Or cleaning up when a mess has been made.

Brian Toomey had all three of those skills, but for the last, he went beyond mere competence; he transcended tradecraft and produced art. Toomey was, in his own modest estimation, one of the best janitors in the world. He was certainly among the highest paid.

The moment he hung up with the sheriff’s deputy, the janitor went into motion. Toomey grabbed his computer and his packed go bag off the second bed in the Airbnb where he’d been patiently waiting. He left behind everything else, which wasn’t much.

Toomey got in a drab green Toyota Tundra with Utah plates and started driving as he dug in the bottom pouch of the pack. Within minutes, he was cruising through the parking lots surrounding Northeastern Nevada Regional Hospital in Elko. He found the white Jeep Cherokee rental the deputy had described near the emergency department entrance.

Toomey threw his truck in park, went to the Cherokee, looked around, and pressed a magnetic GPS beacon to the inside of the rear bumper. Then he walked to the passenger side and took out an oval translucent sticker microphone with a hair-thin wire attached to a dull black transmitter that was smaller than a fingernail.

The janitor peeled the paper off the microphone’s adhesive, used a box cutter to raise the windshield’s weather stripping, slid the wire and transmitter beneath it, and pressed the stripping down hard.

He was back in the Tundra less than forty seconds after he’d left it. He drove in a loop through the lot, parked in a spot where he could watch both exits, and got out his laptop.

The janitor activated his personal hot spot, navigated to a private browser, signed into a website that further concealed his IP address, and made a phone call. He listened as the line rang, clicked as it was transferred, and rang again.

After four transfers, a woman answered.

“It’s the janitorial service in Elko,” he said.

“Unanticipated complications?”

“Yes,” Toomey said, and gave her the gist of the situation. After several moments she said, “How much do they know?”

“Only the birth date and birthplace at this point.”

“Their present location?”

“With the coroner here in Elko, checking autopsy reports.”

“They won’t find anything there we don’t want them to find.”

“Good. I have a tracer on their vehicle and an audio bug.”

“Smart.”

“That’s what you pay me for. Deep-cleaning, then?”

There was a pause. “You said one is an active-duty cop?”

“Sampson is with DC homicide. Stone is private.”

“Hold on while I seek guidance.”

Toomey got his 8x42 Leica binoculars from his go bag and looked across the parking lot to make sure the Cherokee was still there.

His contact returned. “You didn’t say Stone was married to Alex Cross.”

“Didn’t know and don’t know him.”

“FBI and police consultant. Very dangerous. He used to be Sampson’s partner.”

“You still want my services?”

“Affirmative. Just maintain contact for now but remain ready to sweep up. And we will fly the Utah cleaning team to Twin Falls ASAP in case you need backup.”

“Smart.”

“That’s what they pay me for,” she said, and hung up.

The janitor scrubbed his laptop’s history and cache, retrieved a Slim Jim from his go bag, turned up the heat, and settled in with his binoculars to wait.