The Prince of Risk A Novel(125)

“He didn’t say a word? Not even a text?”

“He talked to our CFO to tell her to expect an incoming wire transfer. That’s the last we heard.”

“And that was at four?”

“More or less.”

Alex weighed the information. If Bobby left Reventlow’s office at four, he would have had plenty of time to make it downtown for his appointment with Janet McVeigh. “What about Sully? I left two messages for him.”

“Nothing. I tried his home, too. Nada. Don the doorman hasn’t seen Bobby either. It’s like the two of them have disappeared.”

Mintz took a call. “Barnes is suiting up. They have the place surrounded. If we want to make it out there, we have to go now.”

A drop of rain hit Alex’s cheek. She gazed up at the sky. Any minute, it was going to dump buckets. She looked at Marv Shank, then back at Mintz.

“What was Sully driving?” she asked.

“The Sprinter,” said Shank.

“Get in. Let’s go find my husband.”

Alex’s first assignment upon joining the Bureau had been bank robbery. The work was fast and exciting, and there were plenty of arrests. She was shot at twice (both misses), and she herself shot and wounded three assailants. Good times. Bank robbers, she learned, were not the smartest guys in the room. Most were druggies, drinkers, your basic street-level perp in need of a quick five grand and too stupid to consider that ten years of hard time were too steep an interest to pay on the money. Many used stolen cars in the commission of their crimes, thinking that a hot vehicle would offer an anonymous getaway. Nine out of ten forgot that nearly all late-model automobiles come equipped with LoJack, a location finder/radio transmitter hidden in the rear tire well of an automobile. If the car was stolen, the LoJack office nearby would activate that car’s transmitter and immediately receive a ten-digit GPS location, pinpointing the car to a 2-square-foot patch of planet Earth. It could also, if desired, disable the car’s engine.



Bobby’s half-million-dollar Sprinter had the same kind of LoJack as any Nissan or Hyundai, except that Mercedes-Benz charged $5,000 for it instead of $500. Alex needed two calls to get a mark on the Sprinter; the first to the insurance company to get Bobby’s license number and the second to LoJack to ask the company to turn on its transmitter. In three minutes she had the location of Bobby’s Sprinter.

“It’s at 27 Foxhollow Road, New Canaan,” she announced after hanging up.

“Sully lives in New Canaan,” said Shank.

“I know.”

“That doesn’t make sense,” Shank went on. “Sully never drives the Sprinter home. It’s Bobby’s car.”

“Well, it’s there now, and it’s not moving a muscle,” said Alex. “The engine has been disabled.”

Shank remained unsatisfied. “But if Sully’s at home, why isn’t he answering his phone?”

The drive to New Canaan took forty minutes. Alex shooed Mintz aside and took the wheel. She was done with being a passenger. The winding country roads were her own private racetrack. If her aggressive driving bothered anyone, no one dared admit it.

Sully lived outside the city, and she needed her onboard navigation to steer her through the country roads. She abandoned the GPS when she turned onto Foxhollow Road. She had an easier beacon to follow. Directly ahead, a wall of flame rose into the sky. Cresting a rise, she saw a platoon of fire trucks pulled up in front of John Sullivan’s home. The Sprinter was parked a few yards away. Alex slid in behind an EMT’s truck and got out of the car. The firefighters were only just arriving and were running to attach a hose to a hydrant. The chief stood by the main engine, establishing his battle plan.



Alex flashed her identification and introduced herself. “Is anyone inside the home?”

“Too hot to go in,” the chief responded. “The place could collapse at any second. We’re going to spray down the roof with water and retardant, then send a team in the front door.”

Alex ran as close to the entry as the flames would allow and called Bobby’s name. No reply came. The heat was ferocious, battling her back. She called again, but there was no response. A firefighter tugged her sleeve and told her to retreat from the flames. Alex shook her arm free and stayed where she was. “Bobby!”

The flames were growing rapidly, the crackling of timber and popping of the dry shingles lending the blaze an explosive, hazardous character. She looked for ways to get closer, if only to be able to hear her ex-husband’s cries. If he was alive, she wanted to know it.

Then she saw something. On the ground, inches from the garage door, lay a small, colorful card.