From the shadows of an alley across the street, Jackson turned and looked up at his apartment building. His eyes kept going up and up until they came to rest upon the windows of the penthouse. His penthouse. He could see the silhouettes move slowly across the windows, and his lips started to tremble at this outrageous invasion of his home. The possibility that they could have traced him to his personal residence had not occurred to him. How in the hell? He couldn’t worry about it now, though. He went down the cross street and made a phone call. Twenty minutes later a limousine picked him up. He called his brother and told him to leave his apartment immediately—not even bothering to pack a bag—and meet Jackson in front of the St. James Theater. Jackson wasn’t sure how the police had found out his identity, but he couldn’t be sure they wouldn’t wind up at Roger Crane’s apartment at any minute. Then he made a quick stop to gather together some necessary supplies from another smaller apartment he kept under a phony name. Under the ownership of one of his myriad corporate shells he maintained a private jet and full-time crew at La Guardia. He called ahead so that the pilot on duty would be able to file his flight plan as quickly as possible. Jackson did not intend to spend time twiddling his thumbs in the waiting area. The limo would take them right to the plane. That accomplished, he collected his brother from in front of the theater.
Roger was two years younger and slimly built but wiry like his older brother. He also shared the same shock of dark hair and delicate facial features. He was certainly curious about his brother’s abrupt return to his life. “I couldn’t believe you called like that out of the blue. What’s up, Peter?”
“Shut up, I need to think.” He suddenly turned to his younger brother. “Have you seen the news?”
He shook his head. “I don’t usually watch TV. Why?”
He obviously didn’t know of Alicia’s death. That was good. Jackson didn’t answer his brother; he settled back in the seat, his mind racing through a seemingly infinite number of scenarios.
In a half hour they were at La Guardia Airport. Soon they had left the Manhattan skyline behind on their way south.
The FBI did converge on Roger Crane’s small apartment building, but a little too late. Yet they were far more intrigued by what they had discovered at Peter Crane’s penthouse.
Masters and Berman, walking around the massive penthouse, came across Jackson’s makeup and archives rooms and his computerized control center.
“Holy shit,” Berman said, his hands in his pockets as he stared at the masks, makeup bins, and racks of clothing.
Masters held the scrapbook gingerly in his gloved hands. FBI technicians roamed everywhere collecting evidence.
“Looks like Riggs was right. One guy. Maybe we can survive all this,” Masters said.
“So what’s our next move?”
Masters answered immediately. “We focus on Peter Crane. Put a blanket on the airports and train and bus stations. I want road blocks posted on all the major arteries heading out of town. You’re to instruct all the men that he’s extremely dangerous and a master of disguise. Send out photos of the guy everywhere, fat lot of good that’ll do us. We’ve cut off his home base, but he’s obviously got enormous financial resources. If we do manage to track him down, I want no unnecessary chances. Tell the men that if there’s the slightest threat, to shoot him down.”
“How about Riggs and Tyler?” Berman asked.
“So long as they don’t get in the way, they’ll be okay. If they get mixed up with Crane along the way, well, there’s no guarantee. I’m not going to jeopardize my men to make sure they don’t get hurt. As far as I’m concerned LuAnn Tyler belongs in jail. But that’s why we’ve got some ammo with her. We can send her to jail or threaten to. I think she’ll keep her mouth shut. Why don’t you go oversee the rest of the evidence collection.”
While Berman did so, Masters sat down and read the background information on LuAnn that accompanied her photo.