I had my cell phone plugged into the cigarette lighter and was surprised to hear it chirp.
It was Briggs. “Where are you?” he asked. “This is your cell phone, right?”
“Yeah. I'm on the Jersey Turnpike, exit ten.”
“Are you shitting me? That's great! Wait until you hear this. I've been working all night hacking into Shempsky's files, and I've got something. Late last night he made plane reservations. He's supposed to be flying out of Newark in an hour and a half. He's flying Delta to Miami.”
“You are the man.”
“Hey, don't piss off a little person.”
“Call the police. Call Morelli first.” I gave him Morelli's numbers. “If you can't get Morelli, call the station. They'll get in touch with the right people in Newark. And I'll watch out for Shempsky on the road.”
“I can't tell the police I hacked into the bank!”
“Tell them I got the information and asked you to pass it on.”
Fifteen minutes later, I slowed for the tollbooth to exit the turnpike. Grandma was awake, looking for the tan Taurus, and Ahmed was silent in the back, arms sullenly crossed over his chest.
“It's him!” Grandma said. “I see him ahead of us. Look at that tan car that's just leaving the tollbooth all the way to the left.”
I paid the toll and glanced at the car. It did sort of look like Shempsky, but it was the fourth time Grandma had been sure she'd seen Shempsky in the last five minutes. There were a lot of tan cars on the Jersey Turnpike.
I put my foot to the pedal and roared up behind the car to check it out. The car was a Taurus, and the hair color seemed right, but I couldn't tell much from the back of his head.
“You've got to get to his side,” Grandma said.
“If I come up on his side, he'll see me.”
Grandma pulled a .44 magnum out of her purse. “Everybody duck, and I'll shoot out his tires.”
“No!” I shouted. “No shooting. You shoot one single thing, and I'll tell Mom on you. We aren't even sure it's Allen Shempsky.”
“Who's Allen Shempsky?” Ahmed wanted to know. “What's going on?”
I was riding right on the Taurus's rear. It would be safer to put a car or two between us, but I was afraid I'd lose him in traffic.
“My father hired you to protect me,” Ahmed said, “not to go off chasing men.”
Grandma leaned forward, keeping her eye on the Taurus. “We think this guy killed Fred.”
“Who's Fred?”
“My uncle,” I told him. “He's married to Mabel.”
“Ah, so you're avenging a murder in the family. This is a good thing.”
Nothing like a little avenging to bridge the culture gap.
The Taurus took the airport turnoff, and the driver checked his mirror as he merged with traffic, then turned in his seat and took a quick, disbelieving look back. It was Shempsky. And I was made. Not many people in Jersey driving a '53 powder blue and white Buick. Probably wondering how the devil I found him.
“He sees us,” I said.
“Ram him,” Ahmed said. “Disable his car. Then we'll all rush out and subdue the murdering dog.”
“Yeah,” Grandma said, “plow this baby right up his behind.”
In theory, that sounded like a reasonable idea. In practice, I was afraid it'd result in a twenty-?three-?car pileup, and headlines that read BOMBSHELL BOUNTY HUNTER CAUSES CATASTROPHE.