"The right-hand door. He's not as likely to take you apart for trying to open that one rather than the one with the Porsche behind it. Just don't get busted by any of the local police. I'll call and let you know when he's getting off of Ninety-five."

"Good enough. But then I'm going to leave my cell phone under the seat. You just relax and have a Tic Tac."

Despite the gum. Alison's mouth seemed dry as she followed the Jeep from three car-lengths behind. Traffic was perfect—not too dense, not too light. As they approached the Dumfries exit, Griswold suddenly broke with the pattern Alison had anticipated he would be following. At the last possible moment, he whipped the Jeep to the right and down the exit ramp. She could almost see him scanning the rearview mirror for any sudden movement from any of the cars behind him. If she duplicated his move, she would be giving herself away. Helpless, she tapped the brake once and continued down the highway as she dialed Lester's number to warn him something was wrong and they should consider backing off and trying another time.

There was no answer.

With a dreadful sinking in her gut, she accelerated and pulled out into the passing lane.

CHAPTER 40

Treat Griswold had no idea why he suddenly turned off at the Dumfries exit except that he had been feeling edgy since an unknown, exotic-looking woman with light copper skin had struck up a conversation with Constanza and Beatriz in the manicure parlor. They had strict instructions to avoid prolonged conversations with anyone and to report any unusual contacts to him. This they had done.

He swung onto the exit ramp too rapidly and felt the Jeep's center of gravity lurch to the right. But even though the years had been somewhat unkind when it came to the muffin top overlapping his belt, his coolness in crisis and his reflexes were as sharp as ever. There was no rollover, and from all he could tell through the rearview mirror, there was no one following him, either.

He was a little paranoid, he told himself. That's all. Just a little paranoid . . . not that he didn't have every reason to be.

Whoever had tailed him last year—a hell of a thorough private eye, he guessed, or maybe someone from one of the other agencies—had mapped out his secret Richmond life in agonizing detail, complete with photos and video. The night the phone rang for him at the Beechtree Road house, the man on the other end had his ducks in an absolutely perfect row.