“Sure. He always was. He was, you know, real outspoken.” A sad smile. “He hated this politician or that CEO and, man, he wasn’t afraid to say it on the air or in his blogs. He called himself the Messenger, the voice of conscience. He made a lot of enemies. Those fucking drug assholes. Pardon my French. I hope they get the chair or lethal injection or whatever.”

“He mentioned cartels or gangs as a threat?”

Cross leaned back and thought for a moment. “You know, not by name. But he said he was being followed.”

“Tell me.”

Cross ran a finger over a cluster of moles on his neck. “He said there was this guy who was there but not there, you know what I’m saying? Following him on the street.”

“Any description?”

“White, a guy. Looked tough. That’s it.”

She thought immediately of Barry Shales and Unsub 516.

“But there was something else. The airplane. That freaked him out the most.”

“Airplane?”

“Roberto traveled a lot. He said he’d noticed this private jet three or four times in different cities he’d been in—places with small airports, where a private jet was more, you know, noticeable. Bermuda, the Bahamas, Caracas, where he lived. Some towns in Mexico. He said it was strange—because the plane always seemed to be there before he arrived. Like somebody knew his travel schedule.”

By tapping his phone, for instance? A favorite sport of Metzger, Shales and Unsub 516.

The cigar got chomped. “The reason he recognized it: He said most private jets’re white. But this one was blue.”

“Markings, designations, numbers?”

A shrug. “No, he never said. But I was thinking, somebody in a jet’s following you? What’s that all about? Who the hell could it be? Those things cost money.”

“Anything else you can remember?”

“Sorry.”

Sachs rose and shook his hand, reflecting that the convoluted trail here—starting with the limo driver—had paid off with a solid clue. If a cryptic one.

The blue jet …

Cross sighed, looking at another picture of himself and Moreno, this one snapped in a jungle. They were surrounded by cheerful workers. More shovels, more hard hats, more mud.

“You know, Detective, we were good friends but I’ve gotta say I never quite figured him out. He was always down on America, just hated the place. Wouldn’t shut up about it. I told him one time, ‘Come on, Roberto. Why’re you dissing the one country on earth where you can say those things and not get shot in an alley by a truth squad or hauled off to a secret prison in the middle of the night? Ease up.’”

A bitter laugh escaped the fat, damp mouth. “But he just wouldn’t listen.”

Chapter 52

CHAPTER 52

JACOB SWANN BRAKED HIS CAR to a stop a half block from Amelia Sachs’s, near Lincoln Rhyme’s town house.