Kalidja. Hale. Sarah’s situation. Time running out. He couldn’t hold all the loose ends together. LaMoia pushed shut both doors to the fifth-floor corner coffee lounge, windows overlooking the secretary pool to one side and the bullpen to the other. The situation room, which offered far more privacy, had become task force headquarters and churned with activity. Daphne warmed her hands on a tea cup. There were no smiles, only anxiety-ridden expressions. “I’m toast,” LaMoia said. “I’m out of here.” He had called the others to the impromptu meeting. “Boise?” Boldt asked. “Sheila—Hill,” he corrected himself, a little late, “wants me on the six o’clock flight, wants me running down every stinking piece of evidence there is—some of which I’ve already done, incidentally, though I didn’t tell her.” “Econo-Drive,” Boldt supplied. He had asked LaMoia to look into the car rental records. “Yeah. I had no trouble getting that: The abandoned car in the pileup,”
