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Peters sighed. "Computer, cancel that call."
"Call canceled, Shugar," a silky voice replied from the walls.
To Bettmann's questioning glance, Peters replied, "My first wife called me 'Sugar.' We need to act now, Bettmann."
"Act on what, Peters?" Bettmann had paced to the desk, and now leaned both hands on its Plexiglas. "We have no idea where this mysterious woman is, we didn't get a license plate number on that car or an identity of its driver, and there's got to be a zillion silver Porsches between Houston and Miami. I interviewed Howard while I was down there, and he's got his story down pat."
Peters leaned back in his chair and stared gloomily at the sunshine outside his space. "What do you suggest we do?"
Bettmann started for the window once more. "I suggest we wait. We wait for them to make a mistake, to do something verifiably illegal, and then we move in."
"An airport security guard and a flight attendant who makes regular trips to the same airport, Bettmann. That doesn't add up well."
The head of a cumulonimbus now blocked the sunshine that
had illuminated the landscape beyond the glass. "It doesn't. But the
only thing we can do is watch and wait."
"Lisa and Maddy, I think you've already met Brad Bettmann."