Page 35 of Hidden

“Where are we going?”

He tossed her his personal cell with the microchip in it.

“I found a chip inside the picture of the picnic table. Turns out it was a drop point signal. It means your asset doesn’t want to use the mail system anymore. He’ll start putting packages there instead. I thought we would go check it out.”

Carrie stared at him, confused.

“Asset? How do you know where the picnic table is?”

“Assets are what we called tipsters or informants in the CIA. And the address was on the chip.” He winked and reached over to take his phone back. She pulled it out of his reach.

“I want to see what else is on here. This looks like travel records for someone, and these names match up with the missing girls.”

She had picked that up a lot faster than he had and he was the former spy. That should have irritated him, but instead there was a sense of pride.

“Bingo. I’m pretty sure the travel records are for Upwood. The second sheet may be for Carranza, but I haven’t figured it out yet.”

Carrie was silent for the rest of the drive as she flipped through the documents. One knee bounced up and down as she read, and every once in a while she would gasp or whistle. Clearly, they made more sense to her than they had him at a first glance, so he was glad he had let her look through them.

Thirty minutes after picking her up, he put the car in park and shut off the engine. “This is it.”

Carrie opened her door and jumped out, looking around.

“Which picnic table?”

Peter reached into his inside jacket pocket and pulled out the picture. “You tell me.”

She examined the photo and then look around, trying to identify which one was in the photo. He had spotted it as soon as they drove up, but he wanted to see how long she took to pick it out.

“There!” She sprinted toward the correct table. The trashcan next to it had a red line spray painted on it. To the average visitor, it just looked like a bit of vandalism when, in fact, it was a signal.

“Very well done, Miss Davenport,” Peter said when he caught up with her.

“So, what now?” Carrie sat on the bench at the picnic table.

“I’m not sure. I really just wanted to get a feel for the place and see if there was another package.” Peter approached the spray-painted trash can. It was a square can with a large top that had rectangle holes on all four sides. Peter reached through one of the holes and felt around the top. Sure enough, something was taped to it.

Carrie jumped up and ran to his side as he pulled the envelope out.

“Open it, open it.”

Peter ripped open the envelope and pulled out the single sheet of paper.

Peter,

I’m assuming you’re reading this, since I doubt the reporter had the skills to locate the drop point. I can’t reveal my identity yet, but I’m sure you’ll figure it out. You’re a smart ass-I mean smart man. Check this spot periodically. It’s how I’ll communicate from now on. I don’t think it’s safe for me to infiltrate the mail room at the Post a third time.

Carrie,

I’m a fan of your work. Don’t let Peter be too much of a jerk and only sleep with him if you really want to. He’s got a thing about reporters ever since one fucked him over a few years ago. I’ll be in touch soon.

RIP

“Oh, I like this guy. Though I don’t appreciate his little jab about my skills.”

Peter was fuming. “I don’t appreciate whoever the fuck this is telling my life story.”

Carrie patted him on the shoulder. “Don’t worry. I’ll pretend I didn’t see a thing. I’m sorry you had a bad experience with a journalist.”

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