24
Mitch slid into a cab at the Boston airport and threw his jacket on the seat beside him. He had jumped on a mid-morning flight, had a few hours in Boston to meet Mrs. Kinaird, get the diary and be back at the airport for a return flight to D.C. before driving to Cape Hatteras late that afternoon. He gave the driver the address and sat back to watch Boston go by.
Mitch’s phone rang. He looked at the phone screen and felt a stab of pain. Charlotte. Why is she calling? He let the call go to message bank.
“Coming home?” the older driver asked. He was a big man in his late sixties who smelled of tobacco.
“Just here on business for a few hours,” Mitch said.
“A few hours! Geez. You want a lift back to the airport, here’s my number.” He handed over a card. “Edward Egan,” he said, “just ask
