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"I've had a little training, andlittleis an understatement."
"Who do you think was trying to run us off the road? It looked like one of the vans the museum uses."
"It was. I never caught the license plate, but the museum should be able to tell us who has access to their vans."
Her mind raced back to the museum, to the people they'd met with: Layana, Victoria, Elaine Monroe and Shari Watkins.But who else had been there that they hadn't seen?There were probably at least twenty-five to thirty more employees who had been somewhere in the building, not to mention the visitors. There could have been a hundred people or more on the grounds, but they wouldn't have had access to a museum van; it had to be an employee who was driving. She wanted to believe that a security camera had caught the image of the driver, but so far whoever they were chasing was very good at staying out of sight.
It took them about thirty minutes to get back to Flynn's townhouse, and it was dusk by the time they pulled into his garage at half past six.
She followed him into the townhouse, waiting by the garage door, as he did a cursory sweep of his home and then waved her inside. They went into the kitchen/family room, with Flynn heading straight for the wet bar.
"Do you want a drink?" he asked.
"Absolutely," she said without hesitation.
"Scotch okay?"
"Anything with a kick to it."
He poured Scotch into two small tumbler glasses and handed her one.
She took a sip, the liquid burning a fiery path down her throat. Along with that blast of heat came a feeling of relief. "That's better. My pulse is still too fast." She sat down at the kitchen table.
Flynn smiled. "It will slow down. I need to call the museum."
"Can you put it on speaker? It will save you from having to answer my questions as soon as you hang up."
"You got it." He set down his glass and picked up his phone. After connecting with the museum, he asked to speak to the director of security, Rand Bentley. A moment later, Rand's voice came over the phone.
"Agent MacKenzie, what can I do for you?"
"I was just at the museum with Callie Harper. When we left, someone driving a museum van tried to run us off the road. I need to know who that was."
"Are you serious?" Rand asked.
"You know I am."
"Hold on. Let me check with the security desk."
As they waited, Flynn picked up his glass of Scotch and took another draught.
Callie sipped her drink as well, silently hoping that for once they'd get something other than a vague response.
A moment later, Rand came back onto the line. "Greg Barkley checked out a van thirty minutes ago. He has not yet returned to the museum."
"What can you tell me about him?"
"One second." Rand took another minute and then said, "He's twenty-six years old and has been employed as a driver at the museum for the past year. He mainly transports pieces between the museum and the airport or the Port of Los Angeles. He lives in Culver City. His last job was driving for Harriman Art Couriers in Beverly Hills."
"I'll take his home address." Flynn jotted down the street and number, then added, "I'll need you to detain him if and when he comes back to the museum."
"Will do."
Flynn ended the call and punched in another number. "Wyatt, it's Flynn. Are you still at the office?"
"Just left. What's up?"
"Someone tried to run Callie and me off the road as we were leaving the Piquard Museum. Security said a driver by the name of Greg Barkley signed out the van, but he hasn't returned. I have a home address for him. I'd go there myself, but—"