didnât know. She grinned. Either way, he was right, it was their turn, and if Hodges was for real, it was possible theyâd have a chance for a home run.
Nicholas looked back at his laptop. âMr. Hodges appears solid, an accountant for a local Bayonne engineering firm. His wife died three years ago, breast cancer.â
She took a left into an older residential neighborhood, thick with trees and small, well-manicured lawns. Mr. Richard Hodgesâs house was on a quiet dead-end cul-de-sac that backed up to the Hudson River. To Nicholas, the block looked like any other older development in a small eastern American townâthirty-year-old single-story house, comfortably settled in with their neighbors. Amazinghow quiet it was, considering its proximity to Manhattan. He supposed the lapping water dampened the sound.
They saw the curtains twitch.
Nicholas closed his laptop. âI see weâre expected.â
Mike turned off the engine. âOkay, Iâm thinking positively. Iâm up at bat and Mr. Hodges is going to give me a perfect pitch.â
The door opened before they had a chance to ring the bell. A man dressed in jeans and a white polo shirt waved them in and closed the door quietly behind them, as if he didnât want to wake someone. A habit from when his wife was ill?
The interior of Mr. Hodgesâs house was neat, looked clean, but it smelled musty, somehow sterile, and Mike doubted thereâd been another woman living here since his wifeâs death. She didnât see any photos or knickknacks on any surface, only piles of newspapers and newsmagazines. The house, she realized, was now only a place where a lonely man lived off his memories.
âMr. Hodges? Iâm Agent Caine, and this is Agent Drummond. We were told you have some information about the terrorist group known as Celebrants of Earth, or COE, and a possible bombing.â
Hodges was a smallish man with a bald spot and a heavy five-oâclock shadow. He looked solid, calm, no indication that he was an alarmist or a wild-hair. Maybe they had finally caught their break. She smelled bacon and toast, a single manâs dinner. She felt a punch of pain for him.
âItâs nice to meet you,â he said. âThank you for coming. Shall we sit? Can I get you coffee? I have some already brewed.â
âWe wouldnât say no to a cup, sir. Thank you.â
He gestured toward the kitchen.
Mike and Nicholas took a seat at an ancient table with one leg shorter than the others, held steady with a pile of magazines.Moments later, they both had mugs of coffee and a plate of chocolate-mint Girl Scout Cookies. Nicholas took one to be polite; theyâd been floating around the office for the past few weeks and tasted like wax to him.
Nicholas sipped his coffee, then set the cup on the table. âSo, Mr. Hodges, tell us what you know.â
Hodges blinked at him. âYouâre British? I didnât know people from England could be in the FBI. Are you some sort of special case?â
Mike nodded, grinning. âYes, sir, he is indeed a special case.â
Nicholas sat forward. âMy mother was American. The story, sir, please.â
Mr. Hodges nodded. âI was at the Dominion Bar tonight, having a drink after work. There was a man thereâI donât know his name, but Iâve seen him around before. Heâs works at the Bayway Refineryâdoing what, exactly, I donât know. Heâd obviously been drinking a while, looked pretty drunk to me, and I wondered why the bartender, thatâs the owner, May Anne, hadnât cut him off. He was shooting his mouth off, you know the kind of person, they get loud when theyâve had too much to drink and, well, lose all sense. I heard him tell his friend he was celebrating. Heâd gotten a big payoff, a lot of money, and more to come, and he was going to retire and move to an island somewhere and have women in bikinis wait on