She burst out of the hotel into the cold winter evening. Rows of parked vehicles stretched out before her beneath dim overhead streetlights. She searched the large lot, her breath rising up in front of her, but saw nothing. Then she heard a commotion to her left-a raised voice and a groan-and she sprinted toward the sounds of the struggle. Past a young couple walking toward the hotel entrance, looking back over their shoulders in the direction of the noises.

Between two SUVs Angela came upon the source of the commotion. Harmon lay sprawled on his stomach on the asphalt, beneath John Tucker's knee, which was firmly planted in the small of his back. "What are you doing?" she asked, amazed that Tucker had snagged Harmon.

"Just trying to be of help, ma'am," Tucker replied calmly, tipping his hat and smiling in the glow of a streetlight that was directly overhead.

"Let me go," Harmon gasped.

"Shut up." Tucker dug his knee deeper into Harmon's back.

"John, do you know who this is?" Angela asked.

After picking her up at Dulles Airport, Tucker had dropped her off in front of the hotel, located only ten minutes from the airport. As far as she knew, Tucker had never seen Harmon. She'd met Harmon in the bar.

"The guy you were meeting with."

"How do you know?"

"I walked inside after dropping you off and saw you talking to him," he explained, pointing down at the little man who had now stopped struggling. "Then I came back outside and hung out at the door. When I saw him come tearing out of the revolving door, I took a chance that it might make sense to stop him and find out why he was in such a rush." Tucker paused. "So, did I do good?"

Angela peered around the corner of the SUV at the hotel. The bartender who had served her and a uniformed hotel employee were scanning the parking lot from just outside the revolving door. "Where's the car, John?" she asked, making a snap decision.

"A few rows that way," he answered, pointing over his shoulder with one hand, the other at the back of Harmon's head, keeping his face pressed to the cold blacktop.

"Give me the keys."

Tucker reached into his jacket, dug the keys out, and tossed them to her.

"Stay here," she ordered. "I'll be right back."

Then she was off, bent over at the waist, moving stealthily between the cars until she found the Integra Tucker had picked her up in at the airport. She unlocked the driver's side door, slipped in behind the steering wheel, and started the engine, cringing at how loud it was as it roared to life.

Angela glanced at the hotel entrance again. The bartender and the other man were still there-maybe two hundred feet away-searching the parking lot. They had been joined by another uniformed hotel employee. Without turning on the headlights, she backed the car out of the spot, touching the brakes only long enough to shift from reverse into drive. Carefully, by the light of the overhead streetlights, she steered the car to the end of the row away from the hotel, then turned down the one where she knew Tucker was waiting. As she recognized the two SUVs parked side by side, she brought the Integra to a quick stop, popped the trunk, and jumped out.

"Come on, John!" She could hear sirens in the distance. If the police got Harmon, she'd never get a chance to find out what he knew. "Hurry!"

As Tucker lifted Harmon to his feet, the smaller man began shouting for help.

"Put him in here!" Angela ordered, racing to the back of the vehicle and lifting the trunk's lid. Over the roof of the car she could see the bartender sprinting toward them, followed by the two uniformed employees.

Tucker grabbed Harmon by the back of his shirt collar and his belt, and lifted him up, attempting to stuff him into the trunk. But Harmon grabbed the side of the car at the last moment, holding on for dear life.

Angela raced around Tucker and pried furiously at Harmon's fingers until finally he released his grip. With one last heave, Tucker shoved the small man into the well, and Angela slammed the trunk lid down on top of him. "Let's go!" she shouted, jumping in behind the steering wheel. She hesitated only long enough for Tucker to halfway make it onto the pa.s.senger seat before revving the engine, then slamming the car into gear.

"Whoa! Jesus, at least let me get the door closed!" Tucker shouted, reaching out and grabbing the door handle.

The hotel people were only a few steps away. She could hear Harmon beating wildly on the inside of the trunk, frantically trying to escape.

As Tucker pulled his door shut, the Integra leapt forward and the oncoming pursuers scattered, diving between parked cars as the car's tires screeched on the blacktop. In seconds the Integra had reached the end of the row. Angela steered around the last car and raced toward the parking lot exit. At the exit, she slowed slightly, saw flashing lights in the distance and headed right, then made a quick left past a strip mall onto a side street, before turning on the headlights. At the next stop sign she turned right again, drove a mile-with Harmon still beating crazily on the inside of the trunk lid-then turned into a darkened high school complex.

"Go behind the main building," Tucker directed, pointing at a road that led around toward the back where they couldn't be seen from the main road.

"No, I thought I'd stay out here where the cops can find me with a man in my trunk," Angela said. "Jesus."

"Hey, don't worry," Tucker said calmly. "We'll be all right." He glanced over at her as she guided the car around to the back of the large brick building. "Pretty good driving there, missy."

"I can handle myself," she said firmly, feeling her heart starting to settle down.

"Better turn the lights off," Tucker suggested.

"Right." She reached forward and extinguished the headlights, slowing to a crawl as they moved out of view of the main road.

"So what happened back there in the bar? Why was this guy running?" he asked, jerking his thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the trunk.

"Remember the notation you found in the margin of that page yesterday?" She was going to need Tucker's help with all of this. That was clear. So she'd have to level with him. "The one about Sumter Bank."

"Of course."

"The guy in the trunk is head of global sales for ESP. When I started asking him about Sumter and the cloak account reference, he denied knowing anything about either one. When I threatened to tell his CEO that he wasn't being helpful, he got defensive. Then he told me that if I was smart I'd get away from ESP, that I was stupid to be messing around in the whole thing. But he wouldn't tell me what the 'thing' was. Then all of a sudden he throws his drink at this mirror behind the bar and runs."

"Creating a distraction so he could get away."

"Yes. And it probably would have worked if you hadn't stopped him." She reached over and patted his hand gratefully as she brought the car to a stop between two school buses. "I appreciate it," she said quietly, wondering if she really wanted to know what Harmon had been referring to, sensing that there was more to all of this than a takeover and Bob Dudley's hatred of Jake Lawrence.

"Seems like you got more than you bargained for," Tucker observed.

"No doubt. But I'm in it now, and I have to finish."

"You want to find out why this guy was telling you to stay away from ESP? Or do you just want to let him go?"

Behind them, Harmon began yelling, begging to be set free.

She looked over at Tucker slowly. "I want to know what he was talking about."

"Are you willing to let me do what I need to do to make this guy talk?"

She hesitated, staring at Tucker for a long time, wondering if she should let this happen. Finally, she nodded slowly. She had to know what was going on. And it was clear that the only way Harmon would talk was if he knew he'd have his a.s.s kicked if he didn't.

"Yes," she finally said.

Angela stepped out of the car and moved to the back of the vehicle.

"Let me outta here!" Harmon yelled, his voice m.u.f.fled but loud. "I can't breathe."

"Shut up," Tucker hissed, kneeling down so his mouth was near the trunk's keyhole. "I'm going to open the trunk, pal, but you need to shut up. And if you try to run, so help me I'll kill you."

Harmon went silent.

"Now, after I open the trunk the lady is going to ask you some questions which you will answer. If you don't answer those questions to her satisfaction the first time she asks, I'll make certain you answer them the second time." Tucker glanced up at Angela through the dim light and winked. "Do I make myself clear, pal?" No answer. "What's this guy's name?" he asked Angela.

"Ted. Ted Harmon."

"Did you hear me, Teddie?"

"I heard you," came the m.u.f.fled reply.

"But did youunderstand me, Teddie?" Again, no answer. "Teddie!"

"Yes, yes."

"Good." Tucker stood up and held out his hand. "Give me the keys, Angela."

She dropped them into his open palm.

"Teddie," Tucker called.

"What?"

"When I open the trunk, remember to stay right where you are. Don't move a muscle. If you do, so help me I'll break whatever moves. Got it?"

"Yes."

Tucker nodded for Angela to step back, then slid the key into the trunk and turned it. The latch popped and Tucker lifted the lid. Harmon lay on his back, gazing up at them under the light from the small bulb affixed to the underside of the trunk's lid. His clothes and hair were disheveled, and one hand was bleeding slightly. He made no move to escape.

"Ask away, Angela," Tucker said.

"Is Sumter Bank an ESP client?"

"Don't ask me that," Harmon pleaded. "Please."

Tucker c.o.c.ked his right hand and reached down as if to grab Harmon by the throat, but Angela caught Tucker's hand. "No, John. He'll answer."

"I'll give him one more chance," Tucker growled. "But I don't think we ought to stick around here much longer, and you need to get your answers."

"Is Sumter a client?" she demanded again.

"Yes," Harmon whispered.

There. Some progress. "What's the application? What does ESP's software do for Sumter?"

Harmon closed his eyes and moaned softly as he shifted slightly on his back.

"Teddie!" Tucker barked.

Angela glanced over. Tucker seemed as interested as she was in hearing the answer.

Harmon grimaced. "It's a predictive software."

"What does Sumter use it to predict?"

Harmon shook his head. "It's used to a.n.a.lyze Sumter's on-line mortgage applications."

"a.n.a.lyze them how?" Angela pushed.

"To screen people," Harmon answered evasively.

"Screen peoplehow ?"

Harmon gritted his teeth. "I won't-"

"Dammit!" Tucker shouted, reaching into the trunk and grabbing Harmon by his thin throat. "Talk, you little b.a.s.t.a.r.d!" he roared.

"All right, all right," Harmon whined, his eyes wide open. "To determine the race of the on-line applicants."

For a few moments it seemed to Angela that there were no other sights or sounds in the cold night except for the little man's eyes gazing back at hers and his hard breathing. "Why would Sumter want to determine the race of an on-line mortgage applicant?"

Harmon stared up at her, steam pouring from his mouth and nose. "Because they can't see the applicant when somebody tries to get a mortgage on-line."

"Jesus," Tucker muttered, relaxing his grip on the little man's throat.

"Let me get this straight," Angela said. "The ESP software can predict for Sumter the race of every on-line mortgage applicant."

"It can't go quite that far," Harmon admitted. "But with 99 percent accuracy it can predict whether or not the applicant is black, Hispanic, or any other minority."

"How?" Tucker demanded.

"For Sumter to process the mortgage request, the applicant must fill out the boxes on the application, giving name, current address, current telephone number, Social Security number, years of education, and all other personal debt, including credit cards." The words were spilling out now, as if Harmon wanted to talk. As if all of this information had been bottled up inside of him for too long, and now that he had the opportunity to reveal what he knew, he couldn't say enough. "The software crosses all the information from the application with reams of data bank information we purchase from third-party vendors to predict race. For instance, the current address information gets Sumter to about a 75 percent confidence level right away. The ZIP code and the telephone number tell the software three-quarters of what it needs to know. I mean, think about it: very few neighborhoods in our country are split fifty-fifty in terms of race. Then the software reviews what kind of items the applicant purchased on his or her credit cards, and where he or she went to high school or college. That kind of information further refines the confidence around the prediction until it spits out an answer with 99 percent accuracy. Actually the accuracy level is 99.4 percent," he added. "Minority or white. That's all the senior people at Sumter want to know."

"And of course the race box on the application is optional," Angela pointed out quietly. "The applicant doesn't have to fill out that information."

Harmon nodded. "Exactly. Now, if the application is submitted in person, the bank employee handling the application sees the applicant and can fill in the race information if the applicant doesn't when the applicant leaves the bank branch. But over the Internet, the applicant is anonymous. There's no way for the bank to know the applicant's race."

"Unless Sumter uses the ESP predictive software," Angela said.

Harmon sighed dejectedly. "That's right."

"My G.o.d," Tucker whispered, tightening his grip on Harmon's throat again. "I oughta-"

"John!" Angela reached down into the trunk and grabbed Tucker's hand. "Stop it."

Harmon gasped as Tucker released his grip. "You think this has been easy for me? Knowing all of this? Being a part of all of this?"

"Why would you haveever supported it if it's been so hard?" Angela demanded. "Why wouldn't you tell someone? Why wouldn't you have gone to the authorities?"

Harmon closed his eyes tightly. "I have a past," he said, tightening his mouth. "The senior people at ESP found out about it, and they used it against me. I'm sure our investment guy at Sage Capital was the one who told them."

"What kind of past?" Tucker demanded.

"What difference does it make?" Harmon shot back.