He was vexed and he let it show. “Don’t pout, dear, you’ll trip over your lower lip,” she told him. “My jet has a fax machine and yours doesn’t, so Tommy sent me what he’s managed to dig up on our professor.” Frances had directions to the FBI safe house, so she rode shotgun while Lane drove the plain gray Ford van with government plates. “Has Tommy come up with anything yet on where Speyer is hunkering down?” “He’s still working on it, but he’s not going to make much progress unless we catch a break. Maybe Metzler is just the ticket.” “Don’t count on it too heavily, Frannie. If Metzler knew anything that could interfere with Speyer’s plans, they would have killed him.” “Maybe they tried and he got away. That’s why he came to the FBI.” “That’s possible. Maybe he is our only real lead.” They took U.S. 63 down to I-95 and headed south. The Bureau’s safe house was actually in New Jersey, across the river from Philadelphia near Camden. Traffic was heavy but moved well.
