Accidents Waiting to Happen

hurt me and indirectly can hurt us.”

Fear passed across Kate’s face like a shadow and the sparkle in her eyes dulled. He saw her mind working, trying to guess what he’d done. Would she be close?

Could she imagine the things he’d done? If she couldn’t, he would hurt her with his next statement. If she could, what did that say about them? Either way, it made this confession all the more difficult. Josh wrung his hands together and looked at them.

“Remember when Abby had that kidney and liver infection after she was born? She was in the hospital for

such a long time and you didn’t leave her side. You were with her virtually day and night.”

Memories of that time bombarded him, cutting short his explanation. He relived those terrifying weeks seeing his first child fight to survive and him powerless to do anything to save her.

“Yes, of course I remember,” she said softly.

“You’ve got to understand I did it for the right reasons and I didn’t want to worry you.”

Fear forced Kate to squirm. “Josh, tell me. Please.”

“You were so scared for Abby. Worried whether she would pull through. I don’t know what I would have done if she’d died.”

Kate grabbed his wrist. “Jesus, Josh, don’t say that.

Don’t even think things like that.”

Josh stopped rocking on the swing and he stared into her eyes for recognition. “But I did and you can’t say you didn’t think the same, either.”

She looked away from him. “Oh, Josh.”

“It’s okay to admit it. Look, she’s okay, there’s nothing wrong with her and she’s great.” He lifted Kate’s face so she looked at him, then turned his gaze to Abby.

Red-faced, Abby hung upside down from the climbing frame, her hair hanging down. Her arms outstretched, she stroked Wiener, who stood beneath her.

She spotted her parents looking at her. “Are my five minutes up?”

“No, not yet,” Josh said.

“Cool.”

Josh couldn’t help smiling.

“What did you do, Josh?”

His smile melted. “She wasn’t getting better and the medical bills were piling up. The insurance was stretched to the max and MediCal couldn’t help us.”

“Josh, you said the insurance would cover it.”

“It didn’t.”

“What did you do?” she repeated, dread eating up

her face.

“I remember the crying. I couldn’t bear to listen to it.

It was like listening to fingernails being drawn down a blackboard.” He shuddered at memories of years past, the despair rising to the surface. “The insurance was saying they wouldn’t pay out any further and the doctors said they needed to carry out more procedures. I

didn’t know what we were going to do.”

Kate placed a comforting hand on Josh’s knees.

“Tell me.”

“I was carrying out building inspections on an apartment development in Dixon. The construction company

had cut corners to make a profit and they knew it would never make the grade.” He stopped looking at Kate again and stared into the sand at his feet

“What did you do?” she whispered.

“They offered me ten thousand to sign the development off as safe.”

“And you took it.”

“Yes.”

“Oh, Josh.” Her hand slipped from his knee.

“I took it happily,” he blurted. She needed to understand.

“I saw it as our way to save Abby. You’ve

got to understand I didn’t do it for greed. I did it out of necessity.”

Kate’s face said it all. Disappointment scarred her expression, but Josh expected that. This kind of news didn’t come with a round of applause and a ticker tape parade. He was just glad she wasn’t angry.

“How dangerous is the development?”

“Not very. The owners are likely to have problems with subsidence or structural integrity over time. I don’t know how well it would hold up in earthquake conditions, but it would have to be a very large quake to have an effect in Dixon and that’s very unlikely.”

“Josh, why didn’t you tell me?” she asked.

“I couldn’t. You were too preoccupied with Abby at the time and too happy when she was well. I didn’t want to burst your bubble. But I promised myself I would tell you when the time was right.” He paused. “I never found the right moment.”

“Until now. Why?”

“Someone knows and they used it against me.”

“What do you mean?”

“Blackmail.”

“How much?”

“Fifty-five thousand, so far.”

“Fifty-five thousand? Where did that money come

from? You haven’t been taking more bribes, have you?”

Josh recoiled. “Christ, no. I only did it the once. They did try me again, but I left rather than be in someone’s pocket. That’s why I got out of the construction business altogether. I didn’t want to get involved again.”

“So how did you pay the blackmailer?”

“With a life insurance policy. I sold it.”

“You sold your life insurance? What if you’d been killed last week, what would have happened if you had no insurance?” Kate’s temper began to slip.

“Don’t worry, I’ve got insurance. I started a new policy after I sold the other one. It was a quick way to raise money.”

Kate calmed down. “So why the big confession all of a sudden?”

“I think what’s been happening to me recently has something to do with it—the car accident, the wreath, the guy at the party. I think the blackmailer is calling in the marker. I think someone is going to release my part to the press.”

“Do you know who’s doing this?”

“Yes.”

“Was it the man with Bob?”

“No. I think he’s a hired hand. We checked him out and he doesn’t work for Pinnacle.”

“Who is it?”

“I don’t want to say.”

“I think it’s a bit late for what you want,” Kate said sternly.

Josh had hoped to keep this detail from Kate. “It’s Belinda Wong.”

“Your secretary?” She was incredulous. “How did

she find out?”

“She overheard a phone call,” Josh lied. He couldn’t bring himself to tell her about their affair. He would, but just not now. Neither of them could handle the enormity of it all. That was what he told himself.

“Go to the police.”

“I can’t.”

“I don’t care.”

“I’ll be ruined.”

“You don’t have a choice.”

“Let me deal with it. I’ll finish it.”

“Abby, we’re going,” Kate fired across the playground.

“Oh,”

she whined.

“Now, Abby,” Kate snapped. She stood up from the

swing and walked away from her husband.

“Kate, tell me what you’re thinking. Kate, Kate,

please,” Josh called after her.

She didn’t answer.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Sitting at the front desk, two security guards occasionally glanced at the surveillance monitors. The main focus of their attention was on the fourteen-inch portable television perched on top of the bank of monitors. One guard got up from his seat and changed channels. The other guard checked his watch.

“Patrol time.” He picked up his walkie-talkie and set off for the elevator. “Tell me if anything good happens, eh?”

“Sure,” the other guard said, without taking his eyes off the screen.

At seven p.m., they were only two hours into their shift and a shitload of television would be watched before their time at Pinnacle Investments was over at

seven the next morning.

The building was quiet in its slumber. The burble of activity of buying and selling investment interests was on hold. The only sounds came from the television and its bored viewers, the hum of the fluorescent lights and the bleeps of a phone being dialed from an office on the top floor in the east wing.

In his office, Dexter Tyrell tapped a number into a cellular phone. The phone was registered neither to him nor to Pinnacle Investments, per the professional’s instructions. He was contacting his hired killer. He wanted a progress report, and more importantly, he wanted results. He needed results.

His meeting with the board had gone as he expected.

The report hadn’t been well received. Tyrell’s viatical division was returning a profit, but it was again short of the fifteen-percent growth target required by the firm and promised by Tyrell. The results were better than the quarter before, and those were better than the quarter before that. He had it under control; all he needed was time and he would turn it around. He

knew the board was turning against him. They wanted to be rid of him. He could see himself being replaced by someone who they thought could do the job more effectively.

The idiots, if they only knew. Would any of them have had the guts to do what he had done? He doubted it. His only way out was to increase the pace of his program.

He knew he risked exposure and an investigation, but his back was against the wall and he would be damned if he would let them have his division. He had to risk it.

Tyrell listened to the burr of the telephone ringing.

“Come on, come on, answer the phone. I want to

know what you are doing,” he muttered to himself.

After several rings, the professional picked up.

“Hello.” His one word was impenetrable. It gave no indication to his feelings, his location, his well-being. It didn’t even sound like a welcome.

“Where were you? Why didn’t you answer the phone

right away?” Tyrell demanded.

“What do you want?” the professional said dismissively.

“I want to know how far you have gotten with your assignments.”

“They’re proceeding.”

“But when will they be completed?”

“Probably a week to ten days.”

“I want them concluded as soon as possible, and that means less than a week,” Tyrell snapped. “I have other assignments for you. I’m increasing the pace of the project.”

“Do you consider that an acceptable risk?”

“Are you worried you’ll be caught?” Tyrell liked his snide remark.

“I think you should be. If it ever came down to it, the police would never find me and neither would you.”

“Are you sure? You seem to be losing your touch.

You’ve missed this target once already. Have you managed to try again?”

“Yes, I have. This target is a fortunate man. I arranged for his aircraft to have some problems.”

Tyrell interrupted. “Did you get him?” He already knew the answer.

“No, I followed him to the airport and he changed his mind.”

“So? He’ll probably use the plane again.”

“No, his flying partner took it and was killed.”

“Congratulations, you killed the wrong man,” he

scolded.

“Does that bother you?”

“No,” Tyrell said bluntly. He was only bothered if the killing exposed him and his project. “Are you?”

The professional didn’t answer.

“Is he suspicious with two accidents occurring so close together? If I were him, I’d be wondering about a third.”

“Yes, I believe so.”

“That makes your task harder. And does he have any suspicions regarding Pinnacle Investments?”

“Oh yes. The wreath that someone sent from your

company did that. Was that you?”

The vice president was angrier with himself than his hit man. He’d indulged himself and it had backfired.

Every time one of the viatical clients died he sent a wreath to the family. He got special enjoyment out of knowing the client was dead before the family did.

He’d made the mistake after he’d received the phone call that Josh Michaels was dead. He’d sent a wreath, and why shouldn’t he? His hired gun had never missed before. He wouldn’t make that mistake again; no

wreath until a kill was confirmed.

“If I hadn’t been given the wrong fucking information about his apparent death, that mistake would have never been made,” Tyrell said. “What have you got planned now?”

“The woman is proceeding according to plan, and I see a conclusion to that soon. My investigations have shown that Michaels has a dubious past. He is or was involved with a woman and I think there’s a possibility for something spectacular that wouldn’t raise suspicion.

But it’ll take a little arranging.” The professional’s pride shone through.

Tyrell’s heart sank. Whatever it was the professional had planned, it didn’t inspire confidence. “Just make sure that you don’t miss this time. I don’t want these failed attempts becoming habit. It’s the wrong time for fuck-ups, for all of us.”

“I’ve never failed you before, have I?” the professional asked.

“Good night,” Tyrell said and hung up.

The vice president tossed the phone onto his desk. It bounced across the smooth surface and came to a halt at the edge of the table. His contract killer pissed him off.

He was getting too flamboyant with his staged accidents, and his arrogance made him ineffective. For some time his hit man had worried him. The last three kills had gone according to plan, but the kills were so elaborate that the outcome could have easily gone the other way.

So, what were his options? Lay the hit man off? God knew he wanted to replace him with someone who had a more straightforward approach. Somehow, Tyrell

didn’t think hired killers were canned from jobs. It wasn’t that sort of business. So what could he do with the professional? He was too much of a liability left to roam free, but he knew almost nothing about him. His thoughts were leading him to a conclusion his hit man wasn’t going to like.

But for now Tyrell needed the hit man, and he really needed the kill rate increased. The life expectancy of his clients had to be shortened for the success of the company. He would love to show the board members

who could make this company sparkle. Tyrell pocketed the discarded phone, picked up his briefcase and left his office. He hoped that tomorrow would be more

promising.

An hour later the professional sat in a restaurant bar.

The food and drink were expensive, like the clientele, which were a mix of state officials, businessmen and high-income white-collar workers. He wondered how many of these men had big life insurance policies in the hands of viatical companies like Pinnacle Investments.

Would he be making a visit to any of them one day? He smiled at the thought. The human race’s ability for creating complex problems amused him. His clean-living

lifestyle, simple and without appendages, would never have him looking down the barrel of a gun.

He had a mineral water in one hand and his eyes

fixed on the television’s baseball game. Disinterested, he watched the game, but his mind was elsewhere. He decided Dexter Tyrell was a prick. The businessman wanted everything to happen now, but this type of work needed planning. Tyrell’s problem was greed, and greed meant sloppiness, which meant errors. He mused on the notion that he might blow off this gig, close the post office box and get rid of the cellular phones. And if he discovered Tyrell was becoming a liability, then he would

take care of him. Permanently.

A hand lightly touched his shoulder and someone

spoke, tearing him away from his thoughts.

“Hi, James.” Belinda Wong was a vision in a scarlet dress that enhanced her to-die-for figure.

The professional had gotten her phone number at

Josh Michaels’s birthday party as part of a fallback plan. He’d called her after Mark Keegan had been

killed in his aircraft. With that particular avenue closed for Michaels’s demise, he turned to Josh’s ex-mistress.

He saw potential with this woman on his side. He

thought Michaels was a fool to get involved with someone like this; she had trouble written all over her.

Belinda was pleased to hear from him. The professional took her interest in him as a positive sign and

felt his luck change with the Michaels assignment.

She’d suggested this place—expensive and exclusive.

“Belinda, you look breathtaking.”

“Thank you. Call me Bell.”

“Can I get you a drink, Bell?”

“Yes, I’ll have a white wine.” Bell slid onto the stool next to him.

He asked the barman to get the lady a white wine.

The barman offered her a choice, and she selected a quality Chardonnay. The professional told her the table would be ready for them in a few minutes. She smiled, exposing teeth that could consume him in a single bite.

“Are you in a better mood than when we last met?”

he asked.

“Yes, thank you.” She smiled. “I wasn’t having a

good time at the party.”

“What were all the bad feelings about?”

“Oh, a long story.”

“I’ve got time.”

“We’ll see.” Bell’s perfectly manicured fingers with long bloodred fingernails gripped the wineglass as tightly as the scarlet dress hugged her delicate frame. She sipped her drink.

He looked at the woman. He studied her face, trying to see what was going on in that mind. It is so obvious what kind of woman she is, he thought. As dangerous as she is beautiful. The professional finished off his mineral water.

The maitre d’ came over and told them their table was ready and showed them the way. The men noticed Bell, with her provocative dress and elegant good looks. Obvious stares meant to be stray glances were sent in her direction from all quarters of the restaurant.

The men wanted her and she knew they did.

They were seated at a window table for two. The table was an arm’s width too narrow for the professional’s comfort.

The server took their orders and left them. Their conversation was lost in a sea of voices. The appetizer course came and went, as did the exchange of words about everyday life, careers and other forgettable subjects.

He’d noted boredom creeping into her demeanor.

When the main course arrived, he decided it was time to make the meal more interesting.

“Do you want to play something? Just for fun.”

Suspicion flashed in her eyes. “Like what?”

“I used to work with a guy many years ago and he

had the perfect way of breaking the ice with new people.

He always swore that this one question gave him

more insight into people than weeks of working with them,” the professional lied.

“Was he a salesman?” She dabbed her mouth with

the napkin and sipped her wine.

“Yeah, he used to spring this question on his clients at social functions. You know, business dinners and lunches—stuff like that,” the professional said, embellishing the lie.

“So what was the question?”

“So you’re interested?”

“Yes.” Bell’s dark eyes bored into him.

She was interested. He had her.

“What is the worst thing you’ve ever done?”

“That’s the question?”

Smiling, the professional nodded. He took another mouthful of food from his fork.

“Why not the nicest thing you’ve ever done?”

He put down his fork, swallowed his food, placed his elbows on the table, and interlaced his fingers. “Because the nice things aren’t that interesting. But people are very keen to tell you the worst they have done, because in some twisted way we’re all turned on by the

evil that men or women do. People would rather hear that I hung out with Al Capone than Mother Teresa.

There’s something inherently sexy about being bad, as twisted as it may sound.”

Bell paused on the thought. She picked up her knife and fork.

He smirked. “Well?”

“Well what?” She glanced at him and cut into the

fish on her plate.

“What’s the worst thing you’ve ever done?” he repeated.

“You really want to know?”

“Yes. I think I do.”

“Okay then.”

The professional grinned.

“I blackmailed someone.”

Although she tried to pass off the comment as no big thing, it was impossible for her to hide her pride. The professional smiled. His question never failed.

“Wow. That is bad.”

“It is, isn’t it? I thought you might be impressed.”

Picking up his knife and fork, the professional

started to eat again. Just the confession for which he was looking. He had the reason why Michaels had sold his life policy. Michaels had to have money for the blackmail. “So, what was the blackmail about?”

“That isn’t enough for you?” she asked, her tone provocative.

“No. I want details. You’ve given me the answer. I’ve seen the menu, but you haven’t let me sample the food.

Without the details there’s no way for me to judge what kind of person you are.”

“I blackmailed a man I was having an affair with.”

“Good. Tell me more.”

The server interrupted them to check on drinks. The professional asked for another bottle of wine.

“So you blackmailed him over the affair?”

“Partly.”

“What was the other part?”

“He once told me he took kickbacks when he was a

building inspector. I suppose he was playing true to form. As your friend was saying, he told me his worst to impress me.”

The server returned with the wine and topped off

their glasses, then moved on to another table.

“Did you blackmail him after he told you?”

“No, I did that when he tried to break up with me.”

“Did you know about his wife?”

“Oh, yes.”

“So you were under no illusions that he was unattached.”

“Oh,

no. I knew about his marriage and I had even

met his wife a few times.”

The professional laughed. “You are a dangerous

woman.”

Smiling, she said, “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

The professional nodded.

“I found it quite stimulating, having a conversation with his wife while she was completely unaware that I was fucking her husband. It used to make sex very intense after seeing her. I liked to have my tete-a-tete

with his wife and then screw him afterwards.”

“So why the blackmail?”

“He got an attack of the guilts and wanted to break things off. That wasn’t acceptable to me. He’d made a decision to start a relationship with me, but hadn’t had the courtesy to break it off with his wife. So when he decided that his relationship with me had been a mistake and that it was over, I decided I would make him

pay a price for his betrayal.”

“To his wife?”

Bell laughed. “No, to me. He betrayed me as well as his wife. I wasn’t concerned with her feelings. It was up to her to do whatever she wanted to take revenge for her husband’s infidelity.”

The professional noticed the more she talked about Josh, the colder she became. Bell’s deep-rooted hatred for Josh Michaels became very apparent. This was the kind of woman with whom the professional could do business. He stopped eating and gave his full and undivided attention to Bell.

“So, when did you stop blackmailing him?” he asked.

“Who says I have?” Bell hid her smirk behind her

wineglass.

The professional grinned again. He was getting all the information he wanted.

“What’s his name? This unfortunate betrayer of

trust and breaker of hearts.”

“I’m not sure I should say,” she said, the smirk still on her face.

“Oh, come on, Bell, you can’t leave me hanging. It’s not like I would know him or anything.”

Bell moved her food around her plate while contemplating the question, deciding whether she should answer.

“But you do know him.”

“Do I?” he replied, trying not to show he knew the answer already.

“It’s Josh Michaels.”

The professional had surmised correctly. He knew

the hold she had over Michaels; now it was time to exploit it, and her.

“So is that why you were upset at his party?”

“Yes. He’s starting to refuse to play along with my demands and he used one of his friends to try to talk me out of hurting his happy home.”

“It sounds like he’s trying to call your bluff.”

“Maybe. But what can I do about it?”

“Show him that you’re not bluffing.”

“How would I do that?”

“I could show you.”

Surprised, Bell raised an eyebrow. “Could you now.”

“Is the money your main concern?”

“No. It’s a punishment.”

“Well that gives us options.”

“Us?”

“Yes. Us.”

“I think we should discuss this somewhere else. The dinner table is not the right place,” Bell said.

“That’s fine with me.”

“So, what’s the worst thing you’ve ever done?” Bell asked.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

While sitting at the kitchen table eating breakfast, Josh leafed through the initial findings of the joint FAA and National Transport Safety Board investigation that had come through the letter slot that morning.

In brief, the report stated that the Cessna had run dry of oil and the elevator and rudder bolts had detached themselves. The reason the engine sump had

been devoid of oil was because the oil cooler hoses were not sufficiently tightened. It was assumed that the missing bolts had come loose and fallen from the plane during flight, which meant it was probable that the split pins weren’t secured through the nuts and bolts. In the opinion of the NTSB, these simple mechanical failures should have been detected during the overhaul prior to the fatal flight, and the pilot should have taken better care during the pre-takeoff checks. The NTSB planned to put the majority of the blame on the mechanic and the remainder on pilot negligence. The findings were preliminary and were in no way to be taken as final. He read through the brief report again.

Josh refused to accept the findings, and he refused to believe Jack Murphy had failed to carry out a thorough inspection of his airplane. Jack was too much of a perfectionist and too much of a craftsman not to have

tightened any bolt to the torque setting laid out in the Cessna maintenance manual. Unsatisfied with the report, he drove to Davis Airfield.

Josh parked the car in the same spot he had the day of Mark’s death. He walked over to Jack Murphy’s

hangar. The orange windsock at the end of the runway hung limply against its pole. The sock looked like it was at half-mast in tribute. Josh thought it was fitting, seeing as the airfield had lost one of its own. Davis Airfield had never lost a pilot in its fifty-two-year history.

Josh entered Murphy’s workshop. The hangar had

the appearance of an elephant’s graveyard. A Cessna 172 in flying school colors lay slumped at the mouth of the building. The engine and its cowling had been removed along with the nose wheel assembly. Tubular

steel stuck out from the fireproof bulkhead like polished bones, and a tangle of colored wires hung down

like veins. The aircraft unceremoniously rested on its tail, no longer able to stand upright without its engine in place. A Piper Archer PA-32 stood propellerless on its wheels looking sadly at the gutted Cessna in front of it. A misshapen object lay hidden under a tarp like a corpse under a mortician’s sheet, but it was probably another of Jack’s unfinished projects.

The workshop was silent. This wasn’t right; it was guaranteed that Jack’s workshop rang with the sounds of him and his employees putting their best efforts into keeping these and other aircraft aloft. Josh called out.

The odor of used engine oil and grease filled his nose. A rustle of movement came from the small, shabby office at the rear of the hangar. Jack Murphy appeared at the doorway.

Josh crossed the hangar. His footsteps echoed on the concrete floor.

“Hello, Josh. I thought I might be seeing you.” Murphy sounded defeated. “I suppose this is to do with

Mark.”

Josh raised his hands in surrender. “Don’t worry, I haven’t come to accuse you of anything. I’ve just come to talk.”

“So you got the news from the FAA?”

“Yeah. Shall we go into the office?”

Murphy didn’t look good. It was obvious the loss of a plane and pilot from his workshop had hit him hard.

Murphy looked like dried fruit with all the goodness sucked out of it. To Josh, he had aged ten years in the days since Sunday.

The two men entered the cluttered office. Murphy

squeezed past the bulging filing cabinets and sat behind his wooden desk. Josh removed a stack of magazines from one of the two shabby office chairs before sitting.

He remembered seeing these types of chairs in dentist’s waiting rooms twenty years ago. Aircraft component manufacturers’ calendars, wall planners covered in a graffiti of hastily written notes and magazine articles of aircrafts of interest covered the wall behind the mechanic.

The flying club and the private aircraft owners

excused Murphy’s clutter because of his first-class abilities as an engineer.

“Do you want a coffee, Josh?” Murphy asked.

“No, I’m good, Jack.”

“What did you want to talk about?”

“Why aren’t you working?” Josh asked. “Where is

everyone?”

“I’m not sure there’s much point. The FAA is blaming me for the crash and they’re likely to take action against me. They’ll probably close me down.” Murphy doodled on his desk blotter with a pencil, unaware of what he drew.

“But people rely on you.”

“Well, that’s not a very wise thing to do. Letting me touch their birds is likely to get them killed,” the mechanic said pointedly.

“Jack.”

“Jack, nothing. One of my planes went and killed

someone.”

Josh let the subject die. Murphy wasn’t going to see sense right now.

“What do you say to their report that you left the oil cooler hoses loose and tail section bolts without split pins?” Josh noticed Murphy was unaware he

now doodled on an invoice on his desk and not the blotter.

“I don’t believe it.” Murphy threw the pencil down.

It went skittering across the desk and onto the floor. “I always do a wrench check after servicing. I even do an engine run to make sure everything is sealing. The oil cooler hoses shouldn’t have been loose in the first place, because I had no reason to take them off. What they found are fundamental errors that no mechanic would make. If I were that bad I wouldn’t have been surprised if the prop fell off.”

“So did you undo, then tighten the hose connections?”

“No. I didn’t need to. The same goes for the elevator and rudder controls. I had no need to touch the split pins. The pins were in good shape. I only tighten them when there is movement.”

“How do you know whether there’s movement?”

Josh asked.

“I paint a white line across the nut and bolt. If the white lines aren’t matched up then the bolt has moved, but they were all lined up. I swear to you that aircraft left me in better condition than it did the day it left the factory.”

Murphy’s explanation disturbed Josh. Murphy was

an honest man and a good mechanic. Josh believed his story. He was sure he’d done everything correctly and hadn’t touched the parts of the aircraft that had caused the crash. Josh’s paranoia antenna twitched. Why was he getting the feeling that Mark Keegan’s death wasn’t an accident?

“The thing is, in the twenty-five years I’ve been involved with aircraft, I’ve never known the bolts or the

hose connection to come undone before.” Murphy

spoke as if he were in the witness box. With the way things were going, he would have to be before long.

An uncomfortable silence wedged itself between the two men.

Josh knew no more could be learned. He stood up

and offered his hand to the distraught mechanic.

“Thanks for talking to me, Jack. I really appreciate it.

For what it’s worth, I don’t blame you for what happened to Mark.”

Murphy shrugged.

Josh left Murphy’s office and headed out of the

shade of the hangar for the harsh brightness of day. He was only halfway to the hangar doors when Murphy

called to his back. He stopped and turned to face him.

“If I didn’t know better…” He paused. “I would

say that someone wanted that plane to go down.” Ominously, Murphy’s words echoed throughout the hangar,

ricocheting off the walls like bullets, each one burying itself in Josh.

Josh opened the front door to let Abby and Wiener into the house. He unclasped the dog’s leash from his collar and hung it on a coat hook. The dachshund shook himself and trotted over to his water bowl. The dog was

tired after his walk to the park and thirty minutes of chasing a ball around.

Abby rolled a squeaky ball after the dog. “We’re

home,” she called.

Kate came halfway down the stairs. “You’re just in time. I’m running a bath for my little girl.”

“Oh. Do I have to?” Abby whined.

“Yes. If you don’t, I don’t think we can let you stay up this late on vacation.” Kate kept her tone firm, but not unkind. She was just negotiating her position with her daughter. It was a regular occurrence for Abby to take Wiener for an evening walk with one of them, but because Abby was on spring break Josh had taken

them late, after nine o’clock.

“Dad.” Abby turned to Josh for support.

“I think your mother’s right. A bath before bed.” He paused. “Or you could go to bed now. Your choice?”

The child thought for a moment. “I’ll have a bath.”

“Good girl,” Josh said.

Turning on her heel, Abby ran up the stairs, following her mother.

Josh sat in the living room reading a book and could hear the noise of splashing and giggling coming from the upstairs bathroom. Wiener sat on the floor in front of Josh washing his tufted feet. The phone rang and Josh picked up the cordless handset from the coffee table.

“Hello,” he said.

“Josh, it’s Bob. Have you got the television on?”

Bob’s tone was urgent.

“No, I was reading. Is everything okay? You

sound—”

Bob cut him off. “Turn on Channel Three. Look at

the news. It’s on the TV.”

Whatever it was, it was bound to be bad news. Josh looked at the remote control on the coffee table and hesitated. If he didn’t turn the television on he would be ignorant. Ignorance sounded nice.

“Hold on, Bob. Let me turn the TV on.”

Channel Three was in the middle of a commercial

break.

“Bob, what am I meant to be watching?”

“It was on the headlines. It’s the next story up.”

“Can’t you just tell me?”

“Here it comes.”

The commercials ended and the cameras went to the news anchor, a sharp-looking black man in his thirties with a pencil moustache and glasses.

“We have a breaking story of corruption in the building industry. An anonymous source contacted the station this evening and made the allegation that the

Mountain Vista Apartments in Dixon were built to unsafe construction standards. We don’t have exact details, as yet, but Channel Three will be investigating all angles of this claim when we receive more information.

We now go live to Howard Decker outside Mountain

Vista Apartments in Dixon,” the anchor said.

The television image switched from inside the studio to the reporter, illuminated by television and security lights. He stood outside the apartments, kept out by security gates. The reporter looked serious and concerned

at the same time. He was conservatively dressed in a blue suit and white shirt.

“Thanks, Doug. Howard Decker reporting live from

the Mountain Vista Apartments in Dixon. The apartments behind me were built eight years ago. The development consists of over three hundred apartments and

condos. The anonymous informant alleges the apartments were built to inferior standards to save money.

“Our informant, who wishes to remain nameless,

says they have information detailing the major players involved and the shortcuts made.

“We’ve spoken to some concerned occupants who

didn’t want to be filmed tonight but expressed their concern at the revelation. We, of course, will be pressing for an investigation by the apartment management

company to establish the validity of the claim made exclusively to Channel Three. This is Howard Decker reporting live from Dixon. Back to you, Doug.” Howard

Decker’s serious face immediately brightened as he switched on a broad smile at the end of his report.

The screen returned to the grave-looking anchor. “A disturbing story—let’s hope we can get to the bottom of it. Debbie?”

The camera went to the female coanchor and she began a story about a farming policy going through the

state capitol. Josh turned off the television before she could finish.

“Josh, is that the apartment complex you were

telling me about?”

Josh didn’t answer.

“Josh, are you there?”

Josh had known as soon as they mentioned the name of the apartments that it was the construction project he had taken the bribe on. He couldn’t believe Bell had gone and done it. A chill ran through him, as if a chunk of ice circulated through his bloodstream.

Gooseflesh broke out along his arms and down his

back. Josh fell back onto the couch, relieved to be sitting down.

Bob was still asking if he was there. Josh interrupted him. “Yeah, that’s the project I worked on.”

“Do you think it was Bell?”

“It wouldn’t be anyone else. She came around after I came back from Forget-Me-Nots. She said if I refused to play along with her, she would do something to hurt me.”

“At least she didn’t mention any names.”

This is a warning. She will if I don’t comply with her demands.”

“Which are what?”

“I have no idea, but I’m sure I’ll find out.”

“Hey, man, are you okay?” Bob said. “You don’t

sound good.”

“Everything just seems to be going to hell. I think I’m losing this one.”

“Well, if you feel that way, you might as well give up and concede defeat. Tell Kate about the blackmail and the affair, walk into the cops and tell them about the kickback and tell Bell to go fuck herself,” Bob said sharply.

Josh didn’t understand Bob’s hostility, and the

change in character shocked him. “What’s crawled up your ass?” he asked.

“You. You’ve surrendered.”

“I haven’t given up.”

“Then don’t act like it. And if you need my help, call me. I’m here for you. But don’t give up on me, and more importantly don’t give up on you. You’ve got to bring this mess to a close.”

Bob was right. It was time to drop the self-pity. He had too much to lose by giving up.

“Thanks, Bob. I’ll be talking to you.” Josh hung up.

“Josh, is everything okay down there?” Kate called from the upstairs landing.

“It’s nothing. Everything’s going to be okay,” he said, but didn’t know if he believed it.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

The professional sat in his rental car, parked several houses down the street from Margaret Macey’s ranch home. He tutted his disapproval.

“Margaret, Margaret, Margaret, what have you

done?” he asked.

A police cruiser was parked outside the old woman’s house.

The cops won’t save you, Margaret. No one can save you. I told you that. The professional had warned her not to call the police; told her it wouldn’t do her any good. He’d discovered the police involvement on his scanner three days ago when he heard a request for a patrol to visit Margaret Macey. And here they were again, and he was certainly surprised to find them when he had something new planned for his target. But he could wait for the police to go. He had underestimated Margaret. She had more strength of character

than he gave her credit for. Her file had stated she was weak in all respects, but no matter, she could do little to hurt him and the police wouldn’t be able to track him. The police were more of a nuisance than a problem.

She would still die and it would look like natural causes. He waited.

He cast a quizzical eye over Margaret’s house. The siding had seen better days and looked as if it had been run through the washer one too many times. The moss covered wood shake was curled and hung at curious angles like the teeth of a none-too-proficient boxer.

The small, unkempt yard was ugly, filled with dead plants and overgrown weeds. Margaret’s house was no different than the neighboring homes. A shitty little house on a shitty side of town, he thought. He mused this was no way for someone to live out their twilight years. In the same position for over twenty minutes, his butt was going to sleep, so he shifted in his seat.

Like a cat watching its prey, he waited for the right time to pounce while he thought of the woman inside the house. A hundred and fifty grand—who’d’ve of thought it? An outsider would have never guessed Margaret Macey was worth a considerable six-figure sum, dead.

But how many times had he read about some old bird who lived like a bum with millions in the bank? Sometimes he failed to comprehend what made people tick. He could get into the lives of those he killed, establishing what they did and when they did things, but the

why always eluded him. A horn blared from behind

and the professional checked his mirror. One car had cut off another turning onto his street and the cars had narrowly missed each other.

He returned his gaze and his thoughts to Margaret Macey. What a sad and pointless life she led. Life to her was a malignant disease prolonging her suffering.

He wondered if anyone besides Pinnacle Investments wanted to see her dead. He considered that he would be doing her a favor, ending her life, like a considerate owner knowing when to have his beloved pet put out of its misery. The near-miss cars sped past. The force made his car shudder on its wheels.

Josh Michaels’s life was in stark contrast to Margaret’s.

He had so much to live for. And if the professional was brutally honest, Michaels was a more challenging target and he couldn’t wait to get back into the thick of that assignment.

But to deal with Michaels effectively he had to

be totally focused on the younger man and not have the distraction of Margaret Macey on his plate. Anyway, it wouldn’t take much for the professional to rid himself of Mrs. Macey. A couple more phone calls and a personal visit should do it. He would be glad when he had disposed of her.

He remembered his nocturnal visit to Margaret’s

house two days after his first phone call from Josh Michaels’s party. His investigation revealed no security systems and poor quality door locks, making it easy to get in and out when the time came. The operation had all the hallmarks of a slick assignment. It would be like taking candy from a baby—or life from an old lady.

The professional smiled smugly.

His smile hardened. A swift disposal of one of his targets would get that prick, Dexter Tyrell, off his back. Tyrell’s attitude annoyed him. The executive knew nothing of the work the professional did for him and the inventiveness needed to meet Tyrell’s criteria.

“I want the people in the files killed in a way that does not raise suspicion. It has to look like an accident or a random act of violence. You know, accidents with machine tools, heart attacks, muggings, car accidents, hit and runs. I’m sure you don’t need me to tell you what to do,” Dexter Tyrell had said to him during their initial phone conversation two years ago.

It had been easy for him to say, but not as easy for the professional to carry out. With the hassle he was getting from Tyrell these days, it hardly seemed worth the ten grand per head. It might be time to move on to higher-paying assignments.

The professional was distracted from his thoughts by two police officers coming out of Margaret’s house and saying something the hit man couldn’t hear before closing the door. They climbed into the squad car and pulled away, the purr of the thudding V8 heavy in the air.

Time for some food, the professional thought. He

unfolded a sheet of paper he removed from the car door pocket. He dialed a number listed at the top of the pizza delivery flyer. He gave his order, a name, and an address.

“When will it be ready?” he asked.

“Thirty minutes, sir,” the disinterested pizza chain employee replied, and said, “Thank you for choosing Supreme Pizza.”

“Perfect,” he said and hung up.

He waited for his food to arrive.

“Like I said, we have a name to go with the number that called here Saturday night, thanks to Pacific Bell,”

the police officer summarized. “It was lucky you only had the one call Saturday. It certainly made our job easier.”

“Can you tell me his name?” Margaret asked.

“Not until we’ve had the chance to speak to him

ourselves.”

“Are you sure he hasn’t called since?” the other officer asked.

Margaret hesitated. There’d been the first call—the one where the caller changed from an insurance agent into a monster hell-bent on her destruction. Since then it had been a series of calls at all hours of the day and night, but he’d hung up before she could answer. She didn’t know if it was him, her monster, but she thought it was. She’d learned to live in fear without ever seeing her intruder. But it hadn’t stopped with just the calls— there’d also been noises. She was sure he’d been outside her home—footsteps on the deck, fingertips drawn down windows and the laughter, that evil laughter. No one without evil on their mind could laugh like that.

She wanted to tell the officers, but she couldn’t. She’d made two allegations to the police last year about trespassers at night and they hadn’t believed her then and

she didn’t think they believed her now. They didn’t need to know more; they had a name. It didn’t matter whether it had been one call or a hundred, as long as they ended his reign of terror.

“Mrs. Macey,” the officer prompted.

“No,” she said, “there haven’t been any other calls.”

The officer looked unconvinced and frowned. “Anyway, we’ll let you know what happens in due course.

But it looks like we’ve got our man. I’m just glad you called. But you shouldn’t have left it so long.”

Three days had gone by before she called them.

Three days of peering through the drapes at the slightest disturbance. Three days of receiving telephone hang ups and the visit to her door. Three days was a long time to live in fear.

How could she venture outside when he could be

there waiting for her, just waiting to pounce? But confined to her home, her supplies ran out, supplies she

needed. Toilet paper ran out on the third day. Lacking the courage to buy more, she forced herself to use torn strips of newspaper. Had it really come down to this, wiping her ass on scraps of paper like a common tramp?

It had been a humiliating experience. Afterward, she’d cried for a long time. That demeaning act had made her mind up for her. Margaret called the police.

She was fully aware of the punishment if she was

caught calling the police. He’d said he would know if she went to the cops. She had little choice. She was dead if she did and dead if she didn’t. Deciding it was better to die trying, Margaret called them.

With no more to be said, the police officers saw

themselves out. Margaret had done it. She’d made a stand against her assailant. And now the police had a name to go with the threatening caller’s voice. It was over. She sighed with relief.

Although she was relieved, explaining herself to the police had overexcited her heart. She felt it pounding like a rock on a piece of elastic forever crashing inside her chest. Her breathing became strained, as if she were breathing through a sock jammed down her throat. Although her exertions were brief, she was sweating and

her wet clothes clung to her old flesh. She staggered into the bathroom to take her medication.

Snatching her pills from the medicine chest, she swallowed down another two capsules with the help of some

water. In an effort to calm her excited heart over the last few days, she no longer adhered to the prescribed dosages of her medication, instead taking the pills as and when she needed them. She surmised it couldn’t be any worse than not taking them. Wiping her mouth on a towel, Margaret returned to the living room.

Instead of her symptoms abating after taking her

drugs, they got worse. Her heart worked harder, her throat constricted and perspiration broke out at every pore like she had been running for a bus. But she wasn’t running. She wasn’t exerting herself. She stood rock solid still. The telephone was ringing.

The phone rang for the third time. Subconsciously, she knew it was him, her evil caller calling again. She could always tell when it was him. Somehow the tone of the phone changed when he called.

Margaret answered the phone.

“Ah, Margaret, you’re there.”

It was him. He sounded so congenial, but he always started out that way. She clutched the phone with both hands—one hand held the handset normally and the other cradled the base of the receiver like it was a baby.

“It’s been such a long time since we spoke.”

“I’ve called the police, you know. They were here a minute ago. They’re on to you. It won’t be long before they pick you up,” Margaret said triumphantly. He wouldn’t be frightening her for very much longer.

“Oh, I know that, but I don’t think they’ll find me.

And what did I say?” He paused. “I said don’t call the police, didn’t I, Margaret?”

“I’m going to put the phone down. I don’t have to listen to you.” She tried to sound strong, but her voice cracked.

“I don’t hear that phone being put down,” the oily voice said, a cruel smile hidden inside it.

“I will.”

“Go on then, but I wouldn’t recommend it.”

Margaret had been standing, but the warning sapped the last of her energy and she fell into the chair next to the phone. What did he have in store this time? What torture would the caller inflict if she didn’t comply with his demands? Terror became a serpent encircled around her chest and it squeezed. “Why?”

“Well, if I can’t talk to you on the phone …”—he paused for dramatic effect—“then I’ll have to make a personal visit. I know where you live.”

That sent a chill through Margaret’s body that made her shiver, and the sweat cooled on her skin. It felt like his hands touched her throat, not warm like a lover’s, but cold like a killer’s. Margaret mouthed a reply, but the words didn’t come. She didn’t know what to say.

“I could get into your home at any time. It’s poorly maintained with shitty little locks that could be broken with a snap of my fingers.” He snapped his fingers and a sharp crack resounded down the telephone line. “It would be child’s play for a man like me. Christ! It would be child’s play for a child.”

“You’re not a man,” Margaret blurted.

Laughter echoed down the receiver and into Margaret’s ear. She flinched at his mockery.

Someone banged on the door.

Involuntarily, Margaret jumped in her seat and released a short, startled scream lacking volume and

power. Her hands tightened around the receiver until her knuckles glowed white under papery, translucent skin. Margaret stared at the door. Unlike Superman, she couldn’t see through walls, but she knew it was him outside.

“Who’s at the door, Margaret?” he whispered.

If Margaret had possessed the strength she would

have shattered the phone in her grasp. She wanted the man to be on the other end of the phone. She wanted him there, not outside her door. Gripping the handset tighter was her way of keeping the monster in the phone and out of her living world.

Margaret froze. She saw him. The nondescript body behind the door moved and appeared at the window, his silhouette outlined against the drapes. He peered through the window, but the drapes prevented him

from seeing anything. He wore a baseball cap turned backward on his head and what appeared to be a wind breaker fluttered in the breeze. He carried something bulky in his hands. Fear of what the object could be drove Margaret’s mind into a frenzy. The figure moved back in front of the door.

“Have you guessed who it is?” he whispered once

more.

Margaret jumped in her seat when he banged on the door again.

“Hello,” he said from behind the door and paused.

“Is anybody there?”

“Go away, go away,” Margaret shouted back.

“Hey, it’s pizza delivery,” the man at the door said.

“I didn’t order a pizza.”

“I’ve got a delivery for this address for a medium thin crust pepperoni pizza that was ordered in the name of Macey.”

“I didn’t order anything.”

“Well, somebody did, and I need to be paid for it,”

he said.

Margaret started to get out of her chair.

The man at the door mumbled something inaudibly

and the voice whispered on the phone.

“How do you know who is at the door, hmmm? I

could be lying my head off waiting for you to answer.

Think about it, Margaret.”

Margaret fell back into her seat, afraid of the warning the voice had given her. She had no idea who was at the door. It could be him ready and waiting for her to open the door, to blast her with a shotgun or stab her with a knife. Kill her right on her doorstep and laugh as he watched her die. Driven by fear, her heart accelerated another ten beats per minute. The serpent tightened its grip around her chest.

“Go away,” she said.

“Hey, lady. I want to be paid for this pizza. I get stiffed with the bill if you don’t pay.”

“Go away,” she said and burst into tears.

“Okay, okay. Thanks a lot.”

Margaret heard him walking away, cursing her as he went. Relieved, she dropped the phone and wept uncontrollably.

For a moment, she didn’t notice the laughter

coming from the phone. The voice called her from the receiver. She raised it to her ear.

“Gotcha,” he said.

“What?” Tears choked Margaret’s voice.

He waited for the crying to stop. “Margaret, go to your door, you pissed off some poor pizza boy trying to make an honest buck.”

Margaret hesitated, afraid that this was another of his falsehoods to make her come to the door.

“C’mon Margaret. Hurry before he goes. I wouldn’t lie to you. I only did it to you make you realize the error of your ways—letting the cops know about our little chat. Chop, chop. Take a peek.”

Margaret went to the window and pushed the drapes to one side. She saw the figure at the door had indeed been a pizza delivery boy, wearing a Supreme Pizza baseball cap and windbreaker. He was getting into a crappy, battered Honda sedan that was all dents and faded paintwork. A small flag on a small plastic pole was stuck on the roof with Supreme Pizza’s name and logo emblazoned on it. He looked back at Margaret’s house before racing away in a cloud of black smoke and squealing tires.

Relieved that her tormentor wasn’t behind the door threatening to break her into pieces, Margaret’s knees buckled and she collapsed, striking the wooden door.

Slumped, she held herself up against the door and slowly, she slid to the floor in a crumpled heap. It was all a joke. A sick joke to scare, to torture, to put the fear of God inside her and he’d been successful.

Relaxing, she let her bodily systems slow and stabilize themselves. In the distance his voice babbled endlessly.

Margaret ignored him. In the pit of her stomach

a sensation relayed its rebellion. She felt unwell. She was going to be sick. Margaret tottered to her feet and made for the bathroom, where she puked. It was physical release from her mental torture. Dryly, she retched several times before finally vomiting.

“So, can I interest you in that life insurance policy side on the armchair. He laughed, knowing that he was talking to an absent Margaret Macey.

The professional slipped the phone into his pocket. He was pleased with his efforts. He felt he had made real progress this time. He would have to follow up this incident with another very soon to ensure his target

didn’t get a respite. Margaret Macey was being reeled in like a prize marlin. She was tired and beginning to lose her strength. It wouldn’t be long before she was another trophy to go above his fireplace.

But now he had a date to keep.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Dressed in his sweats, Josh bounded down the stairs with his running shoes in one hand. He ran on the weekends and sometimes a couple of times during the week. A normal run was three to five miles, depending on how much time he had available. Since coming out of the hospital, he hadn’t been running. It was time to get back into the swing of things. He sat down on the bottom stair and pulled on his shoes.

Kate came out from the living room. “Are you going for a run?”

“Yeah. I thought I would.”

“Do you want breakfast now or when you get

back?”

“I’ll eat when I get back.”

“How far do you think you’ll go?”

“I might try a longer one, six miles or so, to make up for slacking, but I’ll see how I go.” Josh looked up as he tied his shoes.

“It’ll do you good to get out and do something.”

He saw Kate was pleased to see him settling back

into old routines. She probably hoped it was a sign their lives were returning to normal.

“I’ll see you later.” Josh gave his wife a kiss and slipped out the front door.

It was after nine and the daily commuters from

Josh’s neighborhood had already left for their jobs. He ran in the relative comfort of being free of thoughtless motorists. It was a good time to run.

Sweat displayed itself on his clothes and face. The morning was cool, but there was warmth from the sun unhindered by sparse clouds. Dark rings stained his gray sweatshirt under the arms and around the neck.

His matching pants showed an unflattering dark line between the buttocks. Perspiration glistened on Josh’s flushed face and hung in beads from his black hair like melting icicles. He hadn’t intended to push himself that hard. His mind had been elsewhere. It had been fixed on Bell. She hadn’t called since she’d turned informer to Channel Three. If she wouldn’t come to him, then he’d go to her.

Instead of running his usual route, a circuit of the horseshoe shaped Pocket neighborhood, he jogged the roads that took him northward toward downtown. His Adidas-shod feet beat a path to Belinda Wong’s new Sacramento home. The bitch had the audacity to give her address and telephone number to Kate at the barbecue.

His anger drove him to run even harder.

He came to a gradual halt outside the small ranch style house. It was a corner plot and still had the for sale sign outside that hung from a post buried in the lawn close to the sidewalk. Bent over with his hands on his knees, he panted heavily. Sweat fell from his forehead and hair, the droplets splashing on the sidewalk.

He crossed the short path to the front door and

pressed the doorbell. No one answered. He pressed the doorbell again. This time he kept his finger on the button, which made the chimes drone tunelessly. He heard movement and took his finger off the bell. He disliked its sound as much as the person who moved unhappily inside the house did.

The door opened and Josh didn’t wait to be invited inside. He barged in, knocking the door from the occupant’s hand. If she could barge her way into his home

uninvited, then he could do the same to her.

“Good morning, Josh. You found me. Thanks for the wake-up call.” Bell showed no sign of annoyance at the abrupt entry. In fact, she smiled.

Josh looked about him, staring at the starkly furnished living room. “I suppose my money went to buy

this place,” he said.

Bell looked at him approvingly. She closed the door and leaned against it with her arms crossed over her electric blue silk robe. “Don’t flatter yourself—you didn’t give me that much money. No, I have a friend who’s a realtor and I’m staying here while they sell it.

It’s a repo from a family that couldn’t keep up with the payments. They just couldn’t keep up with the changing pace of life.”

“Is that last remark supposed to mean anything?”

“Read into it whatever you want.”

Not waiting for a response, she walked into the

kitchen, retying the belt to her robe as she went. Her feet made sticking noises on the vinyl floor. She filled the coffeemaker with water and grounds before switching it on. “Do you want coffee?”

Josh followed her into the kitchen and stood against the sink behind her. “No, I’m not here for a social visit.”

“Shame,” she said.

She stood on tiptoe to retrieve a mug from the cupboard in front of her. The robe climbed up the backs of her thighs to expose more of her slender legs. The material clung to Bell’s stretching body. It accentuated her waist and buttocks hidden beneath the rich blue silk, becoming nothing more than a second skin. Josh’s gaze crawled over her body—its structure, proportions and form. Her body moved gracefully, almost in a dance, all so very enticing. Once. She removed the mug and placed it on the counter next to the coffeemaker.

“Still attracted to me, Josh? Still want to fuck me, Josh? You can if you want.” Her back still faced him.

The remarks took him by surprise. She knew him so well. He cursed himself for still being caught by her stupid games. Nothing about Bell was innocent. Everything she did was carefully calculated. She was tempting him. She knew he’d look, and look lustfully. She

knew exactly how to pull his strings. But that was then and this was now. He was no longer her plaything. He was cutting the strings. “No thanks. Like I said, I’m not here to socialize.”

Bell turned around to face him and met him with a grin. She pulled the sides of the robe apart, exposing her small firm breasts and erect nipples. Leaning against the work surface, she slid her right leg up her left and the flimsy cloth fell from her smooth legs, exposing her completely. “Are you sure? Are you sure I

can’t offer you something from the dessert cart?”

The coffeemaker coughed and spluttered as boiling water dropped onto the grounds. Steam rose through the vents and a rising cloud appeared from behind Bell’s head.

Josh ignored Bell’s offer, but not her exposed body.

He cast a glance over what his senses had already experienced, then looked Bell in the eye. “I’m here about the

latest television scoop on Channel Three.”

She blurted out a laugh. She lowered her leg to the floor and her naked body disappeared behind the curtains of swaying silk. She wrapped the robe around her

and retied it. “Is there more sweat on your brow than I remember seeing earlier, Josh?”

“Channel Three, last night. Was that you?”

“What do you mean? Is your past coming back to

bite you in the ass?”

“You know exactly what I mean..

“Well, I cannot tell a lie. Yes, it was me.”

“Why? I paid you.”

Bell dropped the smile in favor of a sneer. “Yeah, but you thought you could push me around. So I thought I would apply a little pressure to ensure you don’t do something stupid again.”

“So, what’s the next step, leak them my name?”

“No, you keep your end up and I’ll make sure that they don’t find out any more.”

Josh knew that one day the money would dry up. It wasn’t far off. “But what happens when I can’t?”

She leered. “What do you think will happen?”

“So be it. If you’re going to skewer me, it might as well be sooner than later. Go to hell. I’m not paying you anymore.”

Bell looked as if he’d slapped her. “How dare you speak to me like that.”

Josh was in no mood to listen to a tirade, and headed back to the front door. He ignored the expletives that followed him.

He opened the front door, but stopped in the doorway.

“Here’s the deal, Bell. I’m willing to give you a one-off payment that will buy your silence for good.

After that, I never want to hear from you again. Let me know your answer in your own time.”

She followed Josh out into the front yard. Her response mostly never graduated higher than four-letter

words. “You’ll be sorry, Josh.”

Josh didn’t know if he would, but he felt good. He liked pushing people who pushed him. He broke into a jog.

Bell shouted after him from the lawn. Her threats soon lagged behind his pace somewhere in the distance.

Josh’s run back home invigorated him. He felt

stronger and more positive than he had in some time.

Finally, he’d taken some control of the situation with Bell. She would no longer screw him up. He’d tipped the balance of power in his favor. Not even the notion that Bell could go straight to the media with his part in the Mountain Vista Apartments scandal could dampen his spirits. His inner strength came from the ability to bring closure to the subject. He no longer had to hide behind a wall of cash to keep the truth from coming out. He would take his chances and deal with whatever consequences arose.

Josh sprinted the last hundred yards to his home and shaved five minutes off the two and a half miles from Bell’s. Although sweat ran down his body and he

breathed like an asthmatic wood saw, he felt good. Josh took the key from his zipped pants pocket and opened the door.

“I’m back,” he called out to anyone who would listen.

Not waiting for anyone to answer, he started pulling off his sweatshirt and made his way to the bathroom to shower. He had the sweatshirt over his head and one foot on the first stair when he was called back.

“Josh,” Kate said.

He had completely pulled the aptly named sweatshirt over his head but still had his arms through the sleeves as he turned to face his wife. She sat on the couch in the living room with Abby and Wiener. The image reminded him of Russian dolls. Each doll removed from

inside the others and stacked in descending order of size—Kate, Abby and Wiener. Like the dolls, the three of them possessed the same blank looks. The policemen from the hospital, Officers Brady and Williams,

stood adjacent to his family in front of the fireplace.

Josh had been blind to the patrol car parked curbside outside his house.

“Oh, hi, I didn’t see you there,” Josh said.

The policemen nodded in acknowledgment.

“Please excuse my condition. I’ll just have a quick shower and I’ll be with you.” Josh smiled.

Nobody returned the smile.

“If you could be quick, sir. We have some details to go over with you and we do have other calls to make,”

Officer Brady said.

“Of course. I’ll only be a minute.” Josh shot up the stairs. He hoped they had good news about finding evidence on Mitchell, but judging by the look on everyone’s faces, it didn’t look like good news. He had no

idea what else could have gone wrong.

Josh showered and dried himself swiftly, but not

thoroughly. The T-shirt soaked up the damp patches from his body and a dark ring of wetness showed on his neck from where his hair had dripped. The jersey shorts did a similar drying job to his lower half. Barefoot, he returned to the living room. The two police officers were sitting on the couch opposite his wife. The

room was in silence.

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” Josh said.

“Not a problem, sir,” Officer Williams said.

Josh sat on the arm of the couch next to Kate. “So you got my phone call?”

“Josh,” Kate said, and placed a hand on his arm.

“Could we go somewhere a little more private? I prefer not to discuss this in front of your family,” Officer Brady said.

Kate squeezed his arm. Josh looked at her and saw fear in her eyes. She nodded at him.

“We could go into my office,” Josh suggested.

“Sounds fine,” Officer Williams said.

Josh led the policemen to the small office toward the rear of the house. The policemen’s boots squeaked on the hardwood floor. The way they walked on either side of him made him feel like the proverbial dead man walking, being led to execution.

Josh sat at his desk. The two officers bulged from the amply filled loveseat on the opposite wall. He asked the policemen if they wanted a beverage. They declined his offer.

“So you received my phone call at the beginning of the week about the man who ran me into the river?

Well, like I said, I met—”

“Mr. Michaels, we aren’t here about the traffic accident,”

Brady interrupted.

Josh was confused. “Then why are you here?”

“We’re here regarding the threatening phone calls you made from this house,” Brady said, and started to read Josh his Miranda rights.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

“What?” Josh’s feel-good high drained out of him and a tingle of fear ran down his spine. He shifted in his seat. It no longer seemed to fit the contours of his body.

He struggled for words to respond. Panic and guilt swam through his mind, bumping into things. Had Bell made some trumped-up accusation against him about their phone call? Could she have recorded their phone call? He couldn’t remember if he’d said anything that could be construed as threatening. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Margaret Macey alleged she received a threatening phone call. One in which a man claiming to be from an insurance company became abusive and made threats on her life,” Williams said, reading from his notes.

Hearing the name, Josh relaxed. The name meant

nothing. Whoever made the call, it had nothing to do with his problems.

“What can you tell us, Mr. Michaels?” Brady asked.

“Nothing. I have no idea what you’re talking

about.”

The policemen didn’t look as if they were going to accept Josh’s denial as a defense. Brady eyeballed Josh with a stare hard enough to crack concrete. Josh felt the man didn’t believe a word he’d said from the moment they’d met.

Brady sighed, “Mr. Michaels, you are the only male in the house.”

“Yes.”

“Then I find it difficult to accept you couldn’t have made the call,” Brady said.

“Why? I’ve never heard of this woman.”

Josh showed signs of guilt. More than just water

from his shower moistened his clothes—sweat appeared under his arms. He didn’t know the woman, so

why did he feel so damn guilty? His palms were sweating and he wiped them on his shorts under the cover of the desk, but fresh sweat immediately sprang from his dryed palms.

“Telephone records tell us the call was made from this house.”

Brady leaned forward, placing more weight on his

accusation. It was a cheap intimidation tactic and it worked. Josh felt a noose tightening around his neck.

“So how do you explain who made the phone call

from here?”

“I don’t know what to tell you. Honestly, I don’t know anything. Maybe I misdialed her number and

she’s confusing it with her threatening caller.”

“A fifteen minute wrong number conversation?”

Brady said. “I don’t think so, Mr. Michaels. Your call was the only one she received on Saturday night.”

“Saturday night?” Josh’s panic dissipated.

“Yes, Saturday night. Can you tell us what you were doing from seven forty-two p.m. until seven fifty-seven p.m.?” Williams asked.

“I was having a birthday party,” Josh said.

here?” Brady asked.

“Here.”

“And you have witnesses that will verify you weren’t on the telephone at the times stated?” Williams asked.

“To the minute, I don’t know,” Josh snorted. “All I can tell you is that I was at my party and there are plenty of people who can confirm it.”

“I’m afraid that isn’t enough.”

“Then what is?”

“There’s nothing to say that you weren’t on the

phone to Mrs. Macey. You could have easily slipped out from your party to call her and returned with no one being the wiser,” Brady said.

“That’s a bit of a stretch, Officer,” Josh said.

“Then what’s your explanation, sir?” Brady asked.

Flecks of spittle appeared on his bottom lip.

Brady worried Josh. The cop was convinced he was

lying about something and he didn’t see how he could shift the guilt. If he weren’t careful, he’d end up getting arrested for something he didn’t do.

“There were lots of people here—any one of them

could have done it.”

“That’s not particularly nice, Mr. Michaels, placing the blame on your friends,” Brady said. “Who needs enemies?”

Josh ignored the slur.

“It’s convenient you were having a party when this phone call was made,” Brady said

The cop just wasn’t going to let this one go, Josh decided.

“I didn’t know I needed an airtight alibi.”

“I think we have enough for now,” Williams said,

rising to his feet. “We may request you make a sample recording of your voice for analysis and for Mrs.

Macey to identify. We’ll let you know in due course.”

Brady followed suit and stood next to his partner.

“We’ll see ourselves out, Mr. Michaels.”

“Hey, hold on.” Josh came around his desk to stop the policemen from leaving. “I want to tell you about the man I saw on the bridge who ran me off the road. I saw him again.”

“Mr. Michaels, I would worry about yourself right now. You could be facing serious charges. I think sighting the man who cut you off on the road, while disturbing, is the least of your worries. And as I remember

it, you didn’t get a very good look at him,” Brady said.

He motioned to his partner to leave. Williams already had the door open. The officers left Josh’s office and he watched them walk out the door. The door slammed

shut with a sound reminiscent of a cell door.

The professional arrived at Bell’s ranch house at six in the evening. The sun was descending on another perfect California spring day. He parked on a neighboring street to avoid any connection between him and the rental car.

That morning, he had been drinking coffee in Arden Fair’s food court, reading the newspaper and observing a very bizarre physic reading between two black women when she called. She was pissed at the ultimatum

Michaels had issued her. Her anger more than boiled over. It threatened to scald the professional as he listened on his cellular phone. She’d called minutes after Michaels left her and decided she wanted to vent

her rage at someone. The professional was glad he wasn’t with Bell. He didn’t fancy being that close to the epicenter of her eruption and said he couldn’t make it over for at least an hour. In that time she should have cooled off.

He decided that Michaels’s blowup with Bell could only be to his advantage. Bell made the perfect puppet now. She wouldn’t need much coercing to get her to do what he wanted. It was time to make Josh and Bell’s relationship more volatile and bring it to a head. Mix the appropriate two elements to produce the explosive effect.

It was basic chemistry.

He knocked at the door and Bell greeted him. She

looked ready to kill. The more he got to know Bell, the more he knew not to get on the wrong side of her. He did plan to cross her, but by the time she realized it, it would be too late for her to do anything about it.

“Can I get you a beer?” she asked.

“Yeah, a beer would be good.”

The professional took a seat in the sparsely furnished living room while Bell went to the kitchen. He

recalled their initial date at the downtown restaurant after which Bell had brought him here. They’d discussed Josh, the affair and the subsequent money she’d

blackmailed out of him. She expanded on her reasons for returning to Sacramento. She wanted to be in her hometown instead of living in exile in San Diego.

Although bored by her personal outpourings, he absorbed every piece of information on a professional

level. He’d offered ideas to get back at her adulterous lover, and she’d reveled in those ideas. It was after that she’d bedded him. It wasn’t lovemaking, but lustful sex. The professional’s revenge-filled suggestions had been an aphrodisiac. After an hour of adventurous sex, which the professional hadn’t had in a long time, he suggested that she drop hints to the media about her ex-lover’s crimes.

Bell returned from the kitchen, handed him an

opened bottle of beer and sat down on the couch next to him. He positioned himself so he could face her when he spoke.

“Have you had time to calm down since you called

me?” the professional asked.

“Does it look like it?” Bell demanded.

The professional smiled. “No, it doesn’t, but that’s fine. The question is how are you going to use that anger to your advantage?”

“What do you mean?”

“You can be angry all week, but what good does it do you?”

He watched the gears turn in her skull. She was trying to think. That was fine. She could believe that she needed to, but he was doing the thinking for her.

The tension went out of her body. “It doesn’t do me any good.”

“That’s right. So what are you going to do instead?”

“I’ll do whatever I want,” she said emphatically.

He smiled a snake’s smile. “That’s right. So what did Josh say?”

“He told me he wants me out of his life for good and he’s willing to pay once more, then that’s it. He doesn’t care what I do after that.”

“So he is willing to take his chances with the truth.”

The professional mused on that point. “That takes a strong man who believes he can survive the bullets you have to fire at him.”

“He’s not strong,” Bell barked. “He’s weak.”

“So what do you want to do? Do you want more

money?”

“I have enough of his money.”

“Do you want him to go to prison?”

“I want him to appreciate me. To know the damage

he’s done to me.” She jabbed a finger into her chest. “I want him to know I loved him and he trashed what we had.”

Bell poured out a list of Michaels’s wrongdoings and ranted about how he should be made to regret them. It was music to the professional’s ears. Between him and Michaels, they’d created a monster hell-bent on destruction.

“So revenge it is?”

She mulled that over, then smiled. “I suppose so.

What do you suggest—another call to Channel Three with more revelations?”

“Something like that. Something to grab his attention,”

the professional said. “A test of his convictions, if you will.”

“Sounds good to me.”

Bell took the professional’s hand and placed it between her thighs. He felt the heat of her sex on his fingertips through the material of her shorts.

“James, let’s discuss it further in the bedroom,” she said.

The professional didn’t object.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

“Jeez, I feel perfectly angelic. I’ve never been this high up before,” Bob complained.

Josh found Bob’s third crack about their bad seats annoying.

Bob nodded in the direction of the vendor trawling the aisles. “I wonder if the beer man has cotton balls for nose bleeds.”

“I couldn’t help it. You knew the Lakers game was going to be popular, and I’ve apologized for forgetting to book tickets earlier.” Josh had bought the tickets on game day after Brady and Williams had interrogated him. After explaining himself to Kate he’d slipped out to the box office, but seating choices were limited.

ARCO Arena was busy, bubbling with excitement

leading up to the tipoff for the Kings home game against the LA Lakers. Hopes were high for a good result. This year’s team showed promise for a good playoff position.

Even the basketball commentators had been kind

to the Kings in their reviews of the team’s chances. The lower levels of the arena were filled and very few plastic seats didn’t have someone’s ass filling them.

Josh and Bob sat way up in the northeast wedge of the arena, three rows from the wall. Even these less popular, cheaper seats were occupied. Josh didn’t mind being this far away from the action. He’d offered the tickets to Bob more as an excuse to talk than to watch the game.

“Do you want a cold one from the vendor?” Bob

asked.

“No, I’m okay.” Josh felt cold. The temperature of the stadium seemed a degree or two too chilly for his liking.

Bob called to the overweight vendor. The middle

aged man, whose gut seemed genetically engineered to perfectly hold the tray of beverages, came over to Bob.

Bob relieved him of a cup of Coors Light and the vendor relieved Bob of an excessive amount of cash. The

vendor moved on to the next guy requesting his wares.

Bob looked at what his money had bought him.

“Shit, I’m sure they’re jacking the prices around here to pay players and coaches.”

“You know you’re going to be scalped in places like this,” Josh remarked.

“They should have a beer cap as well as a salary

cap,” Bob muttered.

The respective coaching staffs called the players to the benches. After several minutes, the starting lineups were announced and the players were met with a

rapturous chorus of cheers, whistles, applause and abuse—the abuse, of course, aimed in the direction of the Lakers players. Like the fans, Bob was on his feet, the overpriced beer spilling from the plastic cup. On his feet too, Josh clapped appreciatively, though not really party to the frenzy going on below him; not tonight.

The

crowd retook their seats in anticipation of the

tipoff and Josh and Bob took theirs. As they watched the action on the court as the game neared its start, Bob spoke endlessly about the players’ form, playoff chances, the NBA, who was hot and who was a waste of space. Josh listened, but said little.

The game began and Bob focused on the play.

“The cops came around this morning.” Josh sat with his legs apart, bent forward with his forearms resting on his knees and his head down staring at the litter strewn ground.

“Oh, yeah?” Bob said, not really listening. He was as alert as a prairie dog, twitching and shadow boxing with the flow of the game. “So they finally got around to talking to you about Mitchell?”

“No.”

“So what were they doing?” Bob cursed when the

Kings lost the ball and the Lakers gathered it up for an easy two points.

“They’re looking to prosecute me for threatening

some woman on the phone,” Josh said.

The crowd moaned in disappointment as the Lakers

made another basket. But to Josh it sounded like they were upset at his revelation.

Bob turned to Josh. “What woman did you threaten?”

“No one,” Josh said. “I have no idea who this

woman is who’s making the allegations.”

“You wanna find out her name?”

“I know her name, but I’ve never heard of her.”

“So what are the cops saying?”

“They said that someone made a call from my home

phone to this woman threatening to kill her. They have telephone records proving it was my phone.”

“Shit.”

“And because I’m the only man in the house, I’m

their prime suspect.”

“So what’s her name?”

“Margaret Macey.”

“That rings a bell,” Bob said.

“You know her?” Josh said in surprise.

“I don’t know. It’s just that the name sounds familiar for some reason.” Bob shook his head in failure. “Anyway, when did this threatening behavior take place?”

“That’s the thing. It happened around eight last Saturday night.”

“But you were having your birthday party.”

“I know. I think that’s the only reason that I’m not trying to post bail right now. They may want to make a recording of my voice for identification. That cop from the hospital has got it in for me. He didn’t believe me about Mitchell bouncing me into the river and he doesn’t believe that I had nothing to do with this threatening phone call.”

Recounting the events from earlier that day brought Josh’s fears back to the forefront of his mind. He felt he was going down for something, whether it was for his crimes or somebody else’s. Nervous excitement consumed him like a plague, the disease breaking down his immunity to stress until it destroyed him. He stared blankly at the players on the court.

Bob looked around him to check if people were listening to Josh’s excitable ramblings. The Kings fans

were concentrating on their team’s performance too avidly to notice their conversation.

“What cop?”

“Brady. Didn’t you meet him at the hospital?”

“No. I knew they were around, but I didn’t see

them.”

“Anyway, he’s got it in for me,” Josh said.

“Personally, you don’t have anything to worry about.

They can’t prove it was you who made that phone call.

Any one of us could have done it. And I think you’d have to be a special kind of stupid to threaten someone from your own phone. It’s all circumstantial. They’ve got nothing.”

“Yeah, but the cops think that’s what I did to cover my ass. They think I arranged the party just to have lots of suspects present.”

“Bullshit! They’re screwing with you because they’ve nothing better to run with. So they’re hoping you’ll do something stupid to give them a lead. From their point of view they know they’ve got a no-hoper.”

Bob made sense. If the cops had any evidence, they would have charged him. He could breathe easily, for now.

“Do they have a recording of the phone call?”

“Not as far as I know.”

“If they take a voiceprint from you, they can’t compare it. All they can do is play it to this …” Bob

snapped his fingers as he searched for the name.

“Margaret Macey,” Josh finished for him.

“I think a lawyer would have a fine time if the cops didn’t interview all the other possible suspects at the party. How have they left things?”

“Just that they would get in contact.”

“What about this voice recording?”

“They’ll let me know.”

“Yeah. They don’t have a thing. What about James

Mitchell?”

“What about him? They didn’t want to listen. They didn’t want to talk about anything except this phone call.”

“So you never got to speak to them about the

party?”

“No, they weren’t interested.”

“Bastards. We’ve got to get them to listen to us.”

“What do we do?”

“Never mind that now, sit back and enjoy the game.

Let the Kings entertain you.” Bob patted Josh’s shoulder.

“We’ll worry about it after the game.”

Josh sat back and joined in with the thousands of fans enjoying the game.

Bob sped along the interstate with the other drivers leaving the game. He was quiet, lost in thought, and Josh was no different. Bob’s silence had little to do with the King’s collapse during overtime. Something in his brain itched and he couldn’t quite reach to scratch it.

When Josh had told him about the police visit, something had clicked in his head, but the connection eluded him. It was the woman who had called the police, Margaret Macey. Her name meant something to him.

Suddenly, a car horn blared in annoyance. In a world of his own, Bob had let his car wander to straddle the line separating the second and third lanes. The noise snapped him out of his deep contemplation and back to the matter of car control. He jerked the car back into his lane. The disgruntled driver accelerated past Bob’s Toyota.

“Shit, Bob. I can do without two traffic accidents in the same calendar month,” Josh said just for Bob’s benefit—he rarely got the chance to inflict the same brand of humor on his friend that his friend did on him.

“Hey, sorry, man. I wasn’t concentrating,” Bob said.

He stared straight out into the darkness that lay at the end of the headlight beams.

“I’m waiting.”

“For what?” Confused, Bob glanced over at Josh.

“For the caustic ‘fuck you’ remark,” Josh said. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, sorry. I was miles away, thinking.”

“I’m sorry, did it hurt?” Josh said and laughed.

A pained expression appeared on Bob’s face. “I’m

serious, Josh. I was thinking about that woman the cops told you about.”

That brought Josh’s humor to an abrupt end. “Margaret Macey, you mean?”

“Yeah, I remember hearing her name recently. And I think I know why. She’s a client.”

The remark silenced both men for a moment. The thump-thump of the tires striking the all too regular breaks in trie worn concrete road punctuated the quiet.

“Shit,” Josh said. “I don’t know if that’s something to feel good or bad about.”

“Neither do I,” Bob said.

“I don’t think it adds much to my case that the

woman I allegedly threatened is a client of a close friend of mine. I’m sure if Brady knew that he would have both of us in front of a judge in the morning.”

“I’m not sure it means anything. It’s probably a coincidence that you are both my clients. Now forget

about it. I’ll take you home and I’ll look into it. If I find anything, I’ll let you know.”

“That’s easier said than done,” Josh said.

“All right, I shouldn’t have told you. I can do without you going postal on me.”

Josh conceded to Bob’s request with little resistance.

They lapsed into silence once more, their minds filled with more questions and fears. The car’s interior reverberated with the drone of engine noise and the Doppler

effect of passing vehicles.

Bob dropped off Josh outside his house, told him not to worry and promised he would get back to him. He waited until Josh let himself into his house and closed the door before driving away.

In his office, Bob returned the handset to the receiver.

He’d just informed his wife that he’d be home late from the Kings game. He had to check out something at the office. Nancy had slammed the phone down with a

sharp crack. That’s gonna cost me, Bob thought.

He switched on the computer on his desk. While it booted up, Bob left his office and went to the filing cabinets in the archive. His computer database would have details regarding all his clients, including Margaret Macey, if she was a client of his firm. But his filing cabinets contained the personal correspondence he received from his clients and copies of original documentation.

He

searched the deep drawer cabinet for Macey. The

double cabinet contained two rows of files side by side, but didn’t contain a record for Margaret Macey; only a Harrison F. Macey, who had a car insurance policy with Bob.

“Shit. That woman is a client. I know it,” he muttered to himself.

He went back to his office. The computer’s screen bathed the room in a spectral glow. He hit the light switch on the wall by the door. The fluorescent strips flickered into life with a bink-bink sound.

Bob shifted the heaps of paperwork strewn across

his desk to the floor to make a clear spot.

“A messy desk is a sign of a sharp mind,” he’d told his wife.

She’d responded with, “No, that’s the sign of a lazy bastard.”

In his opinion, both sayings had merit.

He sat at his desk and logged onto the network. He selected a file that provided client information. Typing Margaret Macey’s name in the appropriate data fields, he started a search. The computer blinked a dialog box: Searching… Please wait.

“Thanks for the advice,” he said.

The screen flashed up the information. There she

was—Margaret F. Macey, her address, age, social security number, and past business transactions.

“She is a customer,” he exclaimed to his empty office.

With the mouse, Bob clicked the Print icon at the top of the screen. A whirring came from the printer in the main office and sheets of paper emerged from the machine like a white tongue.

Hungrily, he read through the information and the grin dropped from his face like a rock. Margaret

Macey had made a viatical settlement with Pinnacle Investments less than two years ago and he’d acted as the

agent. Bob’s brief notes detailed that the medical treatment she had undergone for a weak heart was beyond

what her medical insurance would cover. He’d helped her to pay for medical bills and provide cash for further treatment with the viatical settlement of her hundred and fifty thousand dollar life insurance policy that her dead husband had made her take out years before.

It wasn’t the revelation that he’d acted as agent to Pinnacle Investments to both Josh and Margaret Macey that left him slack-jawed. He had hundreds of clients he’d dealt with for years, but he rarely remembered their names a few days after dealing with their accounts.

But in this case, he remembered the senior citizen’s name because James Mitchell had asked about her

and Josh at their meeting.

Bob moved his chair back from his desk in shock

and it came to an abrupt halt against something on the floor. He looked down. One of the castors on the

swivel chair was wedged under some of the files he had placed on the floor. He leaned down and picked up the offending items. He looked at the names on the file covers—they read Joshua Michaels and Margaret

Macey. He had removed the files to show them to

James Mitchell.

Josh groaned when the telephone on the bedside table rang. Cursing, he reached across for it. The digital clock radio displayed the time—12:01 A.M.; he had been asleep less than half an hour. Kate stirred in the bed next to him.

“Hello,” he said sleepily.

“Josh, it’s me,” the excited voice said.

“Bob?”

“I’ve found something. Margaret Macey is a client and you two are connected.”

“What?” Josh sat bolt upright, taking the comforter with him. The sleep that had fogged his mind burned away like a morning mist.

“Josh, what’s going on?” Kate asked, disturbed by the phone, then by her husband stealing the covers.

Josh stuffed the phone into the bedclothes for privacy.

“Honey, go back to sleep. It’s Bob and he has got something on that woman the cops say I threatened.”

“Oh, Jesus, Josh. Leave it alone. This household has been in enough turmoil over the last two weeks without you looking for more.”

“I’ll tell you what he knows. Go back to sleep.” Josh put the phone to his ear. “Bob, I’m going to change phones, hold on.”

Josh got out of bed and slipped into a pair of shorts.

He wondered if Bob had something that made sense of the situation he was being drawn into. Was there finally a beacon in the night leading him to safe waters?

“Honey, will you put the phone down when I pick it up downstairs?”

Kate nodded, taking the phone from him, and

started interrogating Bob on what he was doing.

Josh rushed downstairs in the darkness and switched on the lights. He took the cordless in the living room.

Kate put the receiver down.

“What did you find out?” Josh asked.

“Margaret Macey is a seventy-seven-year-old woman living over in the rough part of downtown. And she had a life insurance policy with me,” Bob said.

“She had?” Josh paced. He went from the living room to the dining room to the kitchen to the hall and back to the living room, switching lights on as he went. Disapprovingly, Wiener looked up from his bed in the

kitchen. Josh couldn’t be still when he was excited.

“Yeah. Like you, she made a viatical settlement and I was the agent.”

“She sold her life insurance. When?”

“About this time two years ago.”

He wasn’t getting information quick enough; it was maddening—he wanted to scream. Who did she sell the insurance policy to? The fear grew within him that he already knew the answer. Josh paced even faster, as if to outrun his anxiety, and threatened to cut a groove in the carpets and floorboards. “Who to, Bob?”

“Our good friends at Pinnacle Investments.”

He was right and hated it. Patterns were emerging.

The truth was presenting itself. But it wasn’t making any of this go away.

“I should have known,” Josh said. “You’ve got a

good memory to remember that, pal.”

“But that’s not the reason I remembered her.”

Invisible spider’s feet crawled up Josh’s spine. “What do you mean?”

“The reason why her name meant something was because I had her file out. When James Mitchell saw me,

he remarked on my past clients with Pinnacle Investments and he raised your name, Margaret Macey’s and

some other guy who died a couple of years ago. We discussed your files.”

Josh stopped pacing. James Mitchell was his would

184

be killer, and apparently Josh wasn’t the only one Mitchell had his sights on. But why? What was the point? The invisible spider crawled across his face.

Mitchell claimed he was an employee of Pinnacle Investments, but he wasn’t. Josh could hear the penny

dropping, but he didn’t know what he was getting for his money. “I’m not insane. That bastard wants to kill me and this woman, but for what possible gain?” Josh asked.

“You’ve got me, pal,” Bob said.

Josh started pacing again, this time faster. His mind worked through events as he lapped the first floor of his home at a brisk pace. Wiener, fascinated by his master’s actions, joined him on his walk. “He must have used the phone here to call Margaret Macey. I gave him the chance when I told him about Pinnacle Investments sending the wreath.”

“He’s got some balls on him—big brass ones. You’ve got to admit that,” Bob said.

Josh agreed. He couldn’t deny it, but he didn’t have to like it. The man had been in his home and committed a crime for which Josh was now the primary suspect.

“But why use your phone?” Bob said.

“God knows. Maybe he didn’t expect Margaret Macey or me to be in any state to get the cops involved.”

“Maybe. It all sounds risky.”

“Only if it doesn’t work.”

“And it hasn’t so far,” Bob said. “Where do we go from here?”

Josh thought. The answer was to the cops. The more menacing this situation became, the more he knew he was out of his depth. Also, it was an opportunity to stick it to that disbelieving bastard Brady. That would be especially sweet. He now had a reason for his telephone number to be on Margaret Macey’s telephone

records. It was his chance to get the police off his back and prompt an investigation into James Mitchell.

“I’ll talk to the two officers who were here and at the hospital. I’ll tell them that not only did James Mitchell run me off the road, but that he had been checking up on Margaret Macey and me, then came to my party

and made the phone call to Margaret while he was

here,” Josh said.

“You’re forgetting he doesn’t exist. We couldn’t find him. If these two cops think you’re their man, they won’t really give a shit about this invisible man.

They’ll think it’s a bullshit story to get you off the hook,” Bob said.

“But they have nothing better on me. Suddenly I decide to call a woman I have never met and threaten to

kill her? What sort of case is that to convict on?” Josh asked. He knew Bob had his best interests at heart. Bob was right—the police could dismiss him for putting up a smokescreen. Nevertheless, he knew he needed to apprise the authorities of the latest developments.

“I don’t know,” Bob said.

“I’ll see the cops in the morning,” Josh restated.

“No, don’t.”

“Then what do you suggest?”

“I’ll go to the cops. I’ll tell them I had James Mitchell at my office. I have a record of his appointment and Maria saw him. And I’ll tell them he made a call from your house and that you believe that he was the man on the bridge,” Bob said.

Josh paced in silence, considering Bob’s offer. “Okay.

You’re probably right. It’ll sound better if someone independent can verify the story.” He gave Bob the police

officers’ names.

Josh felt tired and excited at the same time. Tired because he’d walked at least a mile around the first floor of his home and excited because he felt he was finally getting somewhere.

“I’ll tell you something I do know,” Bob said.

“What?”

“Mitchell may have missed you so far, but I guarantee he’ll try again.”

CHAPTER TWENTY

The noise of the landing twin prop drowned out the minivan’s radio. Josh knew the FAA building was close to Sacramento Executive Airport, but did not know its exact location. He spotted it on the opposite side of the road from the airport and made a U-turn at the light.

Pulling up in the parking lot, the jitters took hold of Josh. He had a plan, but now he wasn’t sure how to play it. How could he convince the FAA the plane crash had been intentional? When he received the initial findings from them, he was just unsatisfied with the report; after seeing Jack Murphy, he was convinced it was not an accident.

According to Jack, the mechanical failures were possible, but unlikely. If the attempts on his life hadn’t occurred, Josh would have brushed Murphy’s comments

off as ludicrous. However, recent events told him it wasn’t that insane to believe his aircraft had been tampered with on purpose. And deep down he really knew

Mark’s death hadn’t been an accident—the same way he had known it was his plane that had crashed with his friend aboard as soon as he heard the newsflash on the radio.

With the knowledge that his aircraft had been intentionally disabled to kill him came guilt. Mark wasn’t

the intended victim. Christ, did he feel like the scum of the earth. He’d been leaving Jack Murphy’s hangar when it hit him and the sour river taste returned to his mouth. His mistakes had killed an innocent person.

Josh didn’t know how he would live with himself, but one way was to get the FAA and the NTSB to look for signs of foul play and nail the bastard who’d done this.

Josh knew James Mitchell was Mark’s killer. Mitchell had forced him off the road into the river and he was at his birthday party. He knew Josh and Mark were flying partners and he knew when and where they

would be flying next. Josh had remembered the details and put it all together once Jack Murphy had made it click for him. All he needed was a look at his airplane to be sure.

The FAA district office in Sacramento looked unassuming for its significance and was nestled uncomfortably amidst a number of drab commercial enterprises,

from mini-storage centers to breakdown recovery services to a smog check center. The office’s jurisdiction stretched out from Sacramento to the Sierras and up to the Oregon State line. Responsible for enforcing FAA rules and regulations from aircraft safety to pilot certification, the officials had the unenviable task of crash

investigations as part of their duties.

The district office was the headquarters for the investigation into the crash of his Cessna. The fatal nature

of the crash caused it to be classified as an

accident and not an incident. The Safety Board called the shots, and they’d assigned an investigator and sent him to Sacramento.

Josh entered the building. The sign at the entrance Said, WARNING—ALL ACTIVITIES ARE RECORDED ON

VIDEOTAPE TO AID IN THE PROSECUTION OF ANY

CRIME COMMITTED AGAINST THIS FACILITY. That message didn’t offer a warm welcome. In the reception for pilot certification, a small middle-aged woman met Josh with a broad smile. Her shoulders barely cleared the L-shaped service counter.

“Hi there. How can I help you?” she asked.

“Yeah. I wanted to speak to Terrance Reid of NTSB,”

Josh said.

“Sure thing. Can I tell him who is calling?” She picked up a phone on her desk and punched in a number.

“Josh Michaels. I’m the owner of the Cessna he’s

investigating.”

She relayed Josh’s request and put the phone down.

“I’ll take you up to him.”

She led Josh along a corridor and up the back stairs of the building to a small office in the corner of the second floor. She knocked on the door and entered without waiting for a reply.

“Josh Michaels,” she said, ushering him into the office before closing the door.

The twelve-by-twelve office had several cardboard storage boxes on the floor and a desk strewn with papers on either side of a laptop computer. Terrance Reid was in his mid-fifties and efficient looking with a bald head edged with a rim of iron gray at the sides and back. A small portly man, the investigator stood up from behind the desk and shook hands with Josh. His welcome was businesslike. He was neither happy nor annoyed to see Josh. Reid offered Josh a chair and he sat down.

“Apologies for the room—I’ve got this while its

owner is on vacation. What can I do for you, Mr.

Michaels?” Reid asked.

“I wanted to speak about the investigation,” Josh said.

“There is little I can tell you at the moment. An initial report is not due for another few days, and the final report will not be due for another month. And that won’t be the end of the matter.”

“I know you’ve spoken to the mechanic.”

Reid nodded.

“You suspect the mechanic was negligent?”

Reid raised a finger and interrupted. “The mechanic may have been negligent, but no accusation has been made. However, initial findings have shown that several components were found unfastened, and the mechanic should have detected these at the time of inspection.

Especially as this was the aircraft’s maiden flight after a major overhaul. But Mr. Michaels, we are a long way off from a decision. Please don’t jump to conclusions.”

“Jack Murphy is convinced you’re going to have him convicted for negligence,” Josh said.

“I assure you that negligence hasn’t been proven, but we do have concerns regarding Mr. Murphy’s conduct.”

“What about foul play?”

Reid looked puzzled. “I’m not sure there is any

grounds for it. What makes you think that?”

“Jack Murphy is a good mechanic and Mark Keegan

is …,” Josh corrected himself, “was a good pilot.”

“However, things can go wrong and obviously did.

There’s nothing to give us grounds to suspect foul play.”

Reid’s response gave Josh an answer and a problem. The NTSB didn’t think foul play was a factor, so how was he going to get them to consider it since Reid had dismissed the notion? He saw no point in explaining himself, as it was likely Reid would react to his claims the same way as the police had. “Can I see the aircraft?”

Josh asked.

“No, I’m sorry.”

“But, it’s my plane,” Josh protested.

“I have to inform you that it’s not.”

“Excuse me?”

“The aircraft became the property of the insurance company once you made the claim. The plane is in the ownership of the NTSB and the FAA until our investigation is over, then we hand it back to them.”

“But I might be able to show you something you

haven’t seen.”

“Mr. Michaels, my FAA counterparts and I are very experienced in this type of work. If we need you, we’ll contact you. Anyway, the aircraft is still potentially a biohazard.”

“A biohazard?”

“Yes. In a fatality, blood is spilled. Toxins, poisons and all manner of potentially dangerous hazardous materials may have been released as a result of the accident and may still be harmful to the investigation

team.” Reid sighed. “Look, Mr. Michaels, we investigate everything—toxicology, metallurgy, pilot performance, as well as mechanical failures. Rest assured we

look into every aspect of an aircraft accident.”

“How long before I’ll be told what is happening?”

“I couldn’t say for sure. I believe this case to be a straight forward one and a final result should be published in six months.”

Josh frowned. He wondered if he’d still be alive in six months.

“Some cases can take years,” Reid concluded.

“What about Jack Murphy?”

“If we find that he was at fault, then the NTSB will take action. We only have the power to fine or suspend.

Only the federal justice system and you or Mr. Keegan’s family may take things to another level—

criminally, that is.”

Josh gave it one more shot. “With all your years of experience, have you ever known of an accident of this type—loose bolts and unions?”

“Personally, I haven’t. It is unusual, but not impossible.

Don’t let the uniqueness of the accident make you think there was foul play.”

Josh opened his mouth to speak, but closed it. He wanted to ask more questions, but he knew it was

pointless. Reid wasn’t interested in Josh’s beliefs. Josh read between the lines. The investigator saw him as a hindrance. His manner said Josh was a man too close to the disaster to be objective. Josh created an uncomfortable silence between the two men.

“Well, Mr. Michaels. I do have a case to investigate, so if you will excuse me.” Terrance Reid went to the door and opened it. He offered his hand to Josh.

Josh stood up and shook the investigator’s hand.

“Thanks for coming in, Mr. Michaels. I’ll be in

touch.”

Josh knew he stood no chance of seeing his aircraft again. Nothing short of breaking into the hangar

would gain him access to his plane. He couldn’t afford to add a federal crime to his list of mistakes.

Josh was still preoccupied with his visit with Reid when he let himself into his home. He decided to leave the NTSB to do their job. There was little point in pushing them. Mitchell had done his job too well. They would never believe someone had planned the crash.

There was too much room for doubt.

He walked into the house as Abby bounded down

the stairs with an unstable looking Wiener sliding down with her. “Daddy, you’re back!”

At least someone was pleased to see him.

“Abby, Abby, please be quiet for a moment, I’m

talking,” Kate said in a firm tone.

Abby stopped in her tracks and bit her bottom lip.

“Sorry, Mom.”

“That’s okay, hon,” Kate said.

Josh bent down to pet the excited dachshund at his ankles.

Kate put the phone back to her ear. “Sorry about

that. Josh just came in. Well, like I was saying, I’ll be coming back to work tomorrow.” She paused while the other person responded. “Okay then, I’ll see you Tuesday,”

she said and hung up.

Kate’s decision surprised him. She hadn’t mentioned returning to work early. He’d assumed she’d return to work when he did. He’d already informed his company he’d be back late Thursday morning after Mark’s funeral.

He felt betrayed. Abby held out her arms and

Josh picked her up. “I thought you were going back to work after Mark’s funeral on Thursday.”

“I’ve decided to go back tomorrow. Abby’s school

started today and you’re okay now. I’ve used most of my leave for this year and I want to keep some.”

He frowned. Somehow he didn’t quite believe Kate.

It felt like she wanted to distance herself from him and his problems. She was pushing him away; rejecting him. He didn’t think her decision was part of a healthy answer.

It wasn’t going as well as Bob Deuce thought it would.

He’d expected the police to be pleased that he had some evidence and logic to support Josh’s wild account of the man on the bridge who now seemingly stalked his every move. Bob detailed Mitchell’s visit to his office under the guise of an investment representative and his inquiry into Josh’s and Margaret Macey’s personal lives. Bob thought that Mitchell’s presence at Josh’s birthday party gave him the means and opportunity to make the threatening phone call. He hoped that his account would be the inspiration the officers needed to go after Mitchell and take the heat off Josh.

It didn’t. The cops weren’t biting. The bait wasn’t juicy enough for them.

Bob had called the Sacramento Police Department

from his office and made an appointment to see them.

Luckily, he’d gotten a hold of Officer Williams, the more open of the two policemen—or so Josh had said.

Williams promised Bob five minutes around lunchtime and he’d made the trip downtown to the city police station and parked opposite the library.

They led Bob to a drab looking interview room with gray walls, plastic chairs and a Formica-topped table. He sat in one of the uncomfortable chairs and Williams did likewise on the opposite side of the table, while Brady parked his rear on the corner of the table next to his colleague.

Brady looked stony-faced and as impenetrable as

a rock. Williams, as Josh described, was amicable and willing to offer his time. Bob could see that the police officers wanted to dump him and get on with their jobs.

“Do you know where we can find James Mitchell?”

Officer Williams asked.

“I have no idea. That’s the problem. I tried to get a hold of this guy after Josh told me about him, but he doesn’t exist. The company he said he worked for has never heard of him.”

“That’s not a lot of help to us, is it, sir?” Officer Brady picked at a fingernail.

Bob felt his irritation grow. “I don’t know. You’re the cops, not me. What does your training tell you to do—eat doughnuts?”

Brady leapt up from the table. “You think that’s

funny, huh?”

Williams jumped to his feet, sending the chair sliding back behind him and snapped a hand to Brady’s arm.

“Cool it. Everyone, please.”

The two men did as Williams demanded and retook

their places.

“Mr. Deuce … can I call you Bob?”

Bob nodded.

“Bob, I appreciate what you are trying to do for Mr.

Michaels and for us, too. But you aren’t giving us very much to work with,” William’s said.

Brady’s eyes smoldered. He looked like a restrained Rottweiler that needed feeding.

Bob took a breath, held it for a moment and released it. “I know it sounds weak, but it’s all I have. I want you to know there’s something to Josh’s claims. I don’t promise to understand it, but there’s something odd happening.”

Seeing the cops’ response was less than enthusiastic, Bob decided to keep Mark Keegan’s death and

the funeral wreath incident to himself. Information based on Josh’s gut feeling could be best described as weak even if it was bizarre. If they weren’t going with the best he had to give them, they weren’t about to be bowled over with the rest. He was reminded of something his fifth grade teacher used to say to him when she caught him daydreaming. “There’s no

point chasing after rainbows, Robert. You’ll never catch up to one.”

Bob knew Josh’s problems weren’t illusions. They

were problems worth chasing, but this wasn’t the place to start.

Williams asked, “Can you give us a description of the man?”

Bob detailed a description of the ordinary-looking man. He was amazed how hard it was to describe

Mitchell. He recalled the comment the cotton candy headed receptionist had made at the River City Inn.

“We have a lot of men here who fit that description.”

“Thank you, Bob.” The young, black officer wrote

down the description, but his enthusiastic smile couldn’t hide the fact he thought the information was useless.

“What happens now?” Bob asked.

“We will follow up on your claims and we’ll let you know in due course,” Williams said.

The answer straight out of the police training manual, Bob thought.

“But with what we have gotten from you and Mr.

Michaels, I’m not sure what we will turn up,”

Williams added.

Bob frowned. “Thanks for your time.”

“No problem at all, sir.” Officer Williams offered a hand.

Bob shook it and then Brady’s, who said nothing,

but glared intensely at him. Bob dismissed Brady’s attitude as sour grapes and let himself be shown out of the station.

Unlocking his car door, he noticed the fifteen minutes left on the thirty-minute parking meter. Someone

else’s lucky day, he thought as he got into his car and drove back to his office.

Back in his office, Bob stared out the window. Screw the cops, he thought. They won’t take this seriously until they had Josh’s corpse lying on the ground and

Mitchell standing over him with a smoking gun. If the police weren’t going to do anything, then he would.

Someone had to get to the bottom of the matter. Besides, he didn’t fancy telling Josh the police intended to do nothing. He wanted to give his friend something positive, but what? Then it came to him—what about Margaret Macey?

Bob called up Margaret Macey’s file on the computer.

He picked up the phone and dialed her number

off of the screen.

A trembling voice said, “Hello.”

“Is this Margaret Macey?” Bob asked.

“Yes.”

She was on the verge of tears. Her distress unnerved him. She sounded petrified. He spoke in a level tone, without emotion. “Hi, I’m Bob Deuce. Do you remember me at all?”

“No,” came the short response.

“I’m from Family Stop Insurance Services.”

“Oh, no. Not you again. You just want me dead. You want to kill me.”

The old woman transmitted her fear through the telephone line and into Bob. The hair on the back of his

neck prickled and sweat broke out across his forehead.

Stammering, he tried to explain himself, but he

couldn’t get her to understand him. She fired off outrageous accusation after outrageous accusation at him.

“I know it’s you and don’t tell me you’re the pizza boy this time. I’m not that stupid,” she raved.

Bob struggled to get a word in between her rants.

“No … no … Mrs. Macey, you don’t understand.

You’re not listening.”

“I knew it was you calling. I can always tell, and I know you’ve been inside my house.”

“But Mrs. Macey—”

“You won’t hurt me, you bastard!”

Before he could say anything further the phone line went dead. Margaret Macey had hung up.

The encounter left him breathless. He sat there for several minutes trying to let his heart rate settle. The sound of his blood pumping around his body sloshed in his ears. He felt very old for his age. He wiped the sweat from his brow. What the hell had happened to this woman?

“Well, that wasn’t the positive news I was hoping to give you, Josh,” Bob muttered to himself.

Josh and Kate didn’t speak. They sat at either end of the couch with a distance between them measurable in more than just feet. Abby was in bed asleep. Prime time television had come to an end, making way for the nightly news. The station went to commercial. A preview for the Channel 3 News flashed up and the anchor

ran through the main stories for the upcoming

program. The lead story was something Josh had been expecting.

“More on that exclusive to Channel Three— corruption in the construction of the Mountain Vista Apartments in Dixon. Our source has named names involved,”

the anchor said.

Flatly, Kate spoke over the television. “Is that you?”

“I imagine so,” Josh said in the same tone.

Sitting in renewed silence, Josh braced himself for the news program to start.

The news began with a summary of the headlines before the concerned-looking anchor went into the lead

story.

“Last week, we brought you an exclusive story about the alleged scandal over the building of the Mountain Vista apartments in Dixon. Our source, who still

wishes to remain nameless at this point, has provided further details of the corrupt activities conducted during the building of the apartments.

“Allegedly, Johnston Construction, Inc. intentionally built the apartments below standard to ensure

they made a substantial profit. Knowing full well the construction wouldn’t pass the inspection, Johnston Construction’s owner, Mike Johnston, bribed the

building inspector, Joshua Michaels. Our source alleges Mr. Michaels accepted ten thousand dollars

from Mr. Johnston.

“I must express we as yet have not sought comment from either Mike Johnston or Joshua Michaels.”

The anchor introduced the field reporter and the

camera switched to the reporter outside the Dixon apartments. The reporter relayed information similar to what the anchor had expressed.

Josh had his answer. Bell had made her decision. He supposed she’d decided to decline the money offer and go with revenge. The bonds of the blackmail that held him so tightly were broken. Josh was free. But he was now in the hands of others over whom he had no control.

He’d gone from the mercy of Bell, his blackmailer, to the mercy of the media, police and anybody

else investigating the claim. He was now fair game to anyone who wanted a piece of him. He’d seen enough and reached for the remote control on the coffee

table.

“I’m still watching that,” Kate said icily.

Josh turned to her. She stared intently at the screen, her face devoid of any facial expression. He left the remote and leaned back into the couch.

The Channel 3 Nightly News team moved onto another story.

“Do you think Belinda is their source?”

“Yes. I gave her the opportunity to make her final demands because I refused to be blackmailed anymore,”

he said.

“What was her final amount?”

“Nothing. She hadn’t given me an answer, until

now.” Josh nodded at the television. “I think she would prefer to see me pay in other ways.” His mind drifted away to his affair with Bell. She had cut some of the puppet strings, but the ones that made Josh dance were still attached.

He continued. “I want you to understand things are probably going to get worse before they get better.”

“Life with you over the past two weeks has prepared me for every eventuality. Shock after shock—the im pact is reduced with every new occurrence. Josh, I don’t think anything would totally surprise me,” she said.

It was difficult for Josh to respond to her coldness.

He composed himself before speaking.

“If someone inspects those apartments, they will find faults and they have a record of my report giving the construction the green light. They’ll have enough evidence to convict,” Josh said.

“What will they do to you?” Kate asked.

“I don’t know what they do in these cases.” Josh was silent for a moment. “What will you do?”

“What will I do?”

Josh moved across the couch to be close to her and took her hand in his.

For a moment, Kate stiffened at his contact, but then she relaxed.

“Will you stay with me regardless of the outcome?”

he said.

Kate looked away.

Josh placed a gentle hand on her jaw and turned her head toward him. “Look at me, please. Will you?”

“I don’t know, Josh.” Tears welled in Kate’s eyes. “I really don’t know.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

For Dexter Tyrell, this was a rare excursion from his two usual haunts—his home and Pinnacle Investments.

He’d booked the hotel room for the day although he only intended using it for a few hours. It may have seemed extravagant at five hundred dollars, but in the long run it was a drop in the ocean. The room was for work-related business, but not the sort of business his colleagues would understand. It was better for everyone if his colleagues didn’t observe him.

His subversive program, killing the firm’s viatical clients, was faltering. Two case files worth over six hundred thousand dollars in company revenues were being held up because of the incompetence of the hit man, and that impacted dearly on the disposal of other clients. Tyrell’s decision might be risky, but it would certainly get his project moving.

Slumped in the comfortable padded armchair of the well-appointed hotel room, Tyrell sat cross-legged, his left over his right. The left leg rocked back and forth while he listened to the ringing of the cell phone in his hand. Last chance, my friend. His hit man had one more opportunity to put things right. Tyrell straightened in his chair and uncrossed his legs when the phone was answered.

“Yes?” the professional said.

“I haven’t heard from you in the past couple of days.

I assume from that you haven’t succeeded in your

tasks,” Tyrell said.

“Like I’ve told you before, these things take time.

You just have to be patient. Rest assured, I have laid the foundations.”

Tyrell’s snide remarks failed to raise the hit man’s ire. That pissed Tyrell off. He wanted something out of this son of a bitch.

“My patience in running thin. You’ve had more than enough time to take care of these people and you

haven’t.”

“How would you know how much time it takes?”

Prima donnas, they all think they’re God’s gift, he thought. “Based on your previous assignments. And don’t get pissy with me. I know I haven’t got any experience in your profession, but I do have realistic expectations and you’re not living up to them. How long do

you think it will take until you have completed your assignment?”

“Another week.”

“No,” Tyrell said matter-of-factly. “I have another three targets lined up for you worth over one point five million dollars. I want them all cleared up in the next two weeks.”

“I don’t think I can do that. The plans are laid and they’ll have to run their course. I may be able to advance them a little, but I can’t make any guarantees.”

“I don’t care about your plans. Do something different.”

Tyrell was losing his temper with the professional.

“The time has come for an alternative

approach. I don’t care how you do it, but I want them killed. No more fancy plans for accidents—just straightforward assassinations.”

“Are you suggesting I just shoot them from the nearest clock tower?”

Tyrell ignored the crack. “How many times have we seen tragic house fires? We live in a world of muggings, hit and runs, rapes, murders, et cetera. Pick one. Impress me. You have two days.” He hung up without letting the professional comment further.

The conversation had gone the way Tyrell had expected.

The professional wasn’t the man he’d hired two

years ago. He was incapable of the quick turnaround Tyrell needed. It was time to bring in someone else. A new broom always swept better than an old one and maybe that new broom could dispose of the old broom as well.

“The job’s yours if you want it,” Tyrell said to the other man in the room.

The other man stood in front of the window looking out over the pleasant grounds from the fifth floor room.

The trees and well-manicured lawns were illuminated in the early evening darkness by the security lights positioned all around the premises. He turned his back on

the view and faced Tyrell.

He was a big man, tall and muscular, and his suit did little to disguise it. His crew cut hinted that he might be a military man or some outcast from a government

agency. Tyrell didn’t really care or want to know. He never wanted to get that close to his outsourced talent.

His colleagues were bean counters and analysts, not killers. These people made him uncomfortable, but they were a necessary evil to ensure success. They were resources to be used for specific functions—like a computer or a subordinate, a means to an end. Because of

the extreme course of action Tyrell had undertaken, these people were essential if he was to get back in favor with the Pinnacle Investments board.

“Don’t you believe your man will succeed?” he

asked.

“To be honest, I don’t. I think he’ll prefer to stick to his own plans,” Tyrell said.

“Wouldn’t you prefer I take care of your next targets while he finished his current assignments?”

“No, I wouldn’t.”

“Personally, I prefer not to take over another operative’s assignment.”

Jesus Christ, these guys are paid killers. They murder for financial gain, but they have all these fucking ethics. Honor amongst thieves … what a load of bullshit. Tyrell had no time for the politics of the industry.

He just wanted results. “Do you want this job?”

“Yes,” his new killer answered.

“So we understand each other?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” Tyrell picked up his briefcase and placed it on his lap. He removed two files from it and dropped them on the bed.

The newly hired killer picked up the files. He sat in another of the comfortable chairs by the window. He opened the first file and flicked through the documents, then did the same with the second file.

“Like I told your brother in firearms, you have two days to make Joshua Michaels and Margaret Macey

into obituary articles. No fancy stuff, okay?”

The killer looked up from the files and nodded.

“What about my… colleague? What do you want

done with him?”

“He’s a liability. I would like to have him removed from my employ, as it were. If you can find him, you can kill him. I’ll make it worth your while.”

“How do I find him?”

Tyrell removed another file from his briefcase and dropped it on the bed. “I thought you might be interested.

The file contains all the information I have on

him.”

The killer picked up the scant file, much thinner than the previous two. He sat down again, scanned the file and nodded in agreement.

“I don’t know his name or his address. All I have is a post office box that all monies and files are directed to.

I’ve included the cell phone number I’ve contacted him on. Be warned, he regularly changes his number. I thought a man of your profession could trace his location by the number,” Tyrell said.

The killer placed the files in his briefcase, stood up and went over to Tyrell with an outstretched hand.

Locking his briefcase, Tyrell got up and shook the hand offered.

“I don’t think there’s anything else I need to know. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll see if I can’t get a flight out tonight.

I’ll contact you as soon as I have news.”

“What do I call you? Our intermediary didn’t say.”

The killer paused for a moment, then smiled. “Mr.

Smith.”

Tyrell smiled back. “I’m sure there are a lot of men in your business with that name.”

“A few.” At that, Smith released Tyrels hand and

departed.

Tyrell checked to make sure he had everything he’d brought with him. He was pleased with himself. Things would be changing for the better, and fast. I can see the checks rolling in, he thought.

“Bang, bang, who’s dead?” he joked to himself.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Mark Keegan’s service was at St. Thomas’s Anglican Church. Josh’s flying partner hadn’t been a religious man, but his sister was and she wanted a religious ceremony.

The church was half filled with relatives, coworkers, flying club members, airport officials, and

friends. Josh sat with his wife and daughter in a row of pews waiting for the ceremony to begin.

Organ music and echoing conversations drowned

out the silence within Josh’s family. He looked at them.

Kate stared into an infinite distance beyond the walls of the church. Abby sat between Kate and him, studying the floor and absently clacking her shoe heels together.

They weren’t a happy family. It was a blessing that Kate had returned to work, Abby had school and he had the house to himself. Everybody had their space.

Josh let his gaze wander and it fell upon the coffin.

The simple pine casket with brass fixings rested at the head of the church, garnished with funeral wreaths.

Josh struggled to believe Mark was dead. It didn’t seem real. He couldn’t imagine Mark’s body was inside the box. It couldn’t be true. Mark was his friend and his living image preoccupied Josh’s mind, but it kept being replaced with the one of him slumped over the Cessna’s control column. It seemed the funeral was a hoax, a big joke played on Josh by his friends as a belated birthday prank. The urge to go up to the coffin and tear off the coffin lid was becoming impossible to resist. But deep down, Josh knew the truth. Mark was dead, killed by the man trying to kill him. An innocent man lay dead because of him. He didn’t want to be there. He shouldn’t be there. His presence seemed sacrilegious.

Josh felt a hand on his shoulder.

“Hey, Josh,” Bob said.

Josh turned to the row behind him, where Bob was

taking his seat. “Hey, Bob.”

Kate and Abby turned to Bob and they said “Hi” to each other. Abby managed a smile for the first time that day.

“Thanks for coming, man. You didn’t have to,”

Josh said.

Bob leaned forward. “Yeah, I know, but I was talking to the guy the day before the crash.” He leaned farther forward and whispered, “Can I talk to you

afterwards?”

“Yeah, no problem.”

Bob sat back. The wooden pew creaked under his

weight. He nodded to a group of four people and

moved over to let them sit down.

The minister took his place at the lectern and the organ music died. A hush came over the congregation.

The minister introduced a hymn and everyone stood and sang. The service echoed throughout the bowels of the church and sniffs and gentle sobs punctuated the proceedings. Mark’s sister, Mary, gave a tearful eulogy about Mark’s love for life. The service ended with a final hymn.

Those gathered slowly filed out of the church and into the courtyard. The mourners clumped into groups and made awkward conversation. Josh excused himself from his family and made a beeline for Jack Murphy, who was heading toward the parking lot.

“Jack.” Josh placed a hand on the mechanic’s shoulder.

“I’m glad you came.”

“I wasn’t going to, but Mary asked me,” he said.

“Why weren’t you going to come?”

“Why do you think?”

“Don’t be stupid, nobody blames you. Mary doesn’t and I don’t.”

“Well, I do.”

“I spoke to the NTSB investigator a few days ago.

They aren’t blaming you. They have their suspicions, but no reason to take any action against you.” Josh exaggerated the truth, hoping to alleviate the mechanic’s

depression.

“For now,” Murphy said.

Josh frowned.

“I’ve gotta go,” Murphy said. Quickly, he moved

away from Josh.

“Jack, it’s going to be okay. Trust me.” Josh spoke to the mechanic’s back. He watched Murphy get into his car before returning to his family.

He spotted Kate and Abby speaking to Mary and her husband. Bob intercepted Josh before he got to them.

“Hey, pal,” Bob said.

“You talk to the cops?” asked Josh.

“Yeah,” Bob replied.

“I assume it didnk go well, judging by that answer.”

Josh and Bob were interrupted before any more

could be said.

“Josh.”

Mary stood behind him. He turned to her. She was

the female embodiment of her brother Mark—small, only five feet, slight of frame with the minimum of curves. Only two years Mark’s junior, she possessed the same salt and pepper gray hair.

“Thanks for coming.” Smiling, she took Josh’s hand in hers and clasped another on top of his.

“Oh, it’s the least I could do,” Josh said.

“He thought of you as a good friend.”

“Thank you.”

“The will has been read. You got the letter from the attorney?”

“Yes, I did. I know about the plane.”

“I just want you to know I’m glad he left you his share of the aircraft. God knows what I would have done with it.” Momentarily, the smile slipped. “Although I’m not sure what good it is to you now.”

“I don’t know. It’s in the hands of the insurance company.”

The smile came back, bigger and brighter. “I hope you will do some good with the settlement.”

“Of course.”

“Are you following on to the cemetery?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” Mary turned her head to Bob. “And you?”

“Oh, Mary, this is a friend of mine, Bob Deuce.”

Mary shook hands with Bob.

Bob hemmed and hawed, but Josh answered for him.

“Yes, he’ll be coming along.”

“Good. We’ll be leaving in five minutes.” Mary

moved onto the other well-wishers.

“We’ll talk on the way to the cemetery, okay?” Josh said.

Bob agreed.

They joined Kate and Abby. “Are you going on or

leaving?” Josh asked.

I’m going to take Abby back to school, then I’ll go back to work. I can see you and Bob have something to discuss.”

Josh frowned. He dropped to one knee and kissed

Abby. “I’ll see you after school, kiddo.”

“Okay, Dad,” Abby said.

Getting up, Josh said to Kate, “I’ll see you later.”

“Yeah,” Kate conceded. Taking Abby’s hand, she

turned on her heel and strode off for the Dodge Caravan.

Bob waited until Kate and Abby were out of earshot.

“It got a bit chilly all of a sudden, don’t you think?”

“Yeah. Things aren’t going too well, as you can

imagine. She’s none too pleased with me these days ever since Channel Three turned up on the doorstep.”

The morning after Josh’s name had been given out

on Channel 3, the news crew landed demanding a

comment. Kate had answered the door to them. Pictures of a flustered Kate before Josh had intervened

with a stern, “No comment,” made the evening news.

Other local news stations repeated the process, as did the rest of the press. Josh had been screening calls ever since.

“You can’t blame her,” Bob said.

“Yeah, you’re right,” Josh agreed.

Bob looked at him. “Are they still trying to get an interview?”

“I’ve told them ‘No comment’ about a dozen times. I think they’ve got the message.” Josh stared at his wife and child. “Come on, let’s talk in the car. I’ll drive.”

“You got a new car?”

“The loaner from the insurance came through yesterday.”

A

hush came over the crowd. Josh turned. Mark

Keegan’s coffin was brought out and loaded into the hearse. This heralded the end of the service and the mourners filed into the parking lot. In respectful fashion, the hearse, limos and cars poured out of the

church onto the roads.

Josh merged with the flow of traffic, taking his own route to the graveyard. The cemetery was a twenty minute drive from the church, which gave him the perfect opportunity to talk privately with Bob. Murder

and attempted murder weren’t appropriate conversation for the graveside.

“What happened with Starsky and Hutch?” Josh

asked.

“Wipeout. You’re right about them, though. Brady

certainly has a stick up his ass. But I couldn’t make out whether it’s about you or if he’s just made that way.

Williams listened, though.”

Josh nodded, agreeing with the character assessments.

Bob continued, “I don’t think they’re going to do anything. To be honest, we don’t have anything to give them.”

“What do you mean?” Josh snapped.

“We have a man with a fake name, a fake job and no permanent address. In their opinion, we ain’t doing them any favors.”

Josh cursed. “So we got nothing out of it.”

“I dunno, Josh. I think I put the seed of doubt in their minds about the phone call to Margaret Macey.”

“How did you end it with them?”

“They said they’d call me if they needed me further.”

With his mind on the conversation, Josh’s focus

wasn’t on the road. He failed to see the woman with the stroller stepping into the crosswalk until the last moment. He slammed on his brakes and the front

wheels skidded over the first of the two white lines.

The force threw both men forward, but the seatbelts kept them restrained. The woman jerked the stroller and child back from the brink.

People on either side of the road stared and frowned disapprovingly. The woman with the stroller attempted the crossing for the second time. She chewed Josh a new asshole as she crossed. The windshield muted her abuse and protected him from the evil she would do if given the chance. Blissfully unaware, the child slept through the drama.

Josh released the breath he had held since violently applying the brakes. Openmouthed, he fixed his eyes on the woman insulting him as she walked.

“Nice one, Centurion. I nearly had a cardiac arrest.

If we’re lucky, we can ask the minister if he’ll do a group booking at the graveyard,” Bob said.

Josh wiped his hands over his face. “Shit, sorry, man.

I was miles away.”

“Unfortunately, I was right here in the thick of it.”

A car horn tooted from behind and Josh glanced in the rearview mirror.

“C’mon pal. Focus now and let’s see if we can’t get to where we’re going in one piece,” Bob said.

Josh removed his foot from the brake and inched

down on the gas. Slowly, the car accelerated away from the intersection.

Again, Josh’s focus wasn’t on driving or his problems.

His mind was a blank. Occasionally, his mind

flicked back to what could have happened if he had hit the stroller. He shuddered at the thought.

“I did something you may not thank me for,” Bob

confessed.

“What do you mean?”

“After the cops, I wasn’t happy with their lack of interest in the case. I wanted to do something more …”— Bob searched for a suitable word—“more proactive.”

“And?” Josh prompted.

“I called Margaret Macey.” Bob was already wincing as the old woman’s name came out.

Josh felt the air around him squeeze. Anything anybody did to improve things only made them worse. He

swore if he did nothing, it would make matters worse.

He switched lanes to make a left turn.

“I thought I could get some information from her that could help us,” Bob said in his defense. He clutched the overhead door strap for support as the car made the turn.

“Well?”

“She went into wild hysterics.”

“Shit, don’t do me any favors.”

“Yeah, I know, but listen!”

Josh fell silent.

“She went loopy as soon as she heard I was from an insurance company.” He paused. “She really does think someone’s trying to kill her.”

“What do you mean?”

“Margaret Macey thinks someone at her insurance

company is trying to kill her.” Bob allowed the information to sink in for a moment. “What have you and

she got in common?”

“We’ve both cashed in a life insurance policy?”

“Yeah, not only that, but you cashed them in with the same insurance company—Pinnacle Investments.”

“What are you getting at?”

“James Mitchell said he was from Pinnacle Investments and when he came to me, he asked about you

two. I know we’ve considered Mitchell may be working with Bell, but we haven’t considered that he’s

working with Pinnacle. I think Pinnacle Investments may be at the root of all this.”

“Where did you get that idea from?” Josh asked.

“It came to me last night, while I was in the tub.”

“The tub?” Josh scoffed.

Bob sighed. “I know it sounds wild, but to me it

seems worth further investigation.”

“No, I’m sorry, Bob.”

“It’s no wilder than the shit you’ve come up with in the last few weeks.”

The remark struck Josh hard, a kidney punch when

he wasn’t looking. He knew he’d driven family and close friends mad with his rants, complaints, revelations and general paranoia. In days of old, they would have probably bored holes in his head to let the

demons out.

“Okay,” Josh conceded. “What do you want to do

about it?”

“I don’t really know. I thought I would check out Pinnacle Investments’s operations,” Bob offered.

“Before you poke your nose into things too far, I think I’ll pay Margaret Macey a visit.”

“Are you crazy?”

“No, not if we have something in common like some psycho trying to kill us. Maybe she knows something we don’t.”

“What about the cops?”

“At the moment, I’m damned if I do and damned if I don’t, I haven’t got anything to lose.”

Bob frowned. “I don’t know about that.”

Josh glanced at his friend. Bob looked like he was trying to pass a football-sized kidney stone. Josh smiled at him.

“I don’t see what you have to fucking smile about,”

Bob said, nonplussed.

“Bob, I don’t say it often. You’re a good man and a good friend. And I do appreciate it.”

The big man’s cheeks reddened with embarrassment.

“Just drive.”

Josh’s good mood didn’t last as the cemetery came into view. He swung the car into the garden of bad memories with the other arriving vehicles.

Josh felt strange pulling into the parking lot of Red Circle Engineering. It felt like the first day of school all over again. He’d only been away from the company

less than three weeks, but in that time, his world had been turned on its head. The place felt unfamiliar, as if he’d been away for a hundred years.

Once he was in the building, he didn’t want to be there. Work was pointless. The decisions he made here paled in significance to the life and death decisions he needed to make outside. He stayed, though. He had a fagade to portray. He had to let those people know he was doing okay and all was well with the world.

He flashed a car salesman’s smile to Tanya on reception duty, an attractive blonde in her late twenties. Her smile looked stapled in place. She looked at him as if he carried a collection of severed heads by the hair in one hand instead of his briefcase.

“Hi, Tanya. I’m back,” Josh said, like he was on

happy pills.

“Hello, Josh. It’s nice to see you.” Tanya spoke like she was trying out the words for the first time.

Josh left Tanya and her constipated smile to their own devices. Between the reception area and his office, he encountered a number of colleagues who seemed to lack the time to chat beyond the merest of pleasantries.

Others at desks ensured they didn’t make eye contact with him. He found it increasingly difficult to smile. By the time he reached his office, he’d worn the happy facade to the bone.

“Hi, Jenny,” he said despondently.

Deep in concentration, Jennifer Costas, the procurement department’s administrative assistant, looked up

from her computer. A plain-looking woman in her forties, tall with narrow shoulders and big hips, she was

Josh’s invaluable sidekick. Surprise replaced her look of concentration.

“Josh, it’s good to see you,” she said.

“Hopefully, you can fill me in on recent events,” he said and went into his office.

Jenny followed Josh into his office.

He put his briefcase on the floor by his desk and dropped into his chair. Surprisingly, his desk was relatively bare. Usually, after a week on vacation, paperwork would be spilling off the sides.

“What’s going on? Fill me in,” Josh said.

“Josh, Mike Behan wants to see you right away.”

Jenny wrung her hands in front of her, guilt-ridden anxiety etched into her face.

“What now?”

“As soon as you arrived, he said.”

Mike Behan, the commercial vice president of the

firm, had his office on the opposite side of the building.

Josh had to make an uneasy return journey in front of his equally uneasy coworkers. Again, heads buried themselves into paperwork that didn’t deserve the attention.

Why doesn’t this feel like it’s going to be a pep talk from the boss? he thought as he approached Mike Behan’s secretary. Lisa saw him immediately.

“Hello, Josh. Mike will see you right away,” she said.

Josh went in and found Behan speaking on the

phone. He leaned back in the leather executive chair with one hand on the desk. Seeing Josh, he beckoned him in with a wave of his arm and a smile. Behan finished up his conversation and put the phone down. He

straightened in his chair and sat with his forearms on the desk and his fingers interlaced.

Josh sat down on one of the seats at the board table abutting Behan’s desk. Lisa closed Behan’s office door.

A closed-door meeting meant something was wrong. It put him on his guard.

“Good to see you, Josh,” he said.

“Thank you.”

“Are you recovered from your accident?”

“Sure, no problem. Dry as a bone.”

Behan laughed. “Tell me what happened.”

Josh recounted the events on the bridge, but slightly distorted the facts. He didn’t mention the thumbs down incident; instead he replaced it with the assailant giving him the finger once the car was in the river. Behan nodded and looked shocked at the appropriate

times.

“And the cops can’t do a thing?” Behan asked, incredulous.

“No.

They’ve got nothing to go on. They suggest I

should put it behind me. Reading between the lines— shit happens, live with it,” Josh said.

“Kate and Abby, how are they holding up? Good?”

Josh nodded. “They’re good.”

“And sorry about your flying buddy. Tragic, tragic.

You must be waiting for the next bad thing to happen.”

Behan reddened as soon as he completed his sentence.

Seeing Behan flush, Josh guessed what was coming.

“But, I’m back. Ready to pick up where I left off,” he said.

“That’s what I wanted to speak to you about, Josh.”

Behan shifted awkwardly in his seat. The chair swiveled when he moved. “I saw something on the news while you were on leave. I think you know what I mean.”

A block of concrete sank in Josh’s gut and rested uncomfortably on his bladder. He didn’t acknowledge

Behan.

“The television report is very damaging, regardless of its validity. And I hope the situation is quickly resolved for everyone’s sake, especially yours. We, as a

company, cannot afford to be at risk—we have investors, customers and employees to consider. I think

you understand that it would be unfair to them to put their livelihoods in considerable peril over one man.”

Son of a bitch. No wonder everyone is so jumpy. Josh couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Were they going to can him over an allegation? He knew the allegations were true, but he had yet to be charged. He cut

Behan’s soft soap short.

He slammed his fist on the table and ignored the

flame of pain up his arm. “Get to the point,” he barked.

Behan jumped in his chair. He spoke again, this time with the corporate voice torn away. “Shit, Josh. You’ve been accused of taking a payoff on a previous job. People’s safety could be at risk and you overlooked that in favor of a chunk of money.”

“You have no fucking idea of the situation,” Josh spat.

“Okay. You’re right. I don’t. I have no idea of the circumstances of your guilt or innocence. But I do know I

have a responsibility, and it’s hard to carry it off when I have my procurement manager’s name splashed over the news. The press has been calling here.”

Josh stared hard into the table’s polished wood

surface and gazed at his reflection. The surface

twisted his features and his baleful gaze threatened to burn holes in the table. Behan spoke again and Josh met his eyes.

“Josh, you’ll have to deal with vendors who’ll be wondering whether they’ve lost contracts to a payoff or will gain new ones if they offer you a bribe.”

“You don’t know that. You don’t know that our suppliers will think any differently.”

“I do,” Behan said softly, but with the impact of a sledgehammer. “I thought it and human nature tells me others will too. I can’t have that… neither can the CEO of this company. This comes all the way from the top with no disagreements. I’m sorry, Josh. I truly am.”

Josh struggled for something to say, but the words failed to come. The next bad thing had been duly received.

He understood the company position, but their

distance mortally wounded him. He was against the ropes and another of his seconds had disappeared into the crowd, leaving him to his disgrace. Finally, the words came.

He said, “So I’m fired.”

“No, I’m not doing that. I’m suspending you.”

“But what image does that portray? It assures people of my guilt.”

“I’m sorry, Josh, it’s the best I can do. I’ve agreed to a suspension with pay, but if you are formally charged, I will have to terminate your employment here.”

He wanted to say it felt like a sentence had already been passed. “That could be a long time, Mike. I have a family.”

“I know that, but there’s little I can do.”

“Or want to,” Josh interrupted.

“Hey, that’s unfair,” Behan said. “You brought this on yourself.”

“Okay, okay, but it depends on what side of the table you’re sitting at, doesn’t it?”

“I suggest you go home and work on getting these

allegations cleared up and come back to me when they are.”

Silently, Josh fumed.

“I’ll get Jenny to escort you off the premises.” Behan reached for the phone.

“Christ, Mike. Escort me off the premises? I’m not going to do anything. Give me some credit. I’ll go, but don’t make me look like a criminal doing it.” Anguish filled his throat and Josh spoke in a hoarse whisper.

Phone in hand, Behan hesitated, but returned the phone to its receiver. “Okay, Josh. Call me when this is cleared up. I’m here for you.”

Josh got up and tottered to the door on legs that dissolved with every step. The sentiment seemed hollow to him. The son of a bitch was just doing his job and nothing more. He twisted the door handle to leave.

“Josh—is there anything you can tell me?”

Josh looked over his shoulder. Behan seemed small in his big leather chair and looked like a disobedient child waiting for punishment outside the principal’s office.

He imagined Behan swinging his legs to and fro, anxiously waiting for his name to be called. He almost

laughed.

“No, Mike. I can’t say anything. Anything I say may be used against me in a court of law.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

His ex-coworkers were ready for him the moment he left Behan’s office. The corporate grapevine must have glowed red with news of his demise. They watched

him trudge back through the halls, never once engaging him. Being gawked at by all the knowing faces

was more than he could bear. It was a relief to be back in his office where he could hide. Josh pulled open his desk drawers and removed his personal possessions.

Jenny

entered his office and immediately burst into

tears. “I’m so sorry, Josh.”

Josh went over to her and put a comforting arm

around the tall woman. “It’s okay.”

“But I knew what they were going to do. I should

have told you,” she said through the tears.

“It’s not important.” Strangely, it wasn’t. A month ago the suspension would have been the supreme downfall in his life but now it was an inconvenience, just another nail in the coffin of normality in Josh Michaels’s life. It wasn’t great, but it wasn’t the end of the world.

Certain elements in his life had the ability to bring about a personal apocalypse, but losing his job wasn’t one.

Jenny regained her composure and left his office. She returned with a cardboard storage box and helped Josh pack his things. He doubted he would return.

On the drive home, he considered his downfall. He felt himself cowering under the volley of stones thrown at him. It was time he started lobbing a few rocks himself.

Who would be first?

He pulled up in front of his garage and got out of the car. At this time in the afternoon, a quiet had fallen over his street. It was a place between events, the time of day when kids were at school and parents were either at work or on their way to collect their children.

Screams, shouts and laughter from a neighborhood

school less than a mile away carried easily on the afternoon breeze.

Josh went to the passenger side of the car and clumsily removed the cardboard storage box. The box contained the possessions from his office he wanted to

keep—framed photographs, a mug from Abby with a

picture of his plane on it, an expensive Parker pen from Kate and other personal belongings.

After locking the car, he carried the file box to the front door. Awkwardly, he tried to open the door with the box in his arms. He managed it with some effort and dexterity. The door clicked open and he knocked the door ajar with his knee. Just as he stepped inside, someone called him back.

“Mr. Michaels … Mr. Joshua Michaels?” the man asked.

Josh didn’t recognize the man walking up the path toward him. He was a big man with an army-style haircut

wearing a cheap sport jacket and non-matching pants.

You’re either a cop or another reporter. Please be neither. “Yeah, I’m Josh Michaels. What can I do for you?”

“I wonder if I could have a moment of your time,

sir.” The stranger dug inside his jacket for something and produced a wallet, flashed a shield and returned it to his jacket pocket before he reached Josh. “Lieutenant Tom Jenks, Sacramento Police Department.”

Bingo, my day keeps getting better and better. He had guessed right—his visitor was a cop. Maybe he wouldn’t get his chance to fight back today. It was another banana peel he hadn’t seen until it was too late.

He nodded to the policeman.

Jenks stopped about one pace too close for Josh’s liking.

The encroachment into his personal space made

him take one step back, and he backed into the door. It shuddered open. Imperceptibly, Josh stumbled, but regained his poise.

“You’d better come in,” Josh said.

“Thank you, sir.” The detective followed Josh into his house.

Josh placed the box on the floor next to the living room doorway, then gave the lieutenant his full attention.

“What can I help you with today?”

“I would like you to accompany me, sir.”

“Where to?”

“I would prefer to show you at this point.”

“What’s it in connection with?”

Jenks sighed. “All will become clear later. If we could make a move, I would appreciate it, sir.”

Josh narrowed his eyes. Why doesn’t he just drop the cloak and dagger stuff and spit it out? It had taken this cop sixty seconds to piss him off. “Is this to do with Margaret Macey?”

“Sir, can we go? I don’t have all day.” Jenks extended an arm and showed Josh the way out from his own home.

“I’ll write my wife a note first.”

“That won’t be necessary.” He saw Josh’s frown.

“We won’t be long.”

Josh didn’t like being bullied, but he wasn’t in the police’s good books as it stood, so he didn’t see the point in antagonizing them any further. He followed Jenks out the open front door to his car, a new Chevy Malibu. They got in the Malibu and pulled away from the curb.

“Am I under arrest?” Josh asked.

“No, sir. All will become apparent very soon.”

Some of these guys really get off on their jobs. This is probably some technique for sweating the suspect. He was convinced this had something to do with either Margaret Macey or the Dixon development. The cops were just dying for him to incriminate himself. He wouldn’t give them the satisfaction. He settled back to enjoy the ride.

After several moments of quiet, Josh noticed the car didn’t have a police radio or any other police equipment, for that matter. He hadn’t been in enough cop

cars to be sure, but that didn’t seem right. He shifted in his seat. “Where’s your police radio?”

Jenks shot Josh a look, then glanced at the space where Josh was staring, the place where the police radio should be. “It’s a new car—I only picked it up today.

It hasn’t been fitted yet. Anyway, we all use cell phones and beepers these days.”

Josh glanced over to the odometer. “The clock reads over three thousand miles. You’ve been busy for one day.”

Jenks hesitated. “It’s only new to the department.

The city can’t always afford new cars these days. Federal cuts to the city’s budget. Not enough tax dollars.”

“Oh, yeah,” Josh said suspiciously. “Those buttheads on Capitol Hill don’t know their ass from their elbow.”

Jenks blurted out a laugh. “Yeah, I like that.”

Where’s this guy taking me? Josh decided it was advisable to be aware of what was happening outside the

car as well as what was happening inside. They were still on 1-5 northbound heading toward downtown.

Josh shot a glance at Jenks’s waist. His sport jacket was splayed open and exposed his trim gut. He wore no shoulder holster and no gun was to be seen. Something cold and clammy crept up Josh’s spine with small

hard fingers. He had no idea who he was sitting next to, but he wasn’t law enforcement. Perspiration formed on Josh’s brow.

The Chevy peeled off 1-5 and traveled east on J

Street. Jenks threaded the car through the grid of streets that constructed the downtown district. The familiar and comfortingly populated blocks became increasingly desolate as they entered the partly derelict

and unused commercial areas scarred by the light rail lines.

They were a long way from police headquarters and this part of town had nothing to do with Margaret Macey or the Dixon job. Fear charged through Josh’s system.

“Could I call my wife on your phone?” Josh asked.

“I think she’ll be wondering where I am.”

“No. In a few moments our business will be complete.”

Josh

smelled it. The smell was the stink of his own

sweat in the air-conditioned chill of the car’s cabin.

Was Jenks aware of the manifestation of his fear? It didn’t matter how much he put up a strong defense, his body ratted him out. To Josh the odor was gathering momentum, so he squeezed his arms tight against his body. Disgustingly, the dampness spread further over his armpits and down his sides, soaking into dry shirt material.

Josh glanced at Jenks. If he wasn’t a cop, who was he?

James Mitchell’s partner? In retrospect, nothing made Jenks an officer of the law. He had the suspicion he was being taken to meet James Mitchell. He didn’t care to be around to find out whether he was right or not.

The Malibu slowed and came to a gentle stop at the intersection. Jenks surveyed the road, waiting for the sporadic traffic to clear. Josh took his chance. Simultaneously, he punched the safety belt release and yanked

on the door handle. The belt recoiled, making a

whizzing sound like a bottle rocket. The door lock clunked and the door opened. Josh made for the street.

A ratcheting click came from behind. Jenks produced a gun from God knows where and roughly stuck

it in Josh’s face. Josh felt the coldness of hard metal against his cheek. The smell of oil and burnt firecrackers filled his nose. He flicked his eyes to the black pistol jammed hard against his flesh. The weapon rubbed uncomfortably against his cheekbone and the gun felt as

heavy as it looked.

“Now, Mr. Michaels. Close the door and buckle up.

Our journey isn’t over—yet,” Jenks said without irritation, but there was a hardness to the word “yet” that

could crack diamonds.

Josh’s escape had amounted to a half-opened door

and one foot on the doorsill. He sat back in his seat and closed the door with Jenks’ gun muzzle pressed against his cheek. He fastened the seatbelt and Jenks drove across the intersection.

“No more thrills, Josh. I hope you don’t mind me

calling you Josh?”

Josh said nothing and stared straight ahead.

“Just so we understand each other.” Jenks shoved

the gun into Josh’s groin.

Josh winced at the intrusion.

“Move it and lose it,” Jenks snarled.

The car bounced over the light rail crossing onto cracked asphalt. A layer of rubble from a nearby demolition site coated the road. The pieces crackled

against the underside of the car as they bounced over another poorly covered, unused rail line. The gun muzzle bounced between Josh’s thighs. He gasped in fear of the weapon going off by accident.

Jenks heard the gasp, looked at Josh and laughed. “I suppose I should be careful with your valu-balls,” he said and laughed again.

Jenks made a left and drove the car down an alley between two vacant, whitewashed factories. The signs

were long since gone, giving anonymity to the last occupants.

The

car came to a halt behind a Dumpster. “Time

for business,” Jenks said. He pressed both of the seat belt releases and the belts whizzed back against the door pillars. “Get out.”

Jenks removed the semiautomatic from Josh’s crotch and both men climbed from the car. He motioned with the pistol for Josh to move. Josh moved ahead of the car with his head cocked over his shoulder at Jenks several feet behind.

A smile cracked across Jenks’s angular face. “I bet you have no idea what this is about, do you?”

Josh thought for a moment. “You’re right. To be

honest I haven’t a clue.”

“Well, I’m not going to explain it all, but you’re worth a lot of money to some people.”

What was this guy talking about? He wasn’t worth

anything to anyone. All he had was his life insurance and Kate and Abby were the beneficiaries. “Who?”

“That’s not important, but what is … is that you have to be dead for them to get it. Get it?”

Jenks came closer to Josh. Josh made tentative steps backward. Seeing Josh squirm, the killer smiled and holstered the gun in the back of his pants.

“But first you’ll have to be roughed up a little,” he said.

Josh stopped and stared beyond Jenks and the Malibu.

Slowly, a car rounded the corner into the alley.

Oh, my God, a witness, Josh thought. He was saved.

Jenks couldn’t try anything now. Not with someone else around. The tension drained from him.

The white Ford’s driver stamped on the gas and the car’s engine roared. The sedan accelerated under full power, tires spitting debris and kicking up plumes of dust in its wake.

The car wasn’t coming to save him. It was coming

straight for them.

Josh bolted. Without thought or plan he pounded

down the alley away from Jenks and the charging Ford.

Forgetting Josh, Jenks whipped around to face the speeding car and in one fluid motion, he jacked out the semiautomatic from the back of his pants. Snapping into a shooter’s stance, he readied the gun to fire.

Jenks never had a chance. As he aimed to fire, the car was upon him. Before releasing a shot, the Ford struck him head-on.

The car took his legs from under him, breaking them below the knees. His head thudded into the hood as he collapsed forward on broken legs. The velocity of the car and the angled windshield flipped Jenks over the top. He somersaulted one and a half times before crashing to the ground on his back. The car came to a skidding halt, the rear snapping around to overtake the front. The driver got out of the Ford, a gun in his hand, readied for use.

Josh ducked into an empty factory for cover and

stared through the broken windows. He saw the driver get out of the car after mowing down Jenks.

“You’ve got to be kidding.” He couldn’t believe who stood over Jenks. It was James Mitchell. The indestructible cockroach had appeared out of the woodwork

again. Josh had to be content with seeing the play unfold, since he couldn’t hear what was being said. Some

thing

nailed his feet to the floor. He had to see what

Mitchell would do next. He’d thought Jenks and

Mitchell were partners, but Mitchell had just run him down. Now, he didn’t know what to think. Everything was thrown into the mix and he had yet to make something else from the ingredients.

Mitchell finished speaking to Jenks. He fired the gun twice into Jenks’s face. At the sight of the spearheads of flame leaving the gun, Josh jerked twice in shock.

He’d seen enough and ran. He burst out the other side of the building into another alley and turned left, away from the killers. At the end of the alley, he came to a scrabbling halt. He had a choice—left or right. He chose right and ran to where the alley narrowed to less than the width of a car.

The alley ended and Josh found himself in the quiet of a residential street with a cafe and other businesses occupying the corners. The street had old factories on one side and seedy-looking, poorly kept townhouses on the other. Cars beyond their prime littered the roadsides.

People were absent from the thoroughfare.

He stopped running. The only noises to be heard

were the sound of his heart pounding against his

ribcage and the sharp wracking breaths tearing in and out of his lungs. New sweat intermingled with old, coating his entire body. He wanted to stop, catch his breath, but there was no time. He looked as if he’d run a marathon in his work clothes. Josh disappeared into the alleys and side streets to safety.

The professional had chosen to keep an eye on Josh Michaels today, although it wasn’t necessary. He’d done all he needed to eliminate Michaels. The wheels were in motion and it was inevitable that the train would roll over his hapless victim. Interest, more than anything else, made him keep up his surveillance on Michaels. Today was funeral day, or so it seemed. The Michaels family, dressed in black, set off in their cars.

He followed them at a distance.

It had been unfortunate that Michaels’s friend Keegan had been killed instead of his target. It was the first time he’d killed an innocent party in the pursuit of an assignment. He would have had no regrets if Keegan had gone down with Michaels, but killing Keegan

without the target aboard was embarrassing.

Michaels dribbled out of the church with the rest of the congregation. The professional watched him speak to various mourners through binoculars. After separating from his wife and child, he got into a car with Bob Deuce.

The professional continued to follow his target to the cemetery and back to the church to drop Bob

Deuce at his car. His target’s next stop was at his job.

He’d expected to settle in for the afternoon, but after an hour Michaels was out the front door with a box in his arms.

“Looks like someone got canned. I suppose that’s the power of television,” he murmured to himself.

He followed Michaels home, parked five houses down and watched his target get out. A car, a red Chevy Malibu, passed him and pulled up outside the Michaels

home. The guy in the Malibu intercepted Michaels. He produced something out of his pocket and accompanied his target into the house.

“Damn, I don’t like this,” he said to himself. “This isn’t good at all.” The professional hadn’t picked up anything on the scanner, so it was unlikely to be a cop, but his presentation gave the impression he was. Something about the man was familiar, though. He was sure

he’d seen him before.

Moments later, the man led Michaels out of his

home. The professional started his car when Michaels got into the Chevy. He shadowed the Malibu into the matrix of downtown streets. The Malibu avoided the police department and was leaving the familiar landmarks for the dead side of town. Something’s going

down, Josh, can’t you see it?

The professional lagged one block behind his target and waited longer than necessary at the intersections.

“Shit!” he exclaimed. He saw Michaels’s failed attempt to make a run for it at the intersection ahead and saw the gun at his head. The Malibu drove on and he followed suit.

The professional seethed. The moment he saw the

gun, he realized what was going down. That fuck has hired someone else to finish up my work. He couldn’t wait. Son of a bitch! He had it all under control. Tyrell just had to give him time. The executive had cheated him. Moreover, he had insulted him by hiring another hitter. It was like finding your wife in bed with your brother. Tyrell would be sorry for the betrayal.

Angry, the professional screeched to a halt at the next intersection, where the failed escape had taken place. He was stuck there longer than he liked. Traffic poured past in what seemed a never ending stream. He watched the car cross the rail lines and disappear down one of the alleys by the abandoned factories.

The traffic parted and he raced the white car across the junction. Once past the light rail crossing, he slowed and turned into the alley where the red Chevy had stopped.

They were out of the car. Michaels was walking

backward away from the killer as he bore down on him.

Michaels spotted him and the professional reacted to it.

The professional floored the accelerator into the carpet.

The car lurched forward, slithering on the loose

surface. Michaels made off like a rat up a drainpipe.

His competition went for his weapon.

“Too late, my friend, far too late,” the professional murmured.

He drove straight at his would-be replacement. His eyes filled with the man with the gun. Upon impact, the man blocked out the world, but he swiftly disappeared as he bumped over the roof. Josh Michaels had gone.

The professional slammed on the brakes and the Ford came to a sliding stop.

Grabbing his Colt and its suppressor from the glove compartment, the professional clambered from the

Taurus. Screwing the silencer onto the pistol, he walked over to the battered body of the other killer.

He lay on his back, blood oozing from contusions to his face and head. His legs were unnaturally positioned, as if he possessed a pair of additional joints between the knees and ankles. His hands no longer

gripped a gun nor would they; most of his fingers were shattered and skin was missing at the tips. A trickle of blood ran from the corner of his mouth and down the side of his dust-frosted face. He looked like a rejected china doll.

The professional pointed the gun at the competition.

“I know you. It’s Joseph Henderson, isn’t it?”

The man struggled to stay conscious. “Yeah,” he

croaked. “You must be the opposition.”

The professional nodded. “You know about me,

then? We have a mutual friend, don’t we?”

“Dexter Tyrell.” The shattered man coughed and

winced.

“That’s right, Dexter Tyrell,” he said, and smiled.

Henderson made pathetic attempts to move his broken body.

“Don’t move. There isn’t much point.”

Henderson ignored him and continued to drag his

body across the dirt. The professional wasn’t sure if Henderson’s movements were voluntary or not.

“I can’t believe the bastard brought another player into the game. You must have known there would be unhealthy competition. And now that you’ve lost there will be repercussions.” The professional paused for a moment and surveyed the dying man. “All I can say is your resume read better than it should have.”

“Fuck you,” Henderson spat.

“No, fuck you,” he said and unleashed two rounds

from the semiautomatic. The dulled hiss from the silenced pistol echoed gently off the walls.

The shots were precise. The first struck the bridge of his nose, causing his face to implode; the second shot tore his mouth open to produce an inhuman smile.

“That should make the coroner work hard for his

money. Not even a loving mother would recognize that face,” he said to the corpse.

The professional bent over his competitor and removed all identification from his pockets. He found the detective’s shield for a New York City cop called Jenks.

“Josh, you should look more carefully when you talk to strangers. Didn’t your mother teach you anything?”

He pocketed the items and the 9mm Henderson had

been holding.

The professional looked over at the Malibu.

Michaels’s prints would be all over it. It would do him no good if his target were picked up in connection with this mess. Even if Dexter Tyrell had tried to shaft him, he still had a job to do and he would do it. Josh Michaels and Margaret Macey would die, as would

Tyrell himself. It was a matter of principle.

His opposition had done one good thing. The location was perfect. It was secluded. No one was watching and no one had heard. He went to the Taurus, removed a can of gasoline and splashed it over and inside the car. With a handkerchief he removed the gas cap, then soaked the handkerchief in gas and shoved it in the car’s filler nozzle. He ran a trail of gas from the car to the dead man’s body and dumped the remaining gasoline over the corpse. He packed up the Ford, started it, turned it around and stopped a suitable distance from the Chevy. Leaving the car running, he got out and produced a matchbook from his pocket. He lit a match

and set the matchbook alight. It flared, then he dropped it onto the dead hit man’s body.

Henderson’s corpse erupted into flames and immediately ignited the trail of fuel. The flame leapt up the side of the car and spread out across its surface like spilt milk. Within seconds, the fire took hold of the car and smoke lifted from all quarters of the vehicle.

The professional ran back to his car. He checked the progress of the fire and once suitably satisfied he drove off. He was more than a block away when he heard the muffled explosion.

Josh Michaels had gone, but that didn’t matter. His fate was sealed. This inconvenience would only hasten his demise.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Eventually, Josh encountered civilization. He traversed a straight line from the derelict buildings and ended up on Broadway. Lively businesses, traffic and living, breathing people populated Broadway. Relief flooded over him and his heart slowed to a normal pace. He was safe. He was amongst witnesses, lots of them, too many of them for one killer to eradicate. He was out of no man’s land and on the right side of enemy lines. He needed more safety; he needed home. He knew the

killer could be heading there right now, but where else could he go?

He spotted the bus stop opposite the Tower Theater.

The bus was a good, safe means of transport that

would get him home in one piece. Mitchell couldn’t do anything to him on a bus. He knew his assassin

couldn’t afford to make such a brazen attempt. A bus was as good as a tank, impregnable. Josh jogged over to the bus stop.

After several moments of sitting on the bench, vulnerability struck him across the face with an open

hand. He realized sitting at the bus stop wasn’t such a good idea. What if his killer spotted him on the bench?

He might take a chance with a drive-by shooting. Josh had no idea when the bus was coming. It could be in ten minutes, thirty, an hour. He never used them regularly.

He was a sitting duck waiting to be picked off.

Nervously, he crossed the road and ducked inside the bookshop.

He flicked through paperbacks, magazines and

newspapers, never once looking at the printed pages, but instead out of the window at the vacant bus stop.

Staff and customers viewed Josh with interest, but never once challenged him. A giggle from behind jolted him from his surveillance. Realizing he was a spectacle, he placed the book back on the shelf and left.

The theater foyer offered some protection from spying eyes. After some negotiation to get inside the cinema without a ticket, he bought a soda from the snack counter. Leaning against a poster for coming attractions, he sucked on the soda’s straw.

A pneumatic hiss drew Josh’s attention, and he

looked out the window to see the mobile billboard slowing to take the corner. Emerging from the foyer’s darkened mouth, he jogged over to the bus stop, ditching the half-drunk soda in the trash as he went. The

bus stopped for him. It felt good climbing the three steps into the welcoming arms of Regional Transit.

Josh paid three dollars for the ride home, seventy-five cents over the top. correct change only the blackand-white notice pointed out. Josh didn’t care. He paid

the money gladly. He took a seat next to a teenage girl just out of high school with a ring through her nose.

She had a Virgin employee’s nametag pinned to her chest. He sat, relaxed and exhaled loudly. She looked at him, as did several other rush hour passengers on the three-quarter full bus.

“Hard day at work,” Josh explained to the girl.

“Every day.” The girl from Virgin dismissed Josh

and stared out the window.

The doors rattled shut. The air brakes wheezed and the bus eased into traffic.

From the end of the road, Josh took the opportunity to scope out his street. The vapor lights shone down on his car and Kate’s minivan. The lights were on in the house and there was no sign of the white Ford he’d seen tossing Jenks’s body like a rag doll. He recognized the cars parked in the street and driveways, so he started to walk. Someone could have staked out his neighborhood, but if they had, he’d missed the signs. Although

it seemed obvious his street and home were safe, he’d learned not to believe his instincts. With shaking hands, he opened the front door to his home.

He found the hall was neither packed with cops

waiting to gun him down nor with James Mitchell

holding a knife to Kate and Abby’s throats. Reassured, he ventured farther inside his house. His wife and child sat in front of the television.

“Josh, where have you been?” Concern and annoyance were evident in Kate’s voice. “Your car was parked outside.”

“I want to check something,” he said, interrupting her.

He snatched up the remote control from Abby’s

hand and started channel-hopping.

“Dad,” Abby whined.

“Josh, I asked you a question.” The irritation dissolved as Kate noticed his disheveled state. “What happened to you? You look like you’ve been dragged

through a hedge backwards.”

Josh ignored her and continued channel-hopping. He found what he was looking for, the news. Slowly, Josh backed up and sat on the arm of the chair next to Abby.

Kate started to complain, but Josh shushed her.

“Give me a minute and I’ll explain.”

The television screen showed a cordoned police scene with police and fire services present. Spotlights illuminated the area. In the background, the burnt carcass of a car lay slumped on melted tires. A screen shielded the television cameras from what Josh knew to be the dead body of Tom Jenks. The field reporter with suitably furrowed brow spoke.

“To recap, the police have found the body of a dead man next to this charred Chevy Malibu.” The reporter motioned with a hand in the direction of the

wreck. “The man has no identification, was shot

twice in the face and burned. Police, as yet, have no witnesses to the grizzly murder and appeal to witnesses to come forward. Initial indications lead the

authorities to believe this killing may be a drug deal gone bad. …”

“Kate, come with me,” Josh said.

“Okay.” She saw the fear in Josh’s eyes; fear that was contagious.

“There you go, sweetie.” Josh gave Abby the remote control. “We’ll be back in a minute.”

Josh led Kate by the hand toward the stairs, but their daughter halted their progress.

“Daddy, why don’t you tell me what is happening?”

Josh returned to his daughter’s side and knelt by her so that he was eye to eye. “Daddy is having some big problems he’s trying to get through. You know sometimes you struggle with math problems and you scratch

your head for a while before you get it?”

Abby nodded.

“Well, Daddy has a whole big bunch of them”—he

gestured with his hands out wide like a fisherman telling a tale—“and it’s going to take me a long time before I can work them all out. But I promise, when I’ve got it all sorted out, I’ll tell you all about it.” Josh put a finger to her nose. “Is that okay? Can you wait for a little while?”

Abby nodded vigorously and gave him a hug.

“Thank you, honey. You can watch your cartoons

now.

Josh returned to Kate and took her up to their bedroom.

He sat her on the bed and knelt in front of her,

holding her hands in his.

“Are you going to tell me what’s going on?” Kate

asked.

He took a deep breath. “If I knew I would tell you, but I don’t understand it all myself.”

“But what do you know?”

“I went to the office and Mike Behan wanted to see me.” Josh hesitated. “They’ve suspended me, indefinitely.”

“Why?”

“Because

of the Dixon apartments bribe. They can’t

have an employee suspected of bribery in such a sensitive position.” Josh frowned in apology.

“The bastards. Is this suspension paid?”

“Until an arrest is made. Then they cut me loose. But I think it’ll be all over by then.”

“How can you say that?”

“Trust me, it will.”

“But that doesn’t explain your condition.”

At that moment, Josh realized how badly he smelled.

Briefly, he thought of the girl on the bus and what she must have endured sitting next to him. He caught a glimpse of himself in the closet mirror. It wasn’t a pretty sight. Jenks and his foiled assassination attempt quickly obliterated the images of the nose ring girl.