Exit Strategy

“So he comes home last night with this wrapped box,” Moira said as she plucked a brownie-her third-off the plate. “He hands it to me, and he’s all puffed up, proud as can be-”

“Aren’t they always?” Beth cut in. “As if they deserve a medal for being thoughtful.”

“Not a medal,” Lyndsay said. “A blow job.”

The other women snickered their agreement. Moira settled back in her chair and waited for silence, obviously miffed at the interruption of her story. That was enough. The others fell in line like trained show dogs.

As they fawned over their queen, Lyndsay bit into her brownie. The first rush of chocolatey sweetness filled her mouth. As it settled, the aftertaste came through, the faintly bitter chemical taste of store-bought baked goods. Revenge is like that, she thought. Everyone called it sweet, and it was, at first nibble. Then the aftertaste kicked in.

“-picked up the box, and it’s too heavy to be jewelry,” Moira was saying. “So I think maybe Ted’s trying to be cute again, putting something in the box to make it seem heavy. Then I open it up, and you know what I find?”

Lyndsay took another bite of her brownie. Why the hell am I eating this thing? she thought, even as she chewed it. It tastes like crap, and I’ll pay for the extra calories, but I keep on eating. Just like revenge.

“It was a gun,” Moira said.

Tina screwed up her nose. “Are you serious? What for?”

“To protect myself, in case this Helter Skelter killer comes calling.”

The women let out a collective burst of laughter, and eased back in their chairs, all shaking their heads. Even Lyndsay, who rarely shared any opinions in common with her neighbors, had to agree. The thought of needing protection was preposterous.

They were safe here, and their husbands paid very well to keep them safe in their security-system-armed homes, in their ultraexclusive gated community, in this remote suburb, isolated from Seattle, and its big-city evils. Some of their husbands had guns, of course, but the women didn’t need them. They lived here, socialized here, sent their children to school here, secure within the gilded cage of Oakland Hills, venturing out only to shop, and even then traveling in packs.

Ted was an idiot. But Lyndsay could’ve told Moira that. Once she dreamed of telling her that. Just after Lyndsay and her husband had moved in, when Moira had snubbed her-never ignoring her, of course, that would be rude-but making her feel welcome while sniping to the others behind her back. Then she would’ve loved to say, “Hey Moira, your husband is an idiot… Believe me, I know. I’ve been fucking the loser.” As revenge went, though, sleeping with Ted had proven as deceiving as the brownie-much less satisfying in reality than it had looked on the plate.

Lyndsay popped another chunk in her mouth and chewed so hard she heard her teeth grinding. As the other women nattered on about the Helter Skelter killer, Lyndsay gnawed through a second brownie.

By the time she finished, her gut was in full revolt, and she wanted to beg off staying to watch CNN, and find out whether this killer would meet his noon deadline. Who cared? She had bigger things to worry about-namely how to keep Ted from telling her husband, as he threatened to do if she broke it off.

But to leave midway through the killer-watch was out of the question. Lyndsay had fought for her place here, and she wasn’t doing anything to jeopardize it now. She needed to think, so she offered to start a fresh batch of coffee for Moira while the others retired to the entertainment room.

Once they were gone, Lyndsay gathered the cups and plates and put them on the counter. Maybe if she gave Ted a taste of his own medicine, and threatened to tell Moira…

Lyndsay snorted. Like he’d care. Like she’d care. Moira would probably be glad-one more dull wifely function delegated.

Lyndsay picked up the bag of coffee beans and turned to the coffeemaker. Holy shit-was that a coffeemaker? It had more switches and digital readouts than a space shuttle. Was this where the beans went in? Did the machine grind them in there?

If she lost Austin -No, she couldn’t, wouldn’t lose him. Maybe if she diverted Ted, found him a new lover. That was an idea. She could-

Liquid splashed as she poured the beans in. She peered down to see them floating in the water reservoir and cursed.

As she studied the space-age coffeemaker, something hit her in the back, hard enough to slam her against the counter. In the stainless steel side of the coffeemaker, she saw the reflection of a man behind her. An older man.

The distorted image looked like Blake, Tina’s husband, but when she saw her own reflection, blood flower blossoming on the chest of her white sweater, Lyndsay knew it wasn’t Blake. Jesus Christ, she thought. I do not have time for this. Then her knees buckled, and she hit the floor.

He looked down at the body at his feet. A young blond woman, cover-model gorgeous with centerfold tits. Amazing what money could buy. He wondered whether two hundred million would buy him one of those, and almost laughed. Two hundred million would buy him one for every day of the week…and extras for Saturday night. Too bad he’d never see the money.

He could hear the women chattering in the other room. So close and yet, at the first click of an Italian leather pump, he could be through the pantry, and out the back door. Unbelievable how easy it had been, even in a place that sold security as a way of life. Disappointingly easy.

He took two things from his pocket-a page from Helter Skelter and a dollar bill. He bent to put the page in her pocket, then stopped. Did he really need this calling card anymore? No. The Feds would know it was him-the act itself was proof enough. So he kept the page, but dropped the dollar bill, letting it flutter down onto the dead woman.

THIRTY-ONE

When we reached Little Joe’s retirement home, Jack parked in the side lot; the one reserved for overflow guests. The regular lot was almost empty, so I didn’t know why he chose that one.

To get to the place, we had to take a path through a patch of woods. Jack was at the trail’s edge before he realized I wasn’t behind him. He waved-as if I might not have understood that I was supposed to follow. When I didn’t move, he walked back to the car. I rolled down my window.

“I like my life, Jack. Sure, it’s a little screwy, but I’d really like to keep it for a while longer. Going in there, after the last time, doesn’t seem the best way to prolong my term on this earth.”

He opened the car door. I didn’t move.

“You trust me?” he asked.

“Sure, but-”

“Then get out. I’m going to fix this.”

“That fix doesn’t involve prematurely ending the life of a Mafia don’s brother, does it?”

A look. That’s all he gave me. Just a look.

I threw up my hands. “Well, I had to ask. The last time I had a run-in with Little Joe, it ended with body disposal, and I like to be prepared.”

He headed for the home.

There were three people at the front desk-a nurse, a receptionist and a young man who looked like an orderly. They were so engrossed in their conversation they didn’t notice us come in.

“-think he’ll do it?” the receptionist was saying.

“Of course he will. He has to. Otherwise, no one will take him seriously.” The orderly glanced at the wall clock. “Right now, someone, somewhere is enjoying the last few minutes of their life.”

“Someone, somewhere is always enjoying the last few minutes of their life,” the nurse snapped. “Hundreds of people will die in the next ten minutes, and if we start panicking over that one, we’re giving him exactly what he wants.”

The Helter Skelter killer. What else would they be talking about as the clock hands hit noon, reminding me that no matter how close we got, it would be too late for at least one person.

My throat tightened, breath catching, as if the oxygen content in the room had plummeted. Jack’s hand tightened on my elbow.

“We’re here to see Joe Nikolaev,” he said with a standard midwestern accent.

The receptionist and the orderly both glared at him for disrupting their death watch. As the nurse turned off the radio, the orderly looked from Jack to me, then scurried off, probably to find another radio. Jack’s gaze followed him.

“I’m sorry,” the nurse said. “I’m afraid Mr. Nikolaev is no longer with us.”

“No longer-?” I began. “Oh-oh, geez. We hadn’t heard. When did it happen?”

The receptionist sputtered a laugh, covering her mouth as she did.

The nurse glared at her, then turned a wry smile on us. “I’m sorry. We need to be careful what we say in this business, don’t we? I meant he’s not here anymore-at the home. His family took him out yesterday.” She lowered her voice. “He didn’t seem too happy about it.”

“Caused a real uproar,” the receptionist muttered.

“Transition can be difficult at that age,” the nurse said. “I’m sure Joseph will adjust.”

That hitman Joe sent after me had said Boris Nikolaev had had enough of his brother’s screw-ups, the same thing Evelyn had heard. If Boris had found out about Joe’s slip of the tongue-and the failed hit-well, then the only thing Little Joe would be adjusting to was life at the bottom of a six-foot hole.

“Thank you,” I said. “We’ll try to stop by his brother’s-”

“Toilet,” Jack said.

I glanced at him, brows raised.

He continued. “Before we leave, you needed the toilet. Don’t forget, because we have a long drive.” He turned to the nurse. “Is there one she can…?”

“Right down this hall. Third door on the right.”

Jack put his hand against my back. “I should use it, too.”

When we were out of earshot, I whispered, “I’m assuming you want to search his room. Do you know which it is?”

He tugged a tissue from his pocket and used it to open the bathroom door, then peeked inside. “Go in. Open the window. Then cough.”

“Cough?”

He propelled me through the doorway. “Glove up. And don’t lock.”

The door closed. I looked at the lace-curtained window. Better follow instructions, and get the explanation later-if he cared to give it.

I snapped on latex gloves and cracked open the window. On the other side was a screen. I suspected bathroom air quality wasn’t the reason he wanted this open, so I lifted the sash as far as it would go, unlatched the screen and pulled it inside. Then I coughed. After a moment’s pause, the door eased open and Jack slid in. I grasped the window edge, preparing to climb out, but he waved me back.

He moved to the window, then crouched to look out under the privacy glass. A sweep of the yard, then he climbed through. I waited for the all-clear and followed.

A fifteen-foot dash to a shed, and we ducked behind it.

“The orderly,” he said.

And that’s all he said, as if it should explain everything. After a few moments of thought, I understood, but sometimes I wished he’d give my brain a break and let his tongue do some of the work instead.

I remembered the look the young man had given us before hurrying off. If Boris Nikolaev knew Little Joe had let something slip about that old hit on the senator, and he knew we’d terminated Joe’s hired gun, he’d know there was a good chance we’d come back. Easiest way to make sure he found out about it would be to bribe the orderly for a tip-off. Yet, by the time Boris got someone here, we’d be long gone…which meant he probably had someone nearby or even on the property, waiting for a call.

Less than two minutes after we got behind the shed, the rattle of the bathroom door sounded through the open window. A figure appeared at the bathroom window. He ducked and peered out. I squinted to get a better look, but all I could see was his mouth, the rest of his face hidden under the bill of his ball cap.

The man scanned the lawn, then disappeared.

I glanced at Jack. He motioned for me to wait. The front screen door slapped shut. A stocky figure in a Cleveland Indians jacket hurried off the porch and cut across the lawn, then headed into the trees, toward the lot where we’d parked.

Jack grabbed my elbow and pulled me along at a jog. We looped behind the home and straight for the wooded path the thug had taken. Now, it would seem to me that the time to make a run for the car was before Nikolaev’s thug got to it, but maybe that was just too simple for Jack.

We skirted the wooded side field. Before we reached the path, Jack stopped. He surveyed the semidark forest, then prodded me into a thick patch.

We had to move carefully. The chill of the last few days had fulfilled its promise with an early morning frost and here, out of the sun, the undergrowth was still covered with a thin sheen of it, crackling with every ill-placed footstep. The thug didn’t bother with stealth, and we could hear him as easily as if he had maracas strapped to his legs.

“Wait.” Jack turned to go, then glanced back. “Duck down. Stay hidden.”

“And then what?”

“Don’t let him see you.”

He must have seen me already, but I knew Jack’s order had nothing to do with being overprotective. As the female half of the duo, I made the better target. And if I didn’t play “good victim”? I’d humiliate this thug, as Evelyn and I had done to Bert at the motel, and that would lead to the same result-we’d have to put the boots to him and intimidate him into giving up whatever information Jack hoped to gain.

While that thought didn’t bother me, Jack was my boss, the senior partner. I didn’t want to disrespect him by challenging him, not on this.

As for staying put, though, that was another thing. Jack might not be accustomed to working with a partner, might not understand a partner’s duties, but I did.

I crept forward, watching my step. The undergrowth was thick here, and I nearly stepped on a shallow puddle coated with ice.

Jack had stopped halfway to the parking lot, waiting in the bushes. A few minutes later, the thug returned, walking at a brisk clip back to the home. As he passed, Jack swung out, silent as a wraith, came up behind him and barrel pointed at the base of the man’s skull.

“Turn left and walk,” Jack said.

The man gave a tight laugh. “Into the woods? So you won’t have as far to drag my body? I ain’t making it easier for you.”

“I wanted you dead? Be there already. Got a message for Boris.”

“And you want me to play delivery boy?”

“You don’t want to? Fine. I’ll use the next guy.”

The thug let Jack steer him into the woods-on the opposite side of the trail. I crept as close as I dared, waited until they had their backs to me, then darted across the open path.

Jack stopped in a clearing. I found a spot ten feet away, with a good sight line. He made the thug kneel, hands on the back of his head, then trained his gun on the guy’s skull base. I aimed mine at the thug’s right shoulder-a disabling shot.

“You said you got a message for Boris,” the guy said.

“ Houston.”

“Wha-?” The thug tried to look over his shoulder at Jack, but a gun poke stopped him.

“That’s the message. Houston.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“Boris knows. Tell him this is my business-”

“Who the hell are you?”

“ Houston. He’ll know. And my business? No concern of his. His business? No concern of mine. Got it?”

“Got what? That’s not a message. It’s code or some-”

“Repeat what I said.”

The thug sighed but, with prompts, repeated it.

“Good,” Jack said. “Boris comes after me again? I’ll know you fucked up the message.”

Jack let the thug go, then slipped into the woods to make sure he left.

The moment the guy’s car pulled out, Jack looked directly at where I was hiding. I stepped out, expecting to be lambasted. But he only waved me toward the car.

“So is that the last we’ll hear of Boris Nikolaev?” I asked as I climbed into the car.

“Better be,” Jack muttered. “Damned inconvenient.”

I shook my head and reached for the radio dial.

“Won’t change anything, Nadia.”

I looked at him, fingers on the knob.

“Find out now. Find out at Evelyn’s. Won’t change what happened.” His gaze slanted my way. “You know what happened.”

I nodded and turned on the radio.

THIRTY-TWO

As promised, the Helter Skelter killer had taken another victim at noon. As for whether he struck on the dot of noon, I’ll leave it for the more dramatically inclined reporters to speculate. What I do know is that the victim was found less than ten minutes past noon, when her friends called into the kitchen to see why she was taking so long with the coffee. At the time of the murder, they’d been tuned to CNN waiting for news of what was unfolding a few steps away. The irony of that would be lost on no one. Of everyone waiting for news of the next victim, one person became that news.

The audacity of the killing was lost on no one, either. Not only had he struck in an occupied home, but one with a state-of-the-art security system, in one of the most supposedly secure gated communities. The message was clear-if I can get to her, I can get to anyone.

That promoted exactly the kind of paranoia that gated communities preyed on. I’d pulled a hit in a “high security” private club, in the middle of a golf tournament, and let me tell you, I’ve done harder-much harder.

But of course the media was already playing it up, making it sound like he was some kind of phantom who’d slipped past not only the armed guards at the gate, but a fully armed home security system.

Fully armed, my ass. How many people rearm their system when they’re indoors entertaining, with friends coming and going? My guess was that the homeowner had reactivated it when she’d learned of the murder. If the system had been off, the Feds would figure it out, but I doubted that tidbit would make it to the six o’clock news.

Jack needed to call Quinn before we got back to Evelyn’s, so he stopped at a Cracker Barrel near the state border. I went in to grab coffees to go, then got sidetracked by the display of old-fashioned candy. When I returned to the car and found Jack wasn’t back, I put the coffees and candy inside and went to look for him.

Jack was twenty feet away from the phone booth, standing by the edge of the parking lot. When I walked up behind him, he looked back at me, his eyes unreadable behind his dark shades.

“What happened?”

He looked my way, but said nothing.

“Quinn told you something, and now you’re trying to figure out whether-or how-you should tell me.” My mind leapfrogged to the obvious. “Another killing. Already? He just finished-”

“Not yet.”

I stopped. “Not yet what? The killing, you mean? He hasn’t done it yet, but he’s announced it already? Come on, Jack, don’t make me drag it out of you two words at a time, or I swear-”

He motioned for me to sit with him on the edge of the restaurant porch, and started talking.

The FBI knew where the killer was going to strike next. While it would have been nice to claim that they’d deduced this through painstaking hours of statistical and behavioral analysis, the truth was far more disturbing. They knew because he’d told them.

According to Quinn, the FBI agent leading the investigation, Martin Dubois, had received his own letter from the killer. In it, the killer had promised to take a victim tonight, at a recently reopened historic opera house in Chicago. He didn’t dare them to stop him, but the challenge was obvious.

“So what you were debating was whether to tell me in advance or not, wasn’t it? Quite possibly our best chance to catch this guy, and you don’t think we should bother showing up.”

A kernel of rage rolled around my gut. I could feel Jack’s gaze on me, studying me, appraising my reaction. I closed my eyes to slits, then took a deep breath. Took another. Opened my eyes and looked at him.

“Could be a setup,” he said, words coming slow, deliberate, almost as if guiding me back on track.

I considered that. Saw the truth in his words. “Playing with the Feds. Leading them on a goose chase.”

“Playing, yeah. Goose chase…?” He pulled off his sunglasses. “Helluva challenge.”

“Killing someone in a busy public place-after you’ve given the FBI a heads-up? That’s not just a challenge. What better way to prove that no one is safe than to tell the Feds where you’ll strike next, and still pull it off.”

“Yeah.”

“So you think he’s really going to do it?”

A long pause now, really thinking it through. Then a nod. “Yeah. Think he’s gonna try.”

My nails dug into my palms as I kept my voice steady, dispassionate. “Are we going to be there to stop him?”

“Gonna try.”

Jack called Quinn back. Quinn and Felix had already planned to be there-not that Jack had been about to tell me that before we made up our own minds. As he slid into the car, I stared out the window. After a few minutes of his driving and my window gazing, he said, “You okay?”

“Just thinking of something and feeling stupid.”

“’Bout what?”

“Quinn.” When he didn’t answer, I glanced his way. “When you told me he was a cop, I figured you meant ‘cop,’ like me-like I was. Street cop. Maybe detective, but definitely local or state. But now he tells us about this tip-off. A beat cop gets the drop on an unpublicized tip-off to the FBI? Right.” I shook my head. “Quinn’s a Fed, isn’t he?”

“FBI?” He shrugged and started to say something that I knew from his expression would be, if not a complete disavowal, at least suitably neutral.

“FBI, CIA, DEA, NSA, or whatever other acronyms they have. You know what I mean. Federal level.”

“That’s a problem?”

I twisted in my seat. “Yes, it’s a problem. You tell me he’s a cop, and I figure he’s from some little force in Podunk, Maine. That I’m comfortable with. But a federal agent?” I shook my head. “Yes, I know, federal, state, local, he’s still a cop, so you didn’t lie, but you knew what conclusion I’d draw, and you let me draw it.”

“He’s clean.”

“Says who? Says you? A federal agent has federal jurisdiction. Federal contacts. Access to federal databases. I’m not comfortable-”

“Nadia? His story’s solid. He’s not a plant. Not a threat, either. He flips? I flip harder.”

I remembered what Quinn had said earlier, that Jack had more on him than vice versa.

“Not a threat,” Jack repeated. “He was? Wouldn’t have let you meet him.”

I leaned back in my seat. “I know. It’s just…federal makes me nervous. It’s a cop thing. On the streets, you don’t deal with them that much. Every now and then, we’d have the horsemen ride in, scoop up a case-”

“Horsemen?”

“RCMP.” When his look didn’t change, I said, “Mounties. Mounted police.”

“They still ride horses?”

“Only in parades…and tourist photo ops.”

“The red uniforms?”

“It’s suits these days. Disney owns the uniform copyright anyway. I once asked a Mountie whether his dress uniform tag said ‘Property of Walt Disney.’ He wouldn’t tell me, but he did offer to let me take his off and check for myself.”

Jack shook his head. He pulled into the slow lane, and set his cruise control two miles over the speed limit. Then he looked at me. “About Quinn. Makes you nervous? Best thing you can do? Keep your distance.”

“You mean stick to business. No socializing, no chatting, no jogging together…”

“Right.”

I shook my head. “You said he was clean, and I trust you.” I glanced at him. “You did say that, didn’t you?”

A hesitation, then a soft exhale. “Yeah.”

We’d agreed to meet Felix and Quinn at a baseball diamond in Chicago. When we arrived, Quinn and Felix were right inside the gates. I saw Quinn first, a tray of hot dogs and sodas in his hands, wearing worn jeans and a T-shirt that pulled tight over his broad shoulders. His gaze lighted on me, and he grinned. My stomach did a little flip. I blamed it on the smell of the food.

“Got you a hot dog,” Quinn said, thrusting it out like a bouquet of roses.

Beside me, Jack made a noise, half grunt, half sigh.

“Don’t glower, Jack,” Quinn said. “Got you one, too.”

I took mine with thanks. Jack just looked at the tray.

Felix walked up behind Quinn and raised a half-eaten hot dog. “I can assure you, Jack, they’re quite fine. He isn’t trying to poison us…yet.”

“One could argue that all hot dogs are poisonous,” I said, as we fell into step and headed for the bleachers. “If you eat enough, they have to be at least as lethal as arsenic.”

“Shhh,” Quinn said. Then he held out the tray again. “Jack, have another.”

“Someone’s in a good mood,” Jack said.

“Someone’s in a fucking fantastic mood. We are finally going to nail this bastard.”

Quinn grinned at me, and I felt an answering rush of excitement. I was finally on my target’s trail, so close I could narrow my eyes and visualize him in my scope.

When I smiled back, Quinn’s grin grew and he swung out of the way to let me head into the bleacher row. He tried to follow, but Jack cut in front of him. Quinn waited for Jack to pass, then darted into the aisle below, passed us and vaulted over the bench to sit on my other side, still grinning, looking like a kid who’s outwitted the teacher. I couldn’t help laughing.

“You think he’ll show?” I said, as we settled into the bleacher seats.

“I sure hope so, because if he does, he’s toast.” His eyes gleamed. “This bastard has taken his last victim. We’re bringing him down and I cannot fucking wait to see it.”

“Got that impression,” Jack said.

Quinn only rolled his eyes, enthusiasm undimmed, so stoked he was practically bouncing in his seat. As I watched him, I felt a pang of envy. Quinn felt no need to emulate Jack and treat this with quiet professionalism. I could only sit there, basking in his fire, struggling to remember what it felt like to be that open, that unguarded.

Felix pitched his trash into the distant can with perfect aim. “I know you’re hoping to be the one to snap on the cuffs, Quinn, but remember, there’s a good chance it won’t be us.”

“That’s fine. Sure, I’d love to take him down myself, but if it’s the Feds or the locals, good enough.”

“He’ll be caught,” I said. “And that’s all that matters.”

As he nodded, our eyes met.

“Great idea,” Jack said. “But a plan would help.”

“Already got one.” Quinn pulled two pieces of cardboard from his pocket, then fanned them, and leaned closer to me. “If you don’t have any plans for this evening, I thought maybe we could take in an opera. I hear it’s going to be a good show. Chock-full of danger, adventure, mystery…and, if you want, maybe we could even see the opera afterward.”

I smiled and plucked the tickets from his hand. “So what are these? Forgeries?”

“Uh-uh. With tonight’s security, it’s the real deal or none at all. The theater’s only about two-thirds full, so I nabbed these easily enough.” He glanced around me. “We can get more for you guys if you want.”

“Really?” Felix said. “You see, Jack, we aren’t invisible over here after all.”

“Hey, I included you two. You can come in if you want, but I figured two in and two out would be better. It makes sense for Dee to be one of the two going in and, well, if she’s going to have a date, I’m the natural choice.”

Felix arched a brow. “You are?”

“You know, the age thing,” Quinn said.

“Jack and I will pretend we didn’t hear that.”

“You’re forgetting something,” Jack said. “Partners. Dee -”

“-is your partner,” Quinn said. “But-”

“She’s worked with me. Not does work. Has worked.”

I folded my napkin and tucked it into my empty hotdog box. “Jack’s right. I know his style and with something this big, I need a familiar partner. I do agree two of us should go in, so if Jack would rather not, then I guess you and Felix-”

“Nah,” Jack said. “Two guys? People still notice.”

“A man and a woman would be less conspicuous, particularly if we pick up fake wedding rings. As for the age difference, at these events, it’s pretty much a given. Older guys, second wives-” I caught Jack’s look. “Not that you’re older. Well, older than me, but-” I checked my watch. “We’d better move if we’re going to do this. I’ll need a dress.”

“Nice save,” Felix said. “And, yes, you will need a gown. This opera house evidently has a black-tie dress code for these opening weeks. Jack will require a tuxedo.”

Quinn snorted a laugh, but Felix cut him off before he could say anything. “There’s a shopping plaza nearby with suitable shops for formal wear. I’m sure Jack can select his own, but if Dee requires any assistance-or merely a second opinion-I can help. I have some experience shopping there for formal gowns.”

Quinn looked at Felix, brows raised.

“I find women’s wear an excellent disguise,” Felix said. “Particularly evening dresses.”

Quinn kept staring.

“I have had lady friends in Chicago, Quinn, and have escorted them to the symphony and such, occasions for which women often appreciate new evening wear.”

“Oh.”

Felix shook his head. “While poor Quinn works that out, may I suggest we move straight to shopping? That should give him time to recover, then retrieve the blueprints and security details.”

We finished our hot dogs, and left.

THIRTY-THREE

Jack checked us into a motel on the outskirts of Chicago. Felix and Quinn would presumably find one elsewhere. I could tell Jack wasn’t comfortable with the prolonged time together, but there was little we could do under the circumstances except keep our guard up and remember that there was no reason for anyone to be tracking us. Had this been a job, that would be a concern, but here, attention was focused on our target, and no one was looking for us.

The opera curtain was ninety minutes away, and the doors would open in forty-five. I was ready to go, dress on and hair fixed in the best updo I could manage with bobby pins and a hand mirror. Jack had showered and shaved, but still had to throw on his tux, so I left him to do that and went outside to find Quinn.

It was dark already, and the motel poorly lit, but I located him on the other side of the lot, leaning against the fence, watching the highway traffic whiz past. He’d changed into black jeans and a black hooded sweatshirt-dark enough for recon work outside the theater, but common enough street wear not to attract attention. He’d also switched to dark hair, and from his profile I could see that he’d added a beard and mustache. Guess he wanted a little more of a disguise in case he bumped into someone from the FBI task force. Further proof that I was right about him being a Fed. FBI or DEA was my guess. A field agent-he didn’t strike me as a desk jockey-but he obviously still had enough clout to get all the info we needed without raising eyebrows. And the clout to get the time off.

As my heels clicked across the asphalt, Quinn turned. He stared. Then he stared some more.

I laughed. “Don’t tell me I look that different.”

“No, just…wow.”

I blushed.

“You look good as a redhead,” he said. “That must be closer to your natural-I mean, it suits you.”

“Thanks.”

The wig was redder than my normal hair-and longer. The dress was mint-ice-cream green. The tag had called it sea-foam or something like that, but it reminded me of mint ice cream. Felix and I had debated the merits of black over colors and, while black would doubtless be the shade of choice and I’d have blended into the crowd more by wearing it, it would also increase the chances that Jack would lose me.

So we’d picked this-a simple, formal dress in pale green, nothing revealing or flashy…although by the way Quinn was staring, you’d have thought it was fire-engine red with a neckline plunging to meet the hem. It’d been a while since a guy had looked at me like that. Jack had grunted something when I’d put it on, which could have been “nice,” but could just as easily have been gas.

“Is Jack really wearing a tux?”

“He will be soon.”

Quinn laughed. “This I gotta see.”

I grinned. “Should be interesting. Thank God Felix is there to help, because I suspect Jack doesn’t have a clue how to do the tie.”

I don’t think he heard any of that. As soon as I grinned, his gaze locked with mine.

“You have a great smile,” he said, then blinked. “I mean, you look great when you smile. Not that you look bad when-”

Before he could muddle his way out, a figure appeared from the shadows. Quinn looked over at Jack and, if he’d been about to make some jab, he stopped. It was my turn to stare. Jack didn’t look nearly as uncomfortable in a tux as I’d expected. It even suited him, giving the harsh angles of his face an air that was less rough and tumble and more sharp and sophisticated, but still slightly dangerous. He had foregone a wig in favor of putting more gray in his black. Bright blue contacts added a splash of color. He looked fine…better than fine. Of course, I wasn’t telling him that-not when my outfit had only warranted a grunt.

Jack turned to me. “You forgot these.”

He handed me a pair of gloves-not latex, but green silk. One advantage to formal dress-it gave you an excuse for gloving up and hiding fingerprints. For himself, he would use a form of liquid latex. It worked pretty well, but was far from perfect, so whenever possible, I’d be opening doors tonight.

As I pulled on my gloves, Felix joined us. I had to do a double take to recognize him. That afternoon, he’d looked as I remembered him from Indiana -tall, thin and ginger-haired, fussy, professorial. The man in front of me looked like he was ready to join the senior’s mall walk-gray-haired, pasty-faced, slightly stooped and pot bellied, dressed in a navy jogging suit and new sneakers. An old man trying to prolong his life with some much needed exercise.

“We all set then?” Quinn said. “Any last-minute obstacles need tackling?”

“Besides the lack of a suitable method of communication?” Felix said.

“Yeah, I know it’ll be a bugger without it, but even Jack agrees. The Feds may be monitoring frequencies, and there isn’t a radio or phone I’d take the chance with.”

“I know of one,” Felix said. “Unfortunately, no courier could deliver it from Moscow in time. However, we may wish to consider splurging if we fail to roust this man tonight.”

Quinn’s face darkened. “It ends tonight. Between us and the Feds, he doesn’t stand a chance. A few hours from now we’ll be celebrating, not ordering extra equipment.” A sudden smile and he turned my way. “Speaking of celebrating, I know a place, has the best suds and deep dish in town.”

“Think I’d be overdressed?”

“Definitely, but you won’t hear me complaining.” He glanced over my head. “How about it, guys? Up for a little postassignment partying?”

Felix arched a brow. “Oh, were we included in that invitation?”

“Of course. Not like Jack would let me take Dee without him.” His gaze shot back to mine. “Is it a date then? Say…midnight?”

“Only if I can buy the first round.”

“Haven’t caught him yet,” Jack said. “Don’t get cocky.”

I looked at him, my smile fading. “It isn’t cockiness, Jack. It’s confidence…and a generous helping of hope.”

He nodded and, for a minute, we all stood in silence. Then Jack jangled his keys.

“Time to go.”

A half hour later we were rounding the corner, the opera house in sight, a crowd at the doors, moving slowly. Jack eyed the crowd, then motioned me aside and took out a cigarette. Earlier he’d grumbled about the habit, calling it the worst a hitman could have. I wasn’t sure I agreed. It certainly came in handy-a convenient excuse for standing around outside without drawing attention to yourself. Unlike that hitman at the jail, Jack could pull it off. No one watching would mistake him for an amateur smoker.

He lit the cigarette, took a drag, then said, “We okay?”

“Sure. Aren’t we?” I stepped to the side, out of the path of an oncoming foursome. “Is something bothering you? Something we missed?”

“Nah.”

His gaze slanted away, as if this wasn’t what he’d meant and he was trying to reword it. After another drag, he looked at me.

“You okay?”

“Me? Sure. Not having second thoughts about getting involved, if that’s what you mean.”

A small shake of his head, coupled with a look that said he’d never make that mistake. A third drag, then he passed the cigarette to me. He let me inhale, exhale, and waved it off when I offered it back.

“Might not get him,” he said, voice low, though no one was around. “Gonna try. Sure as hell gonna try. But…might not.”

“Like Quinn and I said, we don’t care who does the take-down, us or the Feds. Yes, I’d rather be the one…” I paused. “You mean-This is about that talk outside the motel-Quinn and I going on about getting this guy, making our victory celebration plans.” I felt my gaze harden. Blinked it away. “You’re worried that I’ll get cocky. Overexcited. Overeager. That I’ll screw up.”

“’Course not. You’re a pro-”

“Quinn and I were just blowing off steam, okay? Some of us need to do that. And, yes, I suppose showing it is unprofessional-”

“I never said-”

“I know we might not get this guy tonight. I know maybe no one will. And I know that if we stand a hope in hell of success, it’s going to take calm, controlled, focused effort. There’s no room for grandstanding, for cowboy bullshit-”

“That’s not-”

“I’m ready, okay? If you think I’m not, then just say so, and I’ll walk away now.”

He looked out over the road and, for one long minute, I was certain he was going to call me on that, tell me to walk away. Could I do it? My heart hammered at the thought, fingers trembling around the cigarette.

“Line’s going down,” he said, waving at the crowd. “Better get inside.”

As we climbed the steps to the new opera house, we were caught in a stream of high-school students-a band or music class-led by a woman talking excitedly about the production to come. I knew why the police hadn’t issued a warning and yet…well, I couldn’t shake the urge to grab that teacher and tell her to get the kids out of here, get as far away as they could.

The truth was, as cruel as it seemed by not letting people know of the threat, the police were doing their best to end that threat…for everyone else. This was their first chance-an excellent chance-of catching the Helter Skelter killer.

If they’d refused to play along and canceled the show, any criminal psychologist could predict the killer’s next move. Ruin his game, and he’d do something worse, as payback. Here, they could monitor every variable and ensure the guests’ safety.

Once inside the doors, we found ourselves funneled into a line through a portable metal detector and a wand-wielding guard.

“My bag?” sniffed a matron at the front. “No, you may not paw through my bag, young man.”

The queue ground to a halt.

“Oh, come on,” I muttered. “They’re not worried about the flask you stuffed in there.”

Jack craned his neck to see around the mob. After a moment, a guard took the woman and her party aside to let others pass though.

“Unbelievable,” huffed a diamond-dripping woman about my age. “It’s opera, not a rap concert.”

“There’s a whole industry getting rich off this terrorism nonsense,” said the gray-haired man at her side. “Did I tell you what happened on my flight to Tokyo last week? They body-searched first-class passengers. First-class! As if any of us…”

He continued to bitch about the injustices visited on the upper classes, but I turned my attention to mentally reexamining Quinn’s blueprints of the opera house. One front entrance, one staff entrance, one delivery door and three fire exits. Easy to guard and, according to Quinn, guarded they were, with no one allowed in or out any way but the front door tonight.

According to Quinn’s source, even staff had needed to pass through those main doors earlier, with the metal detectors and bag search. That would likely be the ruse the killer would use-pretending to work here. With a new business, employees would still be accustomed to seeing unfamiliar faces and wouldn’t question one more. If that was his plan, he’d have found himself out of luck. There had been a manager at the door, ticking off names, and if a new or replacement worker showed up, the Feds had turned him away.

We made it through security without incident. We weren’t armed. Too risky. The Feds would probably have wand-waving agents inside, too. Not having a gun made me uneasy, but I knew the killer wouldn’t have risked bringing one in, either. He wouldn’t need to. A real pro doesn’t need a traditional weapon to do his job.

Once inside, we veered left. Quinn said the Feds were setting up base in a storage room behind the bar, so that’s where I wanted to go first. Get an insider’s feel for security precautions, and we’d see where the holes were.

It took some wrangling, but we found a spot where we could, with the help of listening devices provided by Felix, hear what was going on in the FBI’s control room. We arrived just as they received a call from the front door, about a woman refusing to let them search or scan her evening bag. It could have been the same woman we’d seen, but I suspected they’d been dealing with similar complaints all night.

“I don’t care if she’s the wife of the goddamned president,” a man boomed. “No one gets in without a search and if you can’t handle that, then find someone who can.” He signed off. “Fucking unbelievable. Old bats thinking we’re going to swipe twenty bucks from their handbags, delivery men too lazy to carry boxes to the front door, but if something goes wrong, they’ll be the first to raise a stink, calling the papers to complain that we weren’t doing our jobs.”

“Nothing’s going to go wrong, Marty. A woman couldn’t get groped in here without us knowing about it.”

“Yeah, but if she does, I’ll have ten deadweight rookies in here asking me what they should do about it, while that fucker has free run of the building.”

The door creaked open.

“What the hell are you two doing back-?” the first man boomed.

“There’s been a seat mix-up,” a woman said. “An elderly couple is in ours-”

“Then tell them to move!”

The women continued in the same calm voice. “The usher feels it would be less intrusive if we took the seats beside them-”

“I told you where to sit! We picked out the sight lines to cover every-”

“We’ve checked the sight lines and they’d be the same.”

“I don’t care. You sit where I assigned you, and if there’s someone there, then you move them. Why the hell you couldn’t figure that out without bothering me-”

“Because you asked to be apprised-personally apprised-of all complications.”

“This isn’t a complication, Chin. It’s ass-wiping, and you can damned well do your own.”

The door clicked shut. I looked over to see a young couple in formal wear heading back to the foyer.

“Idiot,” the woman muttered.

“He’s under a lot of pressure,” her partner said. “He saw what happened to McMillan, and he knows if this goes bad, he’s next.”

“Stress, my ass. Dubois is in his element. He wants to be in control so he can take full credit if he pulls this off. But if he doesn’t, you can bet your ass it’ll be everyone else’s fault.”

Jack touched my arm and motioned that we should move on. I had to agree. All we’d accomplished here was overhearing Martin Dubois, the agent now leading the investigation after the last one had been “reassigned.” The guy might be a jerk, but he seemed to be doing the job.

As we walked through the lobby, I hoped that the undercover agents wouldn’t be as obvious to the killer as they were to me. The janitor emptying a quarter-filled trash can. The extra barman, who did nothing but wipe the counter and polish glasses. The couple lingering in a T-intersection, talking but never looking at each other. Still, if the killer did “make” them, maybe that wasn’t such a bad thing. He might realize he didn’t have a chance.

Next, Jack and I scoped out all the potential blind spots-places we’d pick for a hit. We started with the bathrooms. The moment I walked in, I knew it was covered, by an agent playing washroom attendant, pumping lotion onto a matron’s hands and apologizing when the squirt dribbled onto her shoe instead. Oh, the joys of undercover work.

Despite the on-duty agent, I gave the bathroom a once-over, seeing it with a hitman’s eye. No closets, no windows, the dividers too low to crawl under, the stalls too small to hide in. By the time I finished using the toilet, I was satisfied enough to strike this “blind spot” off my list.

I scrubbed my hands, my mind fully aware of my surroundings yet skipping forward, planning my next move.

He was here. My target. In this very building.

I was on the trail, his scent in the wind. The real thing. Out there. Waiting for me.

And while maybe that should have had me as puppy-dog excited as Jack seemed to think I was, I felt calm. Perfect control, the kind I’d never felt off the shooting range. Everything in focus. Sharp focus-smelling the soap on my hands, hearing the squeak of shoes on the linoleum, seeing the flash of red as the woman beside me painted on fresh lipstick.

I looked at myself in the mirror. No signs of stress-no beading sweat, no parted lips, breathing hard. Just a woman enjoying her evening out and looking forward to the pleasure yet to come.

I turned to the agent at the door, passed her a smile and a tip, and walked out.