Exit Strategy

In the movies, things were always so much more dramatic. Put this scene in some Hollywood blockbuster, and there would be a deviously elaborate solution to the challenge he faced, maybe explosives hidden inside a seat, rigged to detonate when the soprano hit her first C. In real life, sometimes even the most difficult situations had solutions that were almost laughably simple.

How would he kill someone in an opera house, with only one way in or out, patrolled by dozens of top FBI agents, all devoted to stopping him? By hiding behind a door. His only tool? A pair of panty hose. Not worn on his head, like some cinematic killer. In his world, disguising yourself from your target was ludicrous-if he lived long enough to talk, then you damned well deserved to get caught.

One glance at the opera house blueprints and he’d known where he’d hide-behind the door in the one room the Feds couldn’t be inside: the handicapped washroom.

He’d been preparing for tonight since he’d first leaked the Moreland arrest. He’d bought the tickets before making the call-two, knowing they’d later search for single-ticket purchases. He’d walked right in the front door, among a group of retirees, even talking to them, as if he was just another old man out for a night of culture. Then straight to the bathroom. He’d limped in with his cane-for the benefit of anyone who saw his destination. Once inside, he’d had to tamper with the lock, to be sure he could relock it as he left. Then he’d positioned himself, turned out the light, leaned over…and unlocked the door to await the next visitor.

Laughably simple.

Grace steered her wheelchair around a group of middle-aged matrons who looked as if they’d rather be anywhere but here. A social-duty event. Grace remembered those, dragging David along, kicking and screaming, telling him he couldn’t ignore an invitation from the CEO, even if it was the company’s twentieth outing to The Nutcracker.

She hit a wrinkle in the carpet and the wheelchair veered, heading straight for a young woman in a green dress. The woman’s companion tried to pull her out of the way, but she grabbed the wheelchair handles, stopping and steadying it.

“Thank you,” Grace said. “Still haven’t gotten the hang of this darned thing, I’m afraid.”

“And I’m not much help,” said a voice behind her.

She twisted to see Cliff hobbling over on his cane, two champagne flutes precariously clutched in his free hand. The young woman took the glasses from him. She handed one to Grace, then waited until Cliff was settled before passing back his.

Cliff thanked her, then chuckled. “We make a fine pair, don’t we?”

“Do you need any help getting to your seats?” the woman asked. “I don’t see a ramp.”

Her companion’s gaze slid to the side, as if anxious to move on.

“Thank you, dear, but we’ll be fine,” Grace said. “This place is supposed to be accessible, so they must have a ramp or elevator hidden somewhere.”

“Enjoy the show, then,” the woman said, and let her companion lead her away.

Cliff found a quiet corner and they sipped their champagne and watched the “preshow show,” the parade of patrons, from the well dressed, to the badly dressed, to the barely dressed. Cliff’s murmured commentary kept her in giggles, as always. For fifty years, no one had ever made her laugh like Cliff could. Her husband, David, had been a wonderful man, and she’d loved him dearly-still missed him every day-but when she needed a good chuckle, she’d always looked to Cliff, David’s childhood friend and business partner.

There’d never been anything between them while their spouses had been alive. Never considered it. But as the grief had faded, they’d realized that there might be more between them than the shared love of a good laugh. Their children and grandchildren had encouraged the relationship, happy to see the “old folks” bonding in companionship and mutual support. As for romance, well, there was bound to be some hand-holding, maybe the odd kiss on the cheek, but that was it. After all, both would see eighty in a year or two.

Had the kids known the truth…Grace smiled. With Cliff, she’d discovered a passion she’d thought lost to age. Even with his bum knee and her recent hip break, they managed just fine.

“What are you thinking, Gracie?” Cliff’s voice was a growling purr as he leaned over her. “That glint in your eyes tells me I might want to skip the show.”

She was opening her mouth to reply, when an usher passed, telling people it was fifteen minutes to curtain.

“Time for me to find a bathroom,” Cliff said. “That wine at dinner went right through me and this”-he lifted his empty champagne flute-“didn’t help. How about you?”

Grace paused. She hated using public bathrooms with this wheelchair. Darned awkward. But there was no way she’d make it until she got home after the show, and the hallway congestion would be impossible at intermission. Better to get it over with now.

“So who goes first?” Cliff said as Grace wheeled into the bathroom hall. “Flip for it? Or…” He grinned down at her. “Maybe we should go together. I’m sure you could use a hand.”

“If we do, will we get to our seats in ten minutes?”

“Probably not.”

“Then save that thought for another time.”

“Don’t think I won’t.”

A sly smile up at him. “Good.” Before he could answer, she waved at the bathrooms. “Seems we don’t need to flip for first dibs after all. There are two of them. You know you’re in a place that caters to us old fogies when…”

He smiled. “Too true. You take the first, then, my lady, and I’ll meet you in a few minutes.” He snuck a look her way and waggled his brows. “Sure you don’t want some help?”

“Oh, I want it…but I don’t want to be rolling into the auditorium after all the lights go out, or I’ll break my neck.”

He pushed open the door for her and she navigated inside.

He heard the knob turn and tensed, hose strung between his hands. The door opened, hiding him behind it. He pressed himself against the wall, waited until the door was swinging shut, then lunged.

He checked outside the door, then stepped out, letting it close-locked-behind him. As he strolled past the other handicapped washroom, the door opened and a woman in a wheelchair maneuvered her way out.

As Grace waited outside the bathroom, the usher came by, announcing five minutes to performance time. She glanced at the door. Yes, some things weren’t as speedy at seventy-eight as they’d been at eighteen, and she hated to rush him, but she really didn’t want to be navigating the aisles in the dark. She rapped on the door. When Cliff didn’t answer, she rattled the handle.

“Cliff?” she said, as loud as she dared. “It’s me.”

Sill nothing. His hearing was fine, but she knocked louder, just in case. Her gut went cold. Why wasn’t he answering? She tried to calm herself. Her mind offered up a dozen logical explanations, but her gut shut them down. Something had happened. A fall, a stroke, a heart attack-just like David.

“Can I help?” A middle-aged man paused in his sprint from the washroom to the front hall.

“My-someone’s-I need a-an usher. Someone who can open the door. Quickly!”

He glided into the front foyer. People were still streaming in, and a few were heading out for that last-minute cigarette. He thought of joining them, but knew he couldn’t. Ushers were right there, watching each exit with disapproval, warning people the opera would begin soon. He might get all the way to the car before the Feds found the body-or he might not get down the steps. Safer to do what everyone else was doing and head into the auditorium.

As he walked, his gaze passed over the crowd and snagged on a face with a split-second of “Hey, don’t I know…?” But when he zeroed in, that spark of recognition faded. The man was in his late forties, an investment banker type, with that lean, slightly hungry look. On his arm was a younger woman, maybe thirty. Typical, especially here, amid a sea of trophy wives, but this didn’t look like your average “secretary turned spouse.” He let his gaze linger and didn’t worry about being obvious-he wasn’t the only one looking. She wasn’t a knockout. Just…pretty. A pretty redhead with a smile that turned heads, and sparked more than a smile or two in return.

She was chatting away animatedly, and her companion-he checked the man’s finger and amended that-her husband was listening to every word, turning now and then to nod at her, the hard edges of his face softening each time he glanced over. The doting husband. The investment banker and the…kindergarten teacher, or maybe a pediatric nurse-she had the cheerful vibrancy of someone who worked with children. Probably had a few of them at home, tucked away with the sitter for the night.

A pang of remorse ran through him. If only she could have been his victim. Now, that would have been a coup. The world would be appalled by the death of the old man, but someone like this, they’d be outraged. They’d demand action. Parade her crying children on television, her grief-stricken husband, her shell-shocked co-workers and neighbors, all telling the world what a kind, caring woman she’d been, and the nation would demand that the killing be stopped. As the regret over lost opportunity washed over him, he passed the couple, so close he could have reached out and-

The woman said something and her husband gave a low chuckle. Hearing the sound, he froze in midstep, then turned, slowly. That low laugh had triggered a connection in his brain, and he realized he’d been too quick to dismiss the gut-level recognition. He did know this man. Had known him well, once upon a time. He told himself he was wrong-he had to be-but his gut refused to believe it.

Still, the coincidence had to be just that-a coincidence. But as he replayed the last minute in his head, he saw the “banker’s” gaze, in constant motion as he’d walked, watchful, scanning, searching.

He glanced over his shoulder and found the couple in the throng. The woman’s grip tightened on the man’s arm. Their eyes met. Her head tilted to the left, toward a side corridor, and they veered that way, still talking, as if they’d been heading in that direction all along. He remembered that Internet chatter about hitmen teaming up to find him, and his gut tightened with an unexpected jolt of pain. So it was true. And this was who it was.

“But not for long, Jack,” he murmured. “Not for long.”

By the time the usher arrived, a crowd had gathered at the bathroom door. Two men argued over the best way to open it-credit card or a hard shoulder shove.

Just open it! Grace wanted to scream, but the words jammed in her throat and all she could think about was Cliff’s laugh and David, slumped on the garage floor, dead from a heart attack, just minutes after he’d kissed her good-bye. A split second, that’s all it took, and your world was shattered.

“Oh, God, please, please, please,” she whispered under her breath.

The usher arrived-two ushers, and two security guards, and two men in suits, guns flashing under their coats as they loped down the hall. Security? Armed men? What about paramedics? Where was the paramedic? Was there a doctor here? There had to be a doctor in this crowd, all these people, standing around doing nothing while Cliff was-

A hand closed on her arm. She looked to see a red-haired young woman crouching beside her. The same woman she’d almost crashed into earlier. Her husband was off to the side, scanning the crowd. Looking for his wife? No, his gaze touched hers, but moved past.

“Cliff,” Grace whispered. “He’s-he was in the bathroom. I knocked. He’s not-”

She couldn’t finish. As the young woman tugged off her glove and took her hand, genuine anxiety flooded her eyes. The woman opened her mouth to say something, but just then, the bathroom door swung open. Through the crowd, Grace caught a glimpse of a fallen figure and a shock of white hair. She gasped, but the sound came out as a whimper.

She slammed her wheelchair forward, into the legs of the person standing in front of her. The young woman leapt to her feet and started clearing a path. Then someone grabbed her shoulder. She reached to push the hand off.

“Gracie?”

She stopped and, for a moment, couldn’t move. Then slowly, she looked up. Cliff was leaning over her, face tight with concern.

“What happened?” he asked. Then he saw the figure in the bathroom. “Did someone-?”

She grabbed his hand and pulled him down to her in an embrace.

“I thought-” she began. “Where were you?”

“The bathroom was locked, so I used the main one. Helluva lineup, too.”

She hugged him again, then looked for the young woman, to thank her, but she was gone.

THIRTY-FOUR

As Jack led me to the foyer, I breathed deeply, struggling to ground myself, but the air seemed so thin I could barely find oxygen. If there was a floor beneath my feet, I couldn’t feel it. The blood roaring in my ears drowned out all sound around me.

I felt…nothing. Numb. Distantly aware of my feet stumbling on the carpet, Jack’s fingers tight around my arm, my hip scraping against the wall, bumping along in a cushion of shock.

I’d failed. In the same building as the killer, less than a hundred feet away, and I hadn’t stopped him.

“Might not have been him,” Jack murmured, lips close to my ear, hand still around my arm, supporting me. “Old guy. Maybe a slip-and-fall. Heart attack.”

I shook my head.

“Don’t know that. We’ll check. But we don’t know.”

“Dollar bill,” I managed to get out. “On the floor.”

Jack’s lips parted in a curse. My chest tightened and the world pitched sideways. His fingers clenched around my arm, but I barely felt the pressure, as if he was holding me through a down-filled parka.

I saw his lips move, but heard only the pound of blood in my ears. I saw myself running, running through a forest, heart pounding so hard I thought it would burst, pain lashing through me. Running for help. Helpless myself. Couldn’t stop him. Couldn’t-

I ricocheted back so fast I gasped. The fog cleared, and something else took its place-something so hard and so dark that I dipped into darkness again, blinded. But not by shock, but by rage.

This wasn’t over. He’d succeeded, but he hadn’t won, hadn’t escaped. I wasn’t thirteen and I wasn’t helpless.

I spun to face Jack. As I did, a voice in my head screamed for me to be more careful. Don’t let him see how angry I was. Don’t give him any reason to suspect I wasn’t in perfect control, the consummate professional.

“Can I-Can I get a drink?” I whispered, gaze down. “Some water?”

He steered me to the bar. They’d closed, but the bartender took one look at me and handed Jack a glass of ice water. We stepped off to the side and I gulped it, feeling the shock of the cold hit, reviving me.

“S-sorry,” I said. “Just-Warm. It got warm.”

I gulped the rest of the water, filling my mouth with ice, closing my eyes and biting down on it. Yet it did no good. My blood ran so hot sweat broke out along my hairline, stinging as it dripped into my eye.

I had to find him. Make him pay. He thought this was a game? I’d show him a game. I’d track him down and I’d catch him, and then I’d wrap my hands around his neck and squeeze the life from him. And I wouldn’t turn away. I’d watch him die, and I’d savor every moment.

Jack cleared his throat and my gut went cold as I realized he was standing right there, watching as I’d let the mask crumble. I rubbed my hands over my face, mumbling about the heat. He didn’t say a word and when I looked up, met his gaze, his expression didn’t change.

As I swallowed, Jack’s gaze moved away to track a middle-aged man hurrying for the doors. The man hailed friends standing outside, waving them in from their cigarette break, and Jack relaxed, nodding slightly. I realized that’s what he’d been doing, not watching me, but looking for the killer. Too preoccupied to notice me. Better things on his mind. More important things.

The buzzer sounded.

“We have to go,” I said, searching for a trash can. “Get out of here before the show starts. He’s done his job. Now he’ll run-”

“No, he won’t.”

“But-”

“Too risky. He’ll be in there.”

“Wha-?”

Jack waved at the line of patrons filing into the opera. I looked around, realizing that nothing had changed, no one was panicking, screaming about a murdered man in the washroom.

“They aren’t telling anyone what happened, are they? Everyone who was there thinks it was an accident. And if there’s no mass exodus-” I swallowed, then swung my gaze to the auditorium doors. “He’ll have to go inside. Watch the show like everyone else.”

Jack nodded, took my glass with one hand, my elbow with the other, and led me over to join the line.

I don’t know how I made it to my seat. My heart started racing the moment I stepped through those doors-walked into the same auditorium where my target now sat. The thought of sitting down and doing nothing about it was…indescribable.

Jack moved closer, his knee pressing against mine, hand going to my thigh as he leaned over to say something. I could feel the heat of him, smell the cigarettes on his breath. His lips moved, but I couldn’t hear what he was saying, the noise around us too loud, the blood pounding in my ears not helping. I watched his lips move, stared at them, mesmerized by the sensual curve.

I sat there, watching him, smelling him, feeling his hand on my leg, until that was all I could sense. Something built inside me, an ache, sharp, urgent. A primal voice whispered that this would do, that he’d do-a suitable substitute, a way to slake my frustration, reach out and touch him-

I realized what I was thinking. Felt it like a slap that jolted me out of my thoughts, face reddening, cheeks heating. I looked away. Jack’s fingers only pressed into my thigh, getting my attention.

I didn’t look, but heard him now, telling me to watch for the killer, study the audience before the lights went down. It took a moment for my thoughts to unsnarl and to realize what his words meant. I glanced around, searching for men in the right age group…which described 90 percent of the male patrons. I tried narrowing it down to those sitting alone, but there was no way of knowing because hardly anyone “sat alone”-with no one on either side of him. The killer would be smarter than that anyway. If he’d somehow ended up with an empty seat on either side, he’d just move over, joining another party. As Quinn had said, this wasn’t a sold-out show. There was at least one empty seat in every row.

A hopeless task. But a task nonetheless. Busywork. Keeping my mind occupied, that surging frustration at bay. Exactly what I needed. To Jack, it was just being efficient. Making the best use of our time.

At intermission, I wanted to find out what the Feds were doing, if they even knew this was a hit yet, but Jack was having none of it, and I had to admit he was right. We couldn’t be caught hanging out too close to the FBI agent plants, hoping to overhear their conversations.

“Come on,” Jack said, tapping the cigarettes in his pocket and jerking his chin toward the mass of patrons streaming outside. “Gotta talk to Felix.”

We walked along the sidewalk, getting as much distance from the other smokers as possible without looking suspicious.

“How will they find-?” I began.

“Already did. Don’t look. Just keep walking. I’ll stop. Next to an alley exit. Turn toward the street.”

“With my back to them in the alley. Got it.”

When I was turning, I caught a blur of a face. Quinn, judging by the height. His dark clothing blended with the shadows.

Jack positioned us so we were standing side by side, partly turned toward one another, our backs to the alley as we watched the traffic.

Jack smoked while I told Quinn and Felix what had happened. To anyone driving by or watching from the opera house, I’d seem to be speaking to Jack. When I finished, Quinn let out an oath.

“So he did manage it,” Felix murmured. “We thought as much when we noticed the agents stream into the street after the show began.”

“So they’re out here?” I said, scanning the road. “They think he left.”

Jack passed me the cigarette. As I took it, I caught a glimpse of Quinn. He’d moved to the edge of the alley, still in shadow, but behind Jack now. He frowned as he watched me raise the cigarette to my lips.

“Yes, it’s a nasty habit,” I murmured. “And one I’m supposed to have quit but, sadly, I’m not above temptation.”

I smiled as I spoke, but his expression didn’t change. He watched me take a drag, then pass it back to Jack.

“Can’t spring for a fresh smoke for Dee, Jack?” he said.

Jack grunted, and my cheeks heated as I realized what Quinn had been gawking at. Not the cigarette, but the sharing. I’d never really thought much about it, and I knew Jack was only being considerate. He knew that as an ex-smoker, I’d refuse a full one, but could reason that a few puffs didn’t count, like a dieter taking bites from someone else’s dessert. To an outsider, though, the shared cigarette might seem rather…intimate.

“So where are they?” I asked, looking around.

“Most went back inside,” Quinn said. “But a few are still patrolling the perimeter, stopping people who look like they might be leaving.”

As I turned left, my heart skipped a beat. “Someone like that?”

Jack followed my gaze to see silver-haired man cutting briskly through the smoking crowd. He checked his watch, as if hurrying off to do something before the intermission ended.

“Son of a bitch,” Quinn said. “What do you want to bet…?”

“I don’t,” Jack said. “Watch, Dee. Don’t react.”

“I know.”

He held out the cigarette again, and this time, I’ll admit, thinking of Quinn’s reaction, I hesitated before taking it. But I did take it, if only for the nicotine hit.

The man crossed the road, walked past us on the other side and ducked into an alley.

“Felix?” Jack said under his breath.

“I know, Jack, but we can’t. If Quinn and I cross that road, we’re going to be seen. We can try looping around-”

“Do that.” Jack retrieved the cigarette and stubbed it out on the wall, then dropped it into his pocket and took my arm. “Let’s go.”

We walked about fifty feet farther down the road, bringing us past the alley. Jack was curbside, so he looked down it.

“Still there,” he said. “Walking.”

We crossed, jogging between cars, then backtracked.

Jack’s arm tightened around my waist, getting my attention. “Your turn.”

I looked down the alley. It was dark, but I could see the silver-haired man had passed through into a well-lit parking lot on the other side. I swallowed the urge to tear after him and told Jack. He only nodded, still moving.

“Find another way,” he murmured. “Lane up here.”

“And, judging by that parking sign, it leads right where we want. Can-” I stopped and rephrased. “Should we turn down it?”

Jack hesitated, then nodded. As I passed the lane, I started veering that way, my gaze fixed on the entrance, a tunnel that would lead me to-

“What the fuck is this?” a man’s voice echoed. “I was taking a piss, okay? You try getting to the bathroom in there.”

There, partway down, two cops had a guy spread-eagled against the wall. He was beefy, with a crew cut, no older than me, wearing a rented ill-fitting tux.

“You guys had better explain to my date why I’m not in there, ’cause if she thinks I cut out on her, after I blew five hundred bucks…”

One of the officers saw me watching and gave a “move along” wave.

“Fuck,” Jack muttered as we continued past. “You see another route?”

“No, and I’ll bet you Mr. Silver Hair didn’t get stopped by the cops. Too old to fit their damned profile.”

Jack stopped and exhaled, pretending to watch traffic for a break to cross.

“Maybe if we walked back and took the same alley he did. It’s not the safest move, but we need to go after-” I stopped as I turned in the direction of the alley. “Or maybe not.”

There was the silver-haired man, jogging across the road, a cashmere cardigan in his hand. His wife, waiting on the other side, took it and pecked his cheek. Then they headed into the opera.

“Fuck.”

I took a deep breath, working past the sharp disappointment. “I second that. So should we-?”

The intermission buzzer sounded.

“Head back in,” Jack said. “Try afterward.”

Our postshow plan was to get outside ahead of the crowd and watch for any middle-aged men exiting alone. Sounded great. Failed miserably. We even split up, and each of the four of us followed a lone man over forty-five…only to discover he was just bringing the car around for his wife or girlfriend.

Chances were that the killer wouldn’t walk back alone to his car. He’d follow someone as far as he could. So when our first idea failed, we tried hanging out in the main lot, looking for men veering off from a group. Again, abject failure.

Finally, as the last of the opera-goers dispersed and we started looking obvious standing around, we admitted defeat and headed back to the motel.

THIRTY-FIVE

Earlier this evening I’d envisioned two possible scenarios. One, the killer would see he had no chance at success, and cut his losses. Two, he’d try, fail and be caught. Even when I’d considered the possibility that he’d kill someone, I’d been certain he’d be caught before he could escape. To succeed, and so easily, without a single apparent slip…I’m an optimist, but there’s a point at which realism and optimism collide, and we’d reached it. Tonight only proved that we were in over our heads and it was starting to seem that nothing short of handing over two hundred million would stop the killings.

I didn’t remember the trip to the motel or the walk to the room. The next thing I knew I was sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at myself in the mirror. I’d run my hands through my hair so many times I must have looked like Medusa-all snaky curls and jutting bobby pins. I’d caught my dress in the car door and dragged the hem over ten miles of wet road. I looked like bedraggled alley cat. And I didn’t care.

Fixing my wig and my dress wasn’t going to change what had happened tonight and would happen tomorrow and every day after that because all our running around solving the puzzle was for nothing if we couldn’t stop this bastard. I’d been right there, less than a hundred feet away when he’d killed that man, and there hadn’t been a damn thing I could do about it.

Failure. Complete, abject failure.

A rustle across the room. Then a cigarette package appeared, hovering over my lap. I shook my head and it vanished.

“You want a drink?” Jack asked.

I wanted to say no, but I knew he was trying to be considerate, so I nodded. I thought he’d meant he’d grab something from the minibar-assuming there was one. When the door clicked and I turned to see him leaving, my mouth opened to say “Please don’t go.” But before I could get the first word out, he’d left. And the room got very, very quiet.

Just me. Alone with my thoughts when I so desperately didn’t want to be.

Someone rapped at the door. I didn’t even check the peephole, just yanked it open, thinking Jack had forgotten something. Heart tripping with relief that he’d returned.

Quinn stood there, deep lines etched between his brows.

“I thought you’d left,” I said.

“I have a bit of a drive and I’m…not ready to make it. I circled back, and I saw Jack leaving as I was pulling in. I thought maybe you could-we could-use some company.”

“Yes.” The word flew out before I could think about it. When I did, I considered my options, and the risks of each. “Let’s head out, but I’ll need to leave a note for Jack and stay close.”

He stepped in, but left the door cracked open.

“Is Felix in the car?” I asked as I found paper.

He shook his head. “I dropped him off at a motel. We don’t…I stay somewhere else.”

“Makes sense. Safer, I suppose.”

“Nah, that’s not it. Well, I suspect Felix is happier splitting up, but I-with my job-I can’t just take off for parts unknown even when I’m on vacation. I need a base. Any one checks up on me, I need an alibi, even if it’s just a hotel clerk saying he saw me that morning.”

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.”

A small smile. “You didn’t. I explained of my own free will. Not exactly top secret.” He leaned back against the wall. “I don’t usually have this problem. My jobs, I keep them closer to home, work around my schedule. This?” He shook his head as I finished the note. “Major finagling. When Jack called, I’d finished a big case, hadn’t really started anything new, and had vacation time banked so I was able to take off on short notice.”

He went quiet then, gaze moving away, fingers tapping the dresser.

“I’m going to guess it’s not an open-ended vacation,” I said. “How much time do you have left?”

“Not enough.” He exhaled softly. “That’s one reason I was really counting on…”

“Finishing this tonight.”

He nodded. “A few more days and I’m out of here. And once I’m gone, I don’t know how much help I can be, even with information.”

Without Quinn’s FBI sources-and Quinn himself-our investigation would be in trouble. I put the note where Jack would see it, then followed Quinn out.

Beside the parking lot was a pool. The sign said Closed for the Season, but judging by the moss-lined cracks in the concrete walls, it had been closed for a lot of seasons. Of the surrounding security lights, three were dead and two were flickering with their last breaths, but the last still held on. I walked under that one. Close enough for Jack to find me easily, and the angle let us keep an eye on the parking lot and anyone approaching.

I lowered myself to the cement, legs dangling over the pool’s edge. Quinn sat beside me.

For a minute, we just gazed at the pool and the layer of trash that blanketed the bottom. Pizza boxes, pop bottles, beer cans, a running shoe…whatever people or the wind had dumped inside.

Quinn pointed at the sneaker. “Whenever I see that, I always wonder how the shoe got there. A pair, I can see. Maybe you take them off to swim or go barefoot and forget where you left them. But how do you lose one shoe? Wouldn’t you notice?”

Using my toes, I worked the strap off the back of my opposite heel, and let my left shoe fall into the darkness below. Quinn gave a soft laugh, and tugged his off. It hit the bottom with a squishy thump.

“One high heel and two unmatched sneakers,” he said. “Now that’s a mystery.”

I managed a smile and glanced over at him. His gaze met mine, and I saw something in it that sent a slow burn through me. I was suddenly aware of how close he was sitting, almost brushing me, close enough to feel the heat from his body, and I remembered sitting in that opera house, Jack beside me, my body telling me the perfect substitute for a thwarted hunt. A way to chase the shadows from tonight and still the thoughts pinging through my brain. Something I could cling to, a warm body and a dip into the mindlessly physical.

I could use this. In every way, I could use this.

The attraction was there, and I didn’t need to worry about either of us expecting anything. One night. No strings. I looked at him, and felt the hunger burn through me. Then I looked away.

Too risky. I told myself Jack would worry if I disappeared for a few hours with Quinn, but that wasn’t the risk I was thinking of. I couldn’t trust Quinn. Didn’t want to trust him. Even for a night.

When I looked away, I expected Quinn to find an excuse to go inside. Instead, his hand slid into mine. I glanced over at him, but he was staring into the depths of the pool.

“They should have closed the handicapped washroom,” he murmured, not looking up.

“They couldn’t. Not both of them-not without causing an uproar. In some places you could, and no one would complain, might not even notice. But that place was 50 percent retirees.” I gazed out into the night. “They should have posted a guard. Maybe closed one and watched the other. There were guards at the end of the hall and in the main bathrooms, but it would have been easy for him to slip into a handicapped one, unlock the door after a minute and have no one notice he didn’t leave.”

I glanced over at him. “Do you think he did that on purpose? Targeting someone who was handicapped? Or was it just the easiest way?”

“Maybe one of the easiest, but I’m sure he thought about it. Probably has a whole goddamned list drawn up-little tick boxes to make sure he doesn’t overlook any target group.”

There was an anger and bitterness in his voice that made me squeeze his hand.

“You get it, don’t you?” he said softly. “They don’t. Jack and Felix-” He shook his head. “Jack, cutting out on you the second he can get away. And Felix, calm as can be. To them, this is just business. Got a hitman causing trouble, that’s bad for business, so you take him out. Doesn’t matter how many people get killed in the meantime.”

“I think they care,” I said. “In their way. Maybe Jack doesn’t show it but-”

“You know what kind of work Jack does, don’t you? What kind of hitman he is?”

“Sure, I’ve-”

“You pay him, he whacks someone. No questions asked.”

“Isn’t that what most hitmen do? I mean, that’s the job description, right? Hired killer.”

“And is that what you do? Take money to kill anyone, anytime, any way? Like hell. Now, I have no idea how you operate, but that’s not it, and it doesn’t take a genius to see that. Someone handed you fifty grand to off some random guy in a handicapped washroom, you’d tell him to go fuck himself. Hell, if someone offered me fifty grand to do it, I’d be tempted to put the gun in his-” He stopped. “You know what I mean.”

I gave a half-shrug, knowing he was heading into territory where I didn’t dare follow.

He leaned down to catch my eye. “You do know what I do, don’t you?” A small laugh. “No, I guess that’s a stupid question. The only way you’d know is if Jack told you and he sure isn’t about to tell you, because he doesn’t approve.”

“Approve of what?”

“You know I’m a cop. Not exactly a state secret. And you probably wonder how I justify playing both sides. Maybe I’m just a corrupt son-of-a-bitch who gets off on doing exactly what I’m supposed to be fighting. The truth is, being a cop is what got me into this business, seeing the crap that-”

He stopped. A figure had rounded the front corner of the pool, emerging from between two minivans. It was Jack, his white dress shirt bright against the darkness, his jacket open, tie off, bottle dangling from one hand.

“ Dee?” He stopped in the gateway and lifted the bottle.

“She’ll be right there,” Quinn said. “Just give us a-”

“What’re you back for?” Jack said as he approached. “Forgot something?” He looked down at our hands, face unreadable. As I pulled my hand back, his gaze lifted to Quinn’s. “Forgot to say good-bye? Think Dee ’s a bit old for a good-night kiss.”

Quinn pushed to his feet. “Maybe, but I figured one thing she could use, after tonight, was someone to talk to. Someone who might even talk back.”

“Playing Boy Scout again?”

Quinn’s mouth tightened. “Don’t call me that.”

“Then don’t act the part.” Jack turned to me, bottle raised. “Coming?”

Quinn met my gaze. “You don’t have to.”

“I should,” I murmured as I stood. “I’ll see you later.”

He hesitated, then nodded. When Jack turned back to the motel, I reached for Quinn’s hand and gave it a quick squeeze before hurrying after Jack.

Back in the motel room, I waited for the door to close, then turned to Jack, hands raised in defense.

“Before you say anything, let me point out that I was on the grounds, in a public place, under a spotlight, where you could see me and I could see anyone approaching. Plus I left you a note. If that’s not safe, I don’t know what is.”

“Staying in your room? Alone?”

“He was upset about tonight and he wanted someone to talk to. Is that a crime?”

He answered by pouring shots of whiskey into plastic glasses.

“What about Felix?” he said as he handed me one.

“What about Felix?”

“Quinn wanted to talk? Could talk to Felix.” He paused. “Couldn’t hold his hand, though. Felix might complain. But maybe not. You never know.”

“He wasn’t-” I shook my head. “It wasn’t like that.”

“Looked like that.”

“He was upset, Jack. When people are upset, sometimes they just need someone around, some human contact.”

“So that’s what he wanted. Contact.”

I felt myself blush and covered it by gulping my whiskey. Big mistake. The second it scorched my throat, I coughed, sputtering whiskey everywhere.

Jack shook his head and handed me a tissue. “Not much of a drinker, huh?”

“It went down wrong.”

“Huh.”

“Not like this dress wasn’t a write-off to begin with. If it’s okay with you, I’m getting out of this thing and taking a shower-”

I got halfway to the bathroom before his fingers closed lightly around my wrist.

“Maybe Quinn was upset. Maybe he was lonely. But give him the chance? He’d do the same tomorrow night. And the next night. He’s interested. He’s going to make sure you know it. Staring at you. Complimenting you. Holding your hand. It’s inappropriate.” He paused. “Quinn can be careless. Not with work. He’s good at that. But other stuff? Personal stuff? Shows too much. Lets his guard down. Careless.”

Don’t you ever want to be careless, Jack? I wanted to ask.

He continued, “You’re here on a job, Nadia. Both of you. He should respect that. Hitting on a colleague-”

“-is inappropriate. I get it. Don’t worry. I’m not giving him my phone number until all this is over.”

From the look on Jack’s face, you’d think I’d suggested taking up a third career as a street whore.

“I’m kidding,” I said. “Please. You think I’m here to widen my dating pool? A hitman boyfriend-exactly what my life needs.”

He grunted “good”-or something like that-then downed his drink and gestured at the bathroom. “Shower’s yours.”

I laid my drink down and walked into the bathroom.

After we both showered and retired, I lay there, eyes open in the dark, afraid to close them, knowing those dark dreams waited.

I could hear Jack across the room, his breathing slowing, hitting the rhythm of sleep. Or so I thought until a half hour passed and, without a hitch in that steady breathing, his polyester comforter whispered, pushed back. A crackle of joints. A soft sigh. The muffled thump of his feet hitting the carpet. I feigned sleep and listened to his footfalls as they rounded his bed, then paused at the end of mine.

I peeked just enough to see his faint silhouette in the near-dark room. It hovered there, at the foot of the bed, then moved on to the bathroom. The creak of the door shutting. The click of the light-turned on only after the door was closed, always considerate. I lay on my side, watching that glowing rectangle under the bathroom door. The toilet flushed. His feet passed through the rectangle. The gurgle of water finding its way up the pipes. Then the light went out, door opened.

He started past my bed, hesitated and came back, walking up to the side. As I lay there, eyes shut, I could hear him breathing, only feet away. Watching me. I knew this should concern me-a man standing by my bedside when I’m supposed to be asleep-but I didn’t feel concern. Couldn’t. Just lay there and listened to him breathing.

A catch in the rhythm, then the muffled sound of footsteps as he moved closer. I cracked open my eyes to see him bending over, still keeping a respectable distance, but getting a closer look.

“I’m not asleep,” I said.

The sound of my voice didn’t seem to startle him. He just grunted, “Yeah. Thought so. Wasn’t sure.”

I opened my eyes to see the outline of his face, one strip-from eye to chin-illuminated by the moonlight streaming through the crack between the curtains.

“Can’t sleep, either?” I said.

“Nah. Too…busy.”

He went quiet again, just standing there, so still that even that strip of moonlight over his face didn’t budge. After a moment, he said, “You wanna go out?”

“You need a cigarette?”

He shook his head. “Just…out. Somewhere.”

I rose on my elbows and yawned. “Probably not a bad plan. As for where, at this hour, that could be a problem.”

“Got an idea.”

He left it at that. When I nodded, he grabbed his bag and headed for the washroom, telling me to call when I was dressed.

We drove in silence, the lights of the city soon fading behind us. I recognized the route as the one we’d taken into Chicago, but knew we couldn’t be leaving, not with our bags still at the motel.

Jack turned down a road where, earlier that day, we’d stopped for gas. He drove slowly down the dark back route, as if looking for something, but there was nothing to see. We were in a wooded area, with the occasional sign warning us this was conservation land.

After a couple of miles, he made a three-point turn and headed back, then turned off on some kind of service road, little more than two ruts leading into the forest. The entrance was so faint, I’d missed it the first time, but Jack turned in with the confidence that said he’d already seen it.

The car rocked down the ruts, brush scraping the sides and undercarriage. He drove past the forest edge, then stopped and killed the engine.

Jack got out of the car. I followed. I didn’t ask why we were here. I was enjoying the anticipation of not knowing. I was in the mood to turn off my brain, stop trying to figure it out and just let myself be surprised.

Awaiting instructions, I stood alongside the car, listening to crickets and the distant, unmistakable yowl of coyotes. The hairs on my neck rose at the sound, eerie and mournful. I closed my eyes and drank it in with the rich smell of wet earth and dying foliage.

An ache grew in the pit of my stomach, casting me back twenty-five years to my first “away” summer camp, lying on my cot, smelling marshmallows on my fingers, thinking of hot chocolate and home. I stood there, taking in the smells and the sounds of the forest-the smells and sounds of my lodge, of home-and with that longing, the weight of the evening lifted, fluttered away on the breeze.

A sharp click of the opening trunk.

I walked back to find Jack uncovering a rifle case.

“Target practice?” I said.

“Yeah.”

I looked out, into the forest, black a mere five steps beyond the moonlit clearing. “Kind of dark, don’t you think?”

“That’s the point.” He hefted the case out. “Do much night shooting?”

“Not enough.”

A grunt, as if this should answer my question, which I suppose it did.

He handed me the flashlight. “Got your gun?”

I peeled back my jacket to show him.

“Good.”

He took out the twenty-six-ounce bottle of whiskey from the motel and passed it to me.

“I’ll carry, but I’m not partaking,” I said. “Guns and alcohol don’t mix.”

“That’s the point.”

He shut the trunk. As that light disappeared, I turned on the flashlight and cast it over the dark woods. He waved me toward them, then set out on a narrow path. A few steps, and we were in the forest. We passed a campfire pit near the edge, ringed with beer cans.

The forest closed around us, the sounds of the crickets vanishing under the crunch of dead leaves underfoot. A few more steps, and Jack continued the discussion as if he’d never left off.

“Drink on a job? Big no-no. But sometimes? Don’t have a choice. Can’t always have a cola, nurse a beer. Job might mean you gotta drink.”

I stepped back to let him lead as the path narrowed, but he waved me on again.

I said, “So you need to know how it will affect your reflexes and your judgment. How to counter the liability. Like shooting at night.”

The path forked. Jack’s fingers pressed against the back of my jacket, prodding me to the left. Ahead I could see a moonlit clearing.

“Might never need it,” he said. “But gotta know how. Perfect chance comes? Nighttime? Or had a beer? A coffee? Know how to compensate? Won’t lose the opportunity.”

He stopped in the clearing, put the rifle case on a stump and opened it. Inside was a takedown rifle and nightscope. He handed me the scope.

“Holy shit,” I said, turning it over in my hands. “I’ve got scopes at home, but this is high-tech. James Bond territory. Yours?”

“Nah. Gadgets and me? Don’t mix. That’s Felix’s area. And his scope.”

He held out the rifle for me to attach the scope, but I was still examining it, a slow smile creeping onto my face.

“Thought you’d like that,” he said. “This is done? We’ll talk to Felix. Get you some stuff.”

I could feel my grin stretching, thoughts of the opera house fading, almost gone now-belonging somewhere back there, in the city. Here was the forest, with its reassuring sense of home, of calm and order. And here was something for me to learn, to focus on, to enjoy. A diversion. Which was, of course, the point.

I finished setting up the rifle and played with it for a while under Jack’s tutelage. Once I had the hang of it, he tried a few rounds, then we put it away. Onto the handguns. That was the real practice. I’d used nightscopes-if nothing so fancy-but I had little experience shooting a handgun in the dark. Night-vision goggles would help but, as Jack had said, this was more about preparing for found opportunities, those times when you see the chance to hit a mark, but something is less than perfect, like the lighting or your blood alcohol level.

“Need a target,” Jack said. “Something we can see…”

“Hold on.”

I ran back to the campfire pit and gathered all the silver-label cans, took them to the clearing and let them clatter into a pile by the stump.

“Now, to do this in proper hillbilly style, we’re supposed to drink the beer, then shoot the cans, but we’ll have to settle for empties and whiskey.”

“Works for me.” He squinted into the darkness. “Set ’em up over-”

“Uh-uh. This is supposed to be a challenge, remember?” I drew back my arm, ready to pitch the can. “Whenever you’re ready…”

“Fuck no.”

I turned a grin on him. “You think this is too challenging? Wait for the whiskey shots.”

He laughed, a low rumble that was an actual laugh, maybe the first I’d ever heard from him. Then he took out his gun. “Five bucks.”

“Oh, getting serious now, are we?”

His eyes sparkled in the moonlight. “Nah. You want serious? Wait for the whiskey shots.”

I laughed and threw the can, closing my eyes as I did, hearing the crack of the gun, then the sharp ping of the can. When I looked, he was walking to the beer can pile, moving with his usual slow, deliberate gait, never in a hurry. He bent…then whirled fast, whipping the can without warning.

“Cheat!” I yelled as I fired.

The bullet zinged through the can. Jack shook his head. “Fuck.”

“If you want an advantage over me, you’re going to need to do better than that.”

I passed him the bottle. He uncapped it and took a slug, then paused, letting the alcohol settle into his stomach before handing it back.

“Ten bucks,” he said.

“You got it.”

He got the can, too.

Our shooting, predictably, grew less impressive the more whiskey we consumed. Jack gave me pointers on overcoming the imbalances, but it was less a serious practice than “Let’s get a feel for this”…with a generous heaping of horseplay.

I pulled into the lead quickly, but lost ground the more I drank, with Jack seeming to hit his “low point” early, then staying there. Earlier Jack had said I didn’t seem to be much of a drinker. I suspected the same went for him. It took less than half a bottle to get us both pretty wasted-well beyond the point where we’d ever attempt a hit.

As for Jack, I must admit I was curious to see him drunk. He was one of those guys you can’t imagine stumbling and slurring. And he didn’t, his feet and tongue steady even as I could see the alcohol taking its toll.

I’ll admit, too, that I was curious about how the alcohol might affect his tongue in other ways, but the only thing it did was make his brogue more pronounced. He didn’t start waxing eloquent…or even use more pronouns. Nor did he delve into tales of his sordid youth, as much as I would have loved to hear them.

What did happen was not what I expected. As he drank, that edge I’d seen earlier, when he put on the tux, that hard, dangerous “something” that I glimpsed every now and then, slid to the fore. Not an angry drunk. If anything, he was quicker with a laugh or a joke. Just that edge peeking out, that look in his eyes, in that set of his jaw that said he wasn’t someone you wanted to cross.

Maybe, seeing that, I should have been worried. At least wary. If anything, it was almost comforting. I saw it, and I recognized it, and it didn’t bother me. With a man like Jack, a career killer of his caliber, you know there has to be something hard, something dangerous under that calm, impassive exterior. Seeing it and seeing no anger there, feeling no sense of danger directed at me was oddly reassuring.

The last thing I remembered that night was Jack’s voice, his thick brogue making even his clipped sentences almost musical as he told the story of a job gone by. I’d been up a hundred dollars in the betting, but almost falling over drunk, and he’d suggested I sit, close my eyes, rest for a minute. While I did, he told his story and I hung there, fighting sleep, clinging to his words, wanting to hear the end and then…thankfully dreamless sleep.

The next morning I awoke on the forest floor, Jack’s coat draped over me. He was propped against a tree-more dozing than sleeping-and roused when he saw me up. We gathered our things, including the beer cans, then headed off in search of breakfast and news.

The morning papers mentioned the killing. Just mentioned it. Few details had been released, and certainly nothing about the killer’s “challenge.” I suspected the Feds were scrambling to come up with a way to break the news themselves, with their own slant.

As for us, we’d go back to doing what we’d been doing all along, pursuing our leads in hopes that we’d roust the killer from the rear, through his identity and contacts in the underworld. Far from a foolproof plan, but it was a damned sight better than sitting on our hands waiting for more people to die.