Exit Strategy

He watched the typed messages scroll up the screen and, with each, his hands gripped the chair arms tighter. He’d logged in for a quick check before he dropped off his next letter at the courier’s. In it, he forewarned the Feds of his next night-time strike-an overnight train to California. He’d even provided the train number. That should be fun, and hopefully more challenging than the opera house. On the way he’d make his daytime hit. He hadn’t worked out the location or the specifics yet, but he knew what he wanted: a young working-class male. And it was probably time for another visible minority.

But now he was reading something that had sent all thoughts of his plan from his head. The big news on the boards? Little Joe Nikolaev was dead. He wanted to believe the timing was coincidental, but a smart man assumes connections exist until he can prove otherwise.

Rumor had it that Little Joe opened his mouth once too often. One of tonight’s posters claimed to know a middleman who’d been approached by Little Joe about a job just a few days earlier. Sounded like wannabe bullshit…until he read the next lines.

REDRUM: LJ wanted him to whack two broads. First thing I thought was: whores. LJ buys himself some company, blabs too much pillow talk, wants them offed. No big deal. Only one of them was old enough to be my grandma. The other was younger but, still, doesn’t sound like whores to me.

He stared at those lines, watched them jiggle up the screen, pushed by the flurry of responses that came after them.

Evelyn.

His fingers dug into the chair arms. Now the pieces clattered into place. Rumors of hitmen on his trail. Jack showing up at the opera house, with a young female partner on his arm-Jack, who never took partners. A young woman and an old lady show up at Little Joe’s, asking questions that put a price on their heads.

Evelyn, the goddess of destruction, always looking for disciples to sacrifice on the altar of her ego. Evelyn and her schemes, endless schemes, sucking you in, then tossing you aside when something new and shiny caught her eye.

A snap of her wrist and she’d yanked her favorite hound back to her side, foisted her new acolyte on him, then set the pair on his trail.

He could be wrong. There were plenty of assumptions in that argument. But a careful man took action before action was required. If Jack was on his trail, and if Evelyn knew about the Nikolaev connection, then he had a tap to shut off…before it leaked.

He looked at the letter. Could he still do it? Not that particular train, but he’d find another. He wasn’t about to let Evelyn spoil his plans.

THIRTY-SIX

“Gallagher,” Evelyn said before her door even closed behind us. “Maurice Gallagher called the hit on Sasha Fomin, the one Kozlov witnessed.”

And with that, she swung us back on the trail without a word about what had happened in Chicago. The opera house murder had yielded no clues, so she’d plowed past it. An inconsequential distraction from the hunt.

“Gallagher in Vegas?” Jack asked.

Evelyn snorted. “Where else? That spider hasn’t left the Fortuna in thirty years. As long as he’s alive, that’s where you’ll find him. Hell, even when he isn’t alive, that’s where you’ll find him.” She looked at me. “He’s built himself a mausoleum inside the casino. You meet some strange ones in this business. More than our share of psychiatric case studies.”

“Go figure,” Jack murmured. “Guess we’re off to Vegas, then.”

“Should be a quick trip. You’ve built up enough credit with Gallagher, all the work you’ve done for him.”

“Been awhile.”

Her head shot up. “He hasn’t been calling you?”

“He calls. I don’t answer.”

“What? You get a client like Maurice Gallagher on the line, you thank God for a steady income, Jacko. You don’t go telling him you’re too busy.”

“Don’t tell him that.”

“Good.”

“I tell him I’m not interested.”

“You what? For fuck’s sake, Jack!” She turned to me. “About those psychiatric case studies? Case in point.”

“Is this going to cause a problem, Jack?” I asked. “If he’s pissed off at you-”

“Not pissed off. Just not happy. We’ll work around it.”

Evelyn opened her mouth, but Jack cut her off by grabbing my suitcase.

“Better repack,” he said.

“Do I need the push-up bra?”

“It’s Vegas.”

“Damn.”

I’d really hoped to avoid my makeover for a few hours, but Jack insisted that we arrive and leave in character. Made sense, but he didn’t need jeans so tight they gave him a wedgie with every step.

Jack wore a golf shirt, chinos and loafers. Quite preppy…until you slicked back the dark hair, undid all three buttons on the shirt and added a half-pound of gold-chain, watch, rings, earring, even a tooth. Toss on mirrored sunglasses, and you took the persona from banker to loan shark. A five-minute trip to the bathroom and you’d be back to banker.

My outfit wasn’t nearly so versatile. I got a blowzy blond wig, painted-on jeans and cowboy boots. No five-minute change was making that more respectable…or more comfortable.

When we got to the airport, there was a guy soliciting donations outside the terminal doors, tucked behind a pillar, out of sight of security. When I saw the red pot beside him, stuffed with dollar bills, I thought Huh, a bit early for the Salvation Army Christmas drive, isn’t it? Then I saw the sign beside the pot: Your Dollar Accepted Here.

I slowed, and steered Jack closer to read the smaller print.

Protect yourself today, it said. Pay your dollar, and sign the list.

“Fuck,” Jack muttered. “What’s he gonna do? FedEx the cash?”

“And the list, don’t forget, because I’m sure the killer is checking ID first.”

“Con artists. Fucking bottom-feeders.”

I looked around. “I should notify security.”

“No time. People are stupid enough to pay…”

He didn’t finish, just shrugging as if to say that you couldn’t rescue people from stupidity, and he wasn’t about to waste his time trying. So I waited until he was in line to check in, then zipped off to the bathroom, with a side trip past the security office. Sure, you can’t save people from stupidity, but at least you can stop others from getting rich off it.

“You want the window seat?” I asked as we boarded the plane.

An odd look crossed his face. He mumbled a gruff “You take it,” grabbed my overnight bag and hoisted it into the compartment. By the time he lowered himself into the seat beside me, I was almost done straightening and rearranging the in-flight magazines. I pulled an overlooked empty peanut bag from under the seat in front of me, then glanced around for a place to put it.

The light came on for us to fasten our seat belts. As I reached for mine, I noticed Jack’s hands as he fastened his, fingers trembling slightly. I looked at him, but his gaze was down, intent on securing the belt.

We listened through the obligatory safety spiel, then the plane began takeoff. As I shifted, getting comfortable, I happened to glance Jack’s way. He’d gone dead white…almost as white as his knuckles, gripping the chair arms like they might fall off if he let go.

“You’re afraid of flying,” I murmured, lowering my voice. “Why didn’t you say-?”

“No choice. Too far to drive.”

“Can I get you any-?”

“Talk to me.”

That was one thing I could manage, so I did.

Once in Vegas, we had to make a few stops. First to a safe drop where Jack kept disguises and equipment, including guns. Then to a hardware store, where I could find the material I needed to carry out our plan.

The Fortuna was the kind of casino frequented by three types of gamblers: old pros who hate the glitzy big operations, problem gamblers kicked out of the big operations, and lost tourists. It was off the Strip. Dated from when the mob ruled Vegas, it looked as if it hadn’t been renovated since, and wore its age like a badge of pride. If you wanted flashing lights and fruity drinks and gorgeous girls you went elsewhere. The Fortuna was for gambling.

As we moved through the room, I was struck by the difference between the Vegas I’d seen in advertisements and movies, and the reality. Maybe somewhere on the Strip there were casinos filled with handsome couples, grinning and cheering and having the time of their life, but here gambling seemed more a life sentence than a vacation. Those sitting at the antiquated slot machines looked like extras from a zombie flick, eyes glazed, faces ashen as they fed the coins and pulled the handles. The tables weren’t much better, everyone crowded around, expressions solemn, gazes fixed on the worn green cloth. At some tables, only the tinkle of the dice and the murmur of the dealers’ voices broke the quiet. Then we came along…

“But you promised,” I squealed as Jack dragged me to the blackjack table. “I wanna see Celine.”

Jack leaned down to my ear and hissed loud enough for everyone around to hear. “Shut the fuck up, or the only thing you’ll be seeing is the inside of the hotel room.”

I sniffled. Jack laid down a hundred-dollar bet and tried to snake his arm around my waist, but I sidestepped away.

“Come on, baby,” Jack said, his hand sliding to my rear. “Gimme some luck.”

“You said this trip was for me.”

“You give me a couple hours and we’ll see Celine, Newton…Hell, you can play with the fucking white tigers if you want, okay, babe?”

He started playing…and losing, a hundred bucks at a time, then two hundred. He won the odd hand, but most of his money went back to the dealer. Wasn’t long before a server sidled up with a tray of free drinks…the least they could offer for such a generous donation.

“Uh-uh,” I said, patting my still-flat stomach. “No booze for this baby. I got six more months and I’m sticking to it.”

Jack gave a proud papa grin and patted my stomach. “That’s my girl.” He shot the grin around the table. “Our first…and I’m here to win a room full of baby furniture.”

A murmured round of congratulations on the first point, tainted with skepticism on the second. The server returned with a soda for me and a Scotch for Jack. He made a show of taking a big gulp, but very little of the liquid left the glass before he surreptitiously slid it aside. My soda was supposed to be Coke. Judging by the taste, though, they’d substituted a no-name brand, then further cut costs topping it up with tap water.

After a few more rounds, Jack’s luck changed. Drastically. I knew he was cheating-that was the plan-but I have no idea what he did, only that he started winning big and winning often-too big and too often to be healthy. All eyes were already on us, with our role-playing, and he hadn’t won more than his sixth round before a beefy hand closed on his shoulder.

“A word with you…sir,” the guard rumbled.

“Sure,” Jack said. “If it’s congratulations.”

Another guard flanked him, and both took hold of his upper arms to escort him away.

“Oh no,” I moaned as I scampered after them. “You didn’t. Tell me you didn’t.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Jack hissed over his shoulder.

“You promised!” I whacked him with my purse. “‘Not this time, babe,’ you said. ‘I’ll play straight, babe.’ You don’t know how to play straight, you no-good…”

And so we left the casino floor and headed for the security wing, Jack under armed guard and me running along behind them, alternately sobbing and railing. As we passed through the doors, a desk guard leapt up, probably to tell me to wait outside. Then he apparently decided this was one domestic dispute he didn’t want to get in the middle of, sat down and busied himself with his logbook.

It wasn’t until we hit the “holding” room that the guards stopped me, one stepping into my path as the other took Jack inside and closed the door. I didn’t try to follow, just snuffled and wiped my arm across my streaming nose.

“You can wait over there, ma’am,” the guard said. “He might be awhile.”

“I can’t believe he did this. He promised! This whole trip was for me, he said. ’Cause I’ve been so sick with the baby. For me, my ass. How could he-?” I clutched my stomach. “Oh, I don’t feel so good.”

“There’s a bathroom-”

“Uh-uh, if I start puking, I’ll never stop. I just need to sit down.”

He quickly pointed me to a small room. I spent only a couple of minutes in there, sniffling and moaning, then bolted for the door, hand over my mouth. The hall guard didn’t say a word, just got out of my way and waved in the direction of the washroom.

Once in the washroom, I did some retching, and tossed cupfuls of water into the toilet for effect, but I doubted the young guard came close enough to the door to appreciate my efforts. Still moaning and snuffling, I stood on the counter and wriggled the ceiling tile loose. Next I pulled the climbing gloves from my bra, and slid them on. Then I took out my key chain, unhooked my penlight, put it between my teeth and heaved myself up into the ceiling.

“Are you sure it’s removable ceiling tiles?” I’d said to Jack. “If they’ve plastered since you were last there, we’re in trouble.”

“Gallagher doesn’t redecorate. If it works, it stays.”

This plan was my idea. Jack had his own-which went something along the lines of “cheat, get caught, get taken into the secured area and demand to see Gallagher.” And my role? Just play along in the casino, then enjoy my evening gambling while he risked broken fingers with Gallagher’s security team. When I’d suggested this enhancement, I’d expected him to balk, but he’d only thought for a moment, then said, “Yeah, that’s better.” The balking came later, as we’d prepared our strategy, and he’d realized how much danger I was putting myself in.

“It’s no worse than your plan,” I’d said. “With yours, you’re relying on the guards to deliver your message…and Gallagher to accept it, rather than take advantage of the chance to beat the crap out of you for refusing his jobs. With mine, I do the delivery, and Gallagher has no choice but to accept it. Worst thing that can happen? I can’t get to Gallagher, and we’ll be back to your idea.”

“Or Gallagher gets you. Holds you hostage.”

“He has to catch me first.”

When Jack didn’t smile, I’d said, “You seriously think he can take me that easily? I’m careful, Jack. One wrong look from the guy, and I’m back up in that ceiling. See if he can follow me there.”

“Wouldn’t fit.”

As I squeezed into the gap between the beams and the floor above, I saw Jack’s point. Tight quarters up here. Not bad, though. I’d been in worse.

Still, Jack hadn’t seemed satisfied, kept poking and prodding, making sure I was prepared.

“I can do this,” I’d said finally, exasperated. “If you didn’t think I could, why let us get this far with the plan?”

Silence. After a moment, he’d said only, “Be careful.”

“I always am.”

Something had passed though his gaze, but he’d dropped it before I could get a good look.

I checked my compass. North-northwest was that way. Down on all fours again, flashlight between my teeth, and I was on the move. Dust swirled up with every step. Despite the contacts, my eyes watered, and more than once I had to stop and chomp down on the flashlight to swallow a sneeze.

“Take this,” Jack had said, thrusting the map at me. “Keep it handy.”

“I won’t need it,” I’d said.

“Humor me.”

I had, but I didn’t take the map out now. I didn’t need to. In high school, I’d spent a summer working as a guide in Algonquin Park, and the first thing I’d learned was not how to repel black bears and blackflies, but how to memorize maps. Nothing destroys tourists’ confidence-and a guide’s chance at a tip-so much as having her stop in the middle of an endless expanse of forest to pore over a map.

From below came muted whispers of conversation against the backdrop of the constant whirs and dings of distant slot machines. As I crossed one room, the sound changed to a steady clinking, a river of chips going through a mechanical counter-the sound of broken marriages, busted kneecaps and shattered lives. Never saw the appeal of gambling. Not with money, anyway. The risk of parachuting or white-water rafting is one thing-you know the odds are in your favor. But casino gambling? Just take a look at the owners, and how they live, and tell me where you think all that money is going.

I supposed it was all about the threat of risk and the possibility of reward. But the risk of financial ruin was, for someone who’d been there, not enough to get my heart pumping. Not like this-the thrill of true danger, crawling into the unknown.

Regular spelunking is risky enough. But there, in a cave, you have partners who can go for help and, most times, the biggest danger you face is broken bones. Here, if I fell, I’d be exposed as a thief or, worse, an assassin. Men like Gallagher didn’t handle either by simply breaking bones.

And with spelunking, it’s all about the journey, the thrill of knowing every move you make could land you in a crevasse, that you can try your damnedest to control every variable, but you still leave something to chance. The goal is the simple satisfaction of survival. Here, there was more. Not just increased stakes, but an actual prize. A name that could rip the mask from the Helter Skelter killer.

Crawling through this ceiling was the ultimate extreme sport. Or, perhaps, only the precursor to it.

As I moved, the clatter of coins gave way to slurping, interspersed with moans set to a sound track of “yeah, baby, that’s right, baby, uh-huh.” I listened for the familiar wocka-wocka music of a seventies porn movie. Yes, I knew what porn movies sounded like. When you’ve worked in a testosterone-dominated occupation, you have two choices: lecture the guys on the political incorrectness of watching porn with a female co-worker or laugh it off with cracks like, “Hey, how come my pizza delivery boys are never hung like that?”

As I shimmied forward, being careful not to disturb the video watchers below, a shaft of light glimmered up through a fist-sized hole in the ceiling tile. Below it, I could see a balding head. The rafters on either side had pipes running over them. No detours possible. Damn. I eased back onto my haunches, took the flashlight from my mouth, turned it off and tucked it into my pocket. Then forward again, relying on the hole for light. I inched to the edge and peered down.

Below was a middle-aged man, his hands wrapped around a bleach blond head bobbing in his lap. He continued his porn star dialogue and she continued slurping, making way more noise than was necessary for the act-at least, as far as I remembered it. I was tempted to look around for the video camera. The man groaned and exhorted the woman to “Take it in. Take it all in,” which, from my vantage point, didn’t look very difficult. I crawled over the hole. Not like either of them was going to look up anytime soon.

As the live porn sound track faded, I put the penlight back in my mouth and pushed on. Only a few more rooms to cross now. In spite of the racket from the distant casino and the filth of seriously overlooked housecleaning chores, more than once a sudden grin almost sent my flashlight tumbling to the ceiling tiles below.

“Spelunking,” I’d said when Jack had expressed some doubts about the wisdom of rafter-crawling. When his look demanded an interpretation, I’d said, “You know. Exploring caverns, caves, natural tunnel systems, that sort of thing.”

His look didn’t change.

“It’s a sport,” I’d said.

He’d shaken his head, as if unable to believe anyone would voluntarily do such a thing.

“What about getting down?” he’d said. “Long jump. You fall? He’ll hear.”

I’d rolled my eyes. “I’m not planning to fall…or jump. I’m going to abseil.”

The look again. When I’d opened my mouth to explain, he’d lifted his hand and shaken his head. “You can do it? Good enough. Just be careful.”

I paused for another compass check, realized I’d veered off at the last turn and backed up a few steps. Then there it was: the final marker-a tangle of wires that snaked the feed of every security camera into Gallagher’s room. He’d be alone. Both Evelyn and Jack had sworn there was little question of that. Seemed Gallagher was antisocial as well as agoraphobic. He spent his nights locked in his control room, watching his money roll in.

Despite their assurances, I wasn’t taking anything on faith. I stretched out across two rafters, grabbed a third with one hand, then lowered my head down as close to the ceiling tiles as I could get without slipping. A moment’s pause, to double-check my balance, then I reached down with my free hand, hooked my fingertips around a tile edge and eased it to the side. It moved less than a half-inch, just enough to open a crack to the room below. And there sat Maurice Gallagher.

“He’s a big guy,” Jack had said.

He wasn’t kidding. Evelyn had called Gallagher a spider, and I couldn’t imagine a better metaphor. Gallagher was obese, at least four hundred pounds, with sticklike arms and legs, and a too-small, round head. He wore his dyed red hair slicked to each side, the part a blazing white stripe of pasty flesh that made his two patches of hair look like giant arachnid eyes. A spider, perched in his lair, watching his prey buzz about in the casino, entangling themselves in his web.

I wriggled back onto my main rafter, being careful not to make any noise, then crawled to the east side, where I’d find the bathroom. Next I took off my belt. It was a blue rope wrapped three times around my jeans, plus a length of chain and a ring clasp. A very practical fashion statement. I wrapped the chain around the rafter, attached the abseil ring, then looped the nylon cord through, and knotted it.

Again I braced myself on three parallel rafters and leaned down, tugging the tile up and out of the way. The whole time, I kept my eyes closed, concentrating on sound-how much I was making, and how much was coming from the adjacent room. One squeak of Gallagher’s chair and I was out of there.

Once the tile was moved aside, I took hold of the cord and lowered myself through the hole. I aimed for the toilet seat, which, thankfully, Gallaher’s mother had taught him to keep down. My sneakers made contact, but I kept rappelling down until my full weight was on the seat and I had my balance. Then I slid to the floor, leaving the rope dangling in case I needed to make an emergency exit.

THIRTY-SEVEN

The bathroom door was closed. I eased it open and used my makeup compact to scout the room, keeping it tilted down so a stray reflection off the mirror wouldn’t give me away. Jack had said the call button for security was on Gallagher’s right. I located it, then turned my attention to Gallagher. He had his back to me as he scanned the bank of screens, his head swiveling from left to right, then back again.

His gaze moved at such a constant rate that if it wasn’t for the measured breathing, I’d have suspected Gallagher had indeed croaked, and I was looking at an automated version of him. I could even time his visual scan. Eleven seconds from one side to the other.

I waited until he began the right to left scan, counted off five seconds and slid forward, moving between him and his call button. Then I waited. It wasn’t until he scanned all the way back from left to right that he saw me

“Hi,” I said.

He didn’t jump. Didn’t dive for the call button. Didn’t even blink. Just looked at me, gaze moving from my head to my feet, as slow and impassive as if I was a row of security screens. Then he eased back in his chair.

“If you’ve come to rob me, young lady, you’ve made a very serious mistake.” His voice was high pitched, almost squeaky. “There is no money here and you will not get anything from me but a one-way ticket to jail.”

“Jail?” I said.

“I was being polite.”

“Ah. Well, if I was here to rob you, I’m very unprepared.” I lifted my hands, stood and turned around. “No money bags, no cans of mace, not even a gun.”

“So I noticed,” he murmured. “Yet you must have a weapon hidden somewhere on that pretty body. I’d bet on it.”

“How much?”

He tilted his head, gaze traveling over me, studying me with a scientist’s eye. “Unarmed. That is most…peculiar.” His gaze lifted to mine, head slanting the other way. “I do hope, my dear, that you didn’t intend to use your body as your weapon because, I assure you, I am quite immune.”

“Well that’s good, because when it comes to the Mata Hari routine…” I shook my head. “Hopeless. Guns are really more my thing, but that just didn’t seem right. You want to talk to someone, you don’t pull a gun on them. Very disrespectful.”

“Quite so.” He leaned back in his chair. “So you wish to talk? And what would a young lady like you want to talk to me about? Employment, perhaps? An interesting way to go about it. Much more…personally revealing than dropping off a résumé.”

“Actually, it’s an employee I want to talk to you about, not employment. A former employee, that is.” I gestured at the row of screens. “Camera number six. Recognize him?”

He looked for a few seconds, then shook his head.

“Try this. Pick up the phone, dial 555- 2978.”

“And say what?”

“Nothing. Just try it. Please.”

He did. The phone in Jack’s pocket vibrated, and he looked straight into the camera, and mouthed something.

“Jack,” Gallagher said, twisting the name into a curse.

“He said you might not be happy to see him. That’s why I’m here doing the talking instead of him. Well, that, and I’m much better at talking.”

“So I noticed. I take it then that you are a…” He let the sentence fall away, as if he couldn’t come up with a “polite” term for what I did.

“Right,” I said. “I’m working something with Jack, and we need something from you.”

He laughed, the sound a nails-on-chalkboard screech. I waited through it, then continued.

“And yes, Jack knows he’s in no position to ask for a favor, which is why he sent me with an offer. An exchange of information. Seems you hired someone a while back to make a hit, and he double-crossed you.”

Gallagher’s eyes narrowed. “No one double-crosses me.”

Gallagher locked gazes with me, but I just sat there, and waited him out.

“Double-crossed me how?” he said finally, mouth barely opening to let the words out.

“He told the mark about the hit, collected a tidy sum for the info, waited until the guy skedaddled to Europe, then came back, told you it was done and collected again.”

“And Jack expects me to pay for the name of this traitor?” A tight laugh. “My dear, all I’d need to do is run a more thorough verification of the hits I’ve called.”

“Sure, but Jack thought this might be faster. A lot faster, considering you’re a high-volume customer.” When Gallagher hesitated, I went on. “How about this? I tell you what we need and you decide if it’s worth it?”

Another hesitation, then he waved for me to continue.

“Twenty years ago you bought a hit on a man under the protection of the Nikolaev family. The man’s name was Sasha Fomin. We’d like to know who you hired for the hit.”

Gallagher waited. When I didn’t go on, his lips pursed. “And that’s it? Jack wants to know who I hired on a twenty-year-old contract?”

“If you remember…”

“Of course, I remember, my dear girl. I don’t forget anything. Including an insult. You make sure you tell Jack that.”

“Jack insulted you by refusing to take your jobs? Well, he’s lining up a whole battalion of enemies then. Between you and me, sir, I think the guy has a serious attention deficit problem. Does a job here, a job there, gets antsy and moves on. He doesn’t mean any disrespect…he just can’t seem to keep at one thing for very long. I think it’s his age. Been in the business too long. I’m already counting the hours until he tosses me aside.”

Gallagher said nothing but I could see he was digesting this. I had no idea how loyal Jack was to his regular employers, but Gallagher wouldn’t know, either-Jack didn’t go around bragging about his clientele. If Gallagher thought he wasn’t the only one Jack had abandoned, that should lessen the insult. After a minute, Gallagher relaxed into his chair.

“And that is all Jack wishes to know? The name of the man I hired?”

“That’s right.”

“I can hardly imagine what use he’d have for such information. The man is no longer even in the business. Retired a year or two ago.” He met my gaze. “And he had the civility to inform me of his retirement, and apologize for any inconvenience it might cause.”

A mini-tornado whipped up in my gut. Retired a year or two ago? That fit our profile. But if Gallagher respected this man, felt some allegiance to a loyal former employee-

“Wilkes.”

I remembered that name. It was the first one Jack had thought…and the one Evelyn had dismissed.

“Wilkes?” I repeated, to be sure.

Gallagher waved his hand. “After John Wilkes Booth, I suppose. These men are hardly creative geniuses. Still, it’s better than ‘Jack.’ Anything is better than Jack. Anyway, Jack knows him. They were…comrades of a sort, back when Jack was more…approachable.”

No question then. This was the same Wilkes-Evelyn’s former lover.

I related what Jack had told me about Gallagher’s traitor. Gallagher accepted the information without any reaction, then called the security room and told them to release Jack. Once Jack was out, Gallagher called him and passed the phone to me, so I’d know he was safe before I left.

“Mind if I use the front door this time?” I said.

“Be my guest. A last word before you go…”

“Hmmm?”

He met my gaze. “You appear to be a bright young lady and I have no doubt you are quite capable at your chosen occupation. Choosing Jack as a mentor speaks well to your intelligence. However, a continued…alliance with him would not. There are three kinds of people in this business, my dear. Those who play the game, those who cannot and those who will not. Only a fool aligns herself with the last. You’d do well to remember that.”

“I will. Thank you.”

“Should you ever be in need of employment, you know where to find me.”

Success. I hadn’t realized how much I’d needed that after the opera house. I walked out of that casino with such a spring in my step I attracted the notice of a prostitute standing outside, waiting for winners. She gave me a once-over, as if thinking maybe my gender wasn’t a complete deal breaker. I flashed her a wide smile, and she sighed before resuming her vigil.

I stepped into the side alley where I’d agreed to meet Jack. He was there, smoking one of his hated American cigarettes, his free hand drumming against the wall. When he saw me, he exhaled a long stream of smoke, then ground out the cigarette and dropped the butt into his pocket.

“You okay?” he said, squinting through the darkness.

“You’re the one I should be asking that. Lose any fingers?”

“None I needed.” His gaze slipped to my hand. “Where’s your gun?”

“I didn’t need it.”

“Nadia…”

“What?”

“You do have the gun, right?”

“Sure.”

“I mean now. On your body. Not back in the hotel room.”

“Would you have taken a gun?”

“Couldn’t. Guards found a gun on me-”

“You know what I mean. If it had been you going to see Gallagher, would you have taken a gun?”

He lifted his hand to his lips, as if forgetting he wasn’t still holding his cigarette. A scowl, then a sharp shake of his head.

“You get anything?” he asked.

“Gallagher went for the deal. He remembered the Fomin hit and he said it was done by a regular of his, someone who just recently retired. A hitman who goes by the name Wilkes.”

For a second, Jack said nothing, then he breathed a long, low, “Fuck.”

“That’s the guy you thought of first when I started rhyming off a profile of the killer. The guy that Evelyn said couldn’t be responsible.”

“Yeah.”

“Do you think it could be him?”

Jack paused, gaze emptying as he thought it over. It took about a minute, then he gave a slow nod. “Yeah. Age is right. Haven’t heard much from him lately. Could have retired. He’s good. What’d Evelyn say? Technically adept. So…Gallagher still pissed?”

“At you? Yes. But I told him it was an attention deficit problem, and that helped.”

“Attention…?” A twitch of his lips. “I don’t want to know, do I?”

“Probably not, but it eased you a step out of his bad books.” We started for the sidewalk at the front of the casino. “Though he did warn me about you. Said you’re a bad influence.”

“Am I?”

“Apparently, you’re not a player.”

“There’s a game?”

“Yes, and you’re not playing it.”

“Never was good at games. Too many rules.”

“You seemed darned good at one game, at least. A little card-sharking in your past, I’m guessing?”

“Better a casino than a bank.”

“What’s that I hear? An ethical choice?”

“A safety choice.”

“Bullshit. You get caught robbing a bank and no one’s going to put a bullet in your brain. Is that the sort of thing Gallagher hired-?” I shook my head. “None of my business. Sorry.”

“Yeah, it is your business. Especially if Gallagher’s gonna offer you employment.” He glanced my way. “He did offer, didn’t he?”

“Yes, but the answer would be no, regardless of what kind of work it was. It’s like I’ve been telling Evelyn-with the Tomassinis I know what I’m getting and I’m getting enough of it. No need to go elsewhere.”

We hit the sidewalk beside the casino and Jack nudged me toward the parking lot, keeping quiet until we’d turned into the empty lane.

“With Gallagher? Never know what you’re getting,” he said. “Doesn’t matter. Not to him. He gives you a name-”

“Sir!”

A young man in a casino uniform was hurrying toward us.

“Sir,” he said, lowering his voice as he drew nearer. “I have a message from Mr. Gallagher.”

Jack nodded.

“He says he has more information on the man you were asking about. There’s someone he wants you to talk to. He’s arranged for a meeting tonight.”

“Where?”

“At a condo on H.G. Wells Boulevard.” He pulled a piece of paper from his pocket. “Here’s the address.”

Jack took the paper, unfolded it, read it and frowned. “Where the hell is this?”

“In one of those new master-planned subdivisions. Adventura, they call it. In the north.”

“Near Centennial Hills?”

“Closer to Aliante.”

Jack studied the paper for a moment, frowning as if he was having trouble reading it. The lighting, while not great, was decent enough so I knew eyesight wasn’t the problem. I peered down the alley. Too long and empty for someone to be lurking down there. As I moved to the mouth, Jack stalled, asking the kid for better directions. I peeked, then moved out, standing watch and hoping no one mistook me for a hooker. A quick survey of the street showed people coming and going, but no one hanging about suspiciously. I glanced back at Jack and nodded.

After a few seconds, his voice floated along the alley, so soft I had to strain to hear him. “You said Mr. Gallagher gave you this message?”

“Not Mr. Gallagher personally, sir. I’ve never seen Mr. Gallagher. No one does.”

“So it was an employee?”

“I don’t know. I was on the door, and some guy came by with the message, and gave me a hundred bucks to deliver it.”

“Huh.” The crinkle of paper. “That hundred bucks? Look something like this?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You take that then. Matching pair. Now describe the guy.”

“Uh…I didn’t really get a good look at the guy. He was a guy. I know that. Or…well, I’m pretty sure…”

That’s all the kid could recall-that it had looked like a man. Size? Not noticeably big or small. Age? Maybe forty…or younger…could have been older, too. Distinguishing features? He thought the guy might have been wearing glasses. Short of hypnosis, that’s all we were going to get out of him. Listening in, I could tell he was worried about losing that hundred, and scrambling to come up with enough to keep it.

“I’m sorry, sir. I just wasn’t-I wasn’t paying attention.”

“Busy looking at Benjamin Franklin’s face instead?”

A sheepish laugh. “Yeah. You, uh, want your money back, I guess…”

“Keep it. Guy comes around? Asks how it went? You delivered the message. Seemed like I was going. Never asked any questions.”

“Yes, sir.”

THIRTY-EIGHT

“You handled that well,” I said as we got into the car.

“Do what works. Drop a few bills? Play it cool? Sometimes good enough.”

“Safer and easier than throwing people to the ground and pointing guns at their head.”

A shrug as he started the engine. “Depends on the circumstances. At Little Joe’s? Didn’t see me offering the guy cash. Depends on the person, too. Sometimes, though…” He shrugged. “Might feel better to toss them around but…

“It won’t always get me the results I want, and I’ll have a lot harder time going back if I want more. With that kid, making nice and tossing him some cash was definitely the way to go. That’s someone I wouldn’t have wanted to rough up…even if it might teach him a lesson about taking money from strangers.”

I looked out the window. “I take it we’re going to that meeting?”

“Not much choice. You want to stay out-”

“No. If you go, I go. You’re right. We need to know what this is about and the only way to do that is to play along.” I glanced his way. “I’m assuming you don’t think we’re really going to meet a contact who can give us more information on Wilkes.”

Jack snorted. “Meeting a stranger? In a condo? Might as well ask me to meet him in the desert. And bring my own shovel.”

On the way to the condo subdivision, Jack explained what he thought we’d find there. He was sure the welcoming party would come bearing guns, baseball bats or tire irons. What he wasn’t certain of was who’d issued the invitation. He laid sixty-forty odds on it being Gallagher. The other possibility was Boris Nikolaev.

Apparently Jack wasn’t as confident as he’d seemed about how his message to the Nikolaevs would be received. Issue a simple, respectful message of professional courtesy, assuring them that he wasn’t interested in their business, so they shouldn’t be interested in his, and they should back off. But he’d heard Boris could be a hothead, quick to see insult where none was intended.

As for how the Nikolaevs could have dispatched someone here so fast-well, telephones work pretty quickly. If Gallagher knew the Nikolaevs were looking for Jack, it would take one phone call from his end, and one phone call bounced back to a Nikolaev associate in Vegas, and they could have someone at the casino before I’d even made it outside.

“Is it just me, or is this getting really annoying?” I said.

“Fucking annoying.”

“I think we should just call up all the nice mobsters in the country and tell them, ‘Look, we’re trying to catch a rampaging killer here. Do you think you could stop putting contracts on our heads? Just for a day or two? Please?’”

“It’ll stop. Tonight.”

I glanced over at him, but he was looking straight ahead, face hard. I nodded and leaned back in my seat.

After a moment he said. “Earlier. About Gallagher. Kind of jobs he wants. You should know.”

“I don’t plan to ever call on him for employment.”

“Still, you should know. Gallagher wants someone dead? You don’t ask why. Sometimes it’s card sharks. Sometimes it’s unpaid debt. Sometimes…” He shrugged. “Sometimes, you don’t wanna know. For a while, that was okay. Didn’t give a shit. Figured someone’s gonna take the contract. Might as well be me.”

He turned left, heading toward the highway. “Eventually? Decided it didn’t need to be me. Didn’t need the money. Didn’t need the grief. Things change. Ten, fifteen years ago? Didn’t matter. Now…?” He shrugged. “My jobs these days? Some you wouldn’t touch. I’m not like you and Quinn. Don’t come from the same place. Don’t see things the same way.”

So how did he see things? I longed to ask, but when I opened my mouth, I couldn’t think of any way to word it that wouldn’t sound like prying.

Jack slanted an expectant look my way. “You gonna ask? Or you don’t want to know?”

“Uh, sure, I’d love to know. I just didn’t want to-Well, it didn’t seem right to just come right out and ask, but I’m certainly interested if you want to tell me.”

A slight downturn of his lips. A frown? Didn’t he just offer-?

“Better not,” he said after a moment. “Not my place. Ask him. He wants you to know. Tried to tell you. Shouldn’t have interrupted.”

Huh? What was he talking-?

I replayed his first comments, about him not being like Quinn or me. That’s what he thought I’d want to know, more about Quinn, how he was like me. I’d assumed he just meant because we’d both been cops.

When I said I was interested, he thought I meant in Quinn’s story, the one he’d interrupted at the motel. Was there a way to clear up the confusion? To say “Oh, I thought you were talking about yourself”? Ask him about himself. But if that wasn’t what he’d been offering…

Before I could figure out a way to continue, Jack passed me the map and put me in charge of finding our destination.

We found the new condo complex-so new it wasn’t even finished. A security van was parked at the far end, the lone occupant’s head down, reading or dozing. Jack pulled in, headlights off, and slid the car into the equipment lot between a crane and a bulldozer.

Across the road a billboard exhorted home buyers to “Experience the adventure. Live life in the heart of the game.” As I cracked open my window, I was hard-pressed to feel the adventure…or the life. The stale stink of dust filled the air. Empty window frames stared out like dead eyes. Sheets of plastic covered the board studded walls, the eerie slap-slap of the plastic the only sound.

I closed my window.

“Not quite the scenario we expected,” I said. “Too open. Too…empty.”

He nodded, gaze scanning the complex.

“Do you have a plan?”

“Working on it.”

“May I make a suggestion?”

“Always.”

I proposed we handle this as a two-man police raid, using a variation on standard procedures for infiltrating un-occupied buildings. Unlike an occupied area, here there was a good likelihood that our welcoming party wasn’t at 510 H.G. Wells Boulevard at all, but in an adjoining town-house, or even across the road, watching for us through a sniper’s sight.

The condos were row houses, with two basic styles-carport to the left and carport to the right. That meant we could investigate the one beside it, and expect to find the same floor plan reversed at 510.

Jack removed his gold; I put away the blond wig and jewelry-things that could catch the light. Then I scooped up dirt from the unfinished roadway, added bottled water, and we daubed it on our faces. I would have loved a Kevlar vest, but apparently the wire in my push-up bra was all the body armor I was getting. So I donned my gloves, took a deep breath and opened the door.

“Forgetting something?” he said.

I looked at him.

“Gun.” He reached under his jacket. “Here. Take my backup.”

“That’s okay-”

“Take it.”

As he thrust the gun at me, I opened my jacket and showed him the Glock. “See? I didn’t leave it back at the hotel.”

“Yeah. Just in the car.”

He got out. I followed.

Desolate. Some words evoke images; others, emotions. Desolate is a shivers-up-the-spine word, full of loneliness and emptiness. And, as we approached unit 510, the word sprang to mind and lodged there.

Empty houses stood stark against the darkness, looking not half finished, but half ruined. Tarps over the windows and roofs billowed like spirits chained to the houses, flapping and slapping in the wind as they struggled to fly free. Behind us lay the desert, sand blowing in to reclaim the subdivision.

I shivered. Jack glanced over at me.

“Cold?” he whispered.

“A little,” I lied.

“It’s the wind. Better inside.”

The modern condos loomed around me, scarier than any moldering Victorian mansion. I knew they weren’t haunted-stuff like that doesn’t bother me. You have to believe in the supernatural to be frightened by it. What spooked me was the desolation, as if it were a force that could reach up and swallow me.

We started at the last house in the row, secreting ourselves in its rear shadows, and creeping toward unit 510. We stopped at the unit to the left, and slipped behind the tarp to the largest window. Like most of the others, the glass hadn’t been installed yet and the frame stood open.

Jack laced his fingers to help me through.

THIRTY-NINE

Inside, I paused to let my vision adjust and give me time to focus, pushing past the frustration. My heart was thumping.

We had work to do, a solid lead to follow-a name even-but we were stuck here chasing down another would-be attacker. Somewhere out there, Wilkes was stalking his next mark and I would fail, again, to stop him. Fail to save another victim, not through my inexperience or ineptitude, but because some two-bit thug was holding me back. Well, this thug wouldn’t walk away.

When my eyes adjusted, I looked around to locate all the entrances-all the ways someone could sneak in here and see me-but the whole main level was a big entry point. The interior walls were naked stud-work. There was one front door, one back door, a basement door, a half-dozen open windows and a stairwell leading to the second level.

I moved to the wall adjoining this unit to the next-the route I hoped to take into unit 510. It was drywalled. Figures. The compound hadn’t been added yet, so I moved my gloved fingers over the boards, testing their resilience and peering through the cracks. The drywall was securely fastened. Jack could probably rip off a piece, but not without creating enough racket to alert anyone waiting for us next door.

Something whispered behind me-the soft sound of a carefully placed foot. I wheeled, gun going up. Jack lifted his free hand. He’d come in the window, obviously deciding I needed closer backup. I nodded and motioned for him to follow, so he could stand at my back while I examined the wall farther down. We slipped through the wall studs into what looked like the kitchen. There, alongside the counter, the drywallers had left a bare two-by-three-foot section, presumably waiting for something to be roughed in.

While Jack covered my rear, I crouched to examine the hole. The gap was partly drywalled on the other side, but there was a spot big enough to squeeze through-big enough for me. I straightened and gestured at the hole. As Jack ducked for a better look, something thumped overhead.

I froze, eyes narrowing as I looked up. For a moment, all was quiet. Then it came again, the faint thump of a foot on uncovered floorboards…right over our heads.

Jack’s gaze shot left. I gestured at the stairwell, the only obvious route to the second floor. I mentally raced through my image of the exterior, then leaned over to Jack, and whispered an idea.

“Where?” he mouthed.

I took a moment to figure it out, then pointed. His gaze flicked up, and I could see him processing the second-floor plan, working out the logistics. Then he nodded and waved me off.

Once I was through the hole between units, Jack hunkered down beside it, giving me cover while protecting his own back. For a minute, I didn’t go anywhere, just stood there, looking and listening. Just because we knew someone was upstairs in unit 508, didn’t mean there wasn’t anyone in 510.

Like its neighbor, this unit was all open stud-work, meaning the only thing between me and a potential attacker was the darkness-but that worked both ways. Once I was reasonably confident that I was alone, I moved for-ward, gun ready, steps soundless as I moved toward the stairs.

Construction had progressed further on level two, making travel easier in some ways, tougher in others. Without Jack’s cover, I had to take it slow and careful. With my back to the wall, I crept down the hall, peeked through the master bedroom door, then darted over to the balcony. Here the patio door had been installed, but didn’t yet have a lock-or handle. I eased it open, crept onto the balcony and moved to the far right end.

A few feet away was the balcony for 508, where we’d heard the steps. Crossing the gap would have been easier-and safer-with proper tools, but I made it. Once across, a look through the glass door assured me the bedroom was empty. Within seconds, I was inside and across the room, pressed against the wall beside the hall doorway.

The footsteps had come from the northeast corner of the unit, right across from the master bedroom. I strained for a sound from that direction. None came. I tapped a fingernail against the drywall. A second tap answered. All units in position. I counted to three, then silently swung through the doorway.

The hall was empty. A split second later, Jack wheeled around the other end, gun drawn. He nodded. I lifted my hand and counted down: three-two-one. We each moved to cover the next doorway. Mine was the bathroom. No one was in it. I glanced at Jack. He shook his head.

With the next countdown, he swung into the entrance to the room where we’d heard footsteps, with me covering him from anyone coming down the hall. A soft grunt told me the bedroom was empty.

I squeezed past him, leaving him covering the door, and moved into the room. A quick check out the window. I shook my head. All clear.

While Jack kept me covered, I crouched and took out a penlight. Shielding it with my free hand to limit the reach of the light, I examined the floorboards. The thick layer of drywall dust showed the ghost of many feet, and two sets of recent prints, made after the last of the dust had settled. One set was mine. The other crisscrossed the room a few times, then ended at the window.

As I bent to examine the window, Jack tapped my shoulder and shook his head. I arched my brows. He gestured at one of the footprints. Misshapen, as a few of them were, with an extra bump-out near the heel, as if the walker had slipped in the dust.

“Retraced his steps,” Jack whispered.

He motioned for me to get the window open.

“Make noise,” he said. “Be obvious.”

I nodded. Jack slid soundlessly back to the door, and I started working on the window. I was careful not to be too obvious about it, but didn’t take pains to open it quietly. Jack motioned for me to keep up the ruse and disappeared around the corner.

I got the window open, then stage-whispered, “Here, let me go first.”

I grunted, playing Jack hoisting me into the window.

“Shit,” I whispered. “It’s a helluva drop. Give me your hand and lower me down.”

Another grunt. Then the crack of a gunshot. I wheeled away from the window, realizing as I moved that the shot came from the hall, not outside. A second shot-returned fire. As I sprinted across the room, two more shots came in quick succession from the second, farther gun.

As I neared the door, gun drawn, I could see Jack inside the bathroom doorway, diagonally across the hall. He had his gun up, listening. Seeing me, he jerked his chin, telling me our assailant was down the hall. I motioned, asking Jack if the gunman was far enough away for me to cross my open doorway safely. He nodded, and I flipped to that side. Then we waited.

I heard it first, the slap of a foot brought down too quickly. I gestured to Jack, telling him the gunman was on the move. Then I motioned a plan. He hesitated, then nodded.

I counted to five, leaned into the hall, making myself a target, then jerked back. The gunman fired. Jack fired. A hiss of pain. Return fire, receding, covering the sounds of retreat. Only when I heard the distant sound of feet racing down the stairs did I peek to check on Jack. He was already in pursuit. I hurried after him.