Exit Strategy

He pecked at the keyboard with his index fingers. Slow but steady. His philosophy for all things, or so it had been…

What was the cliché? You can’t teach an old dog new tricks? Of course you could, so long as you provided the twin keys to change-motivation and desire. He’d never be a sixty-word-a-minute typist, but his two-fingered method suited his purposes just fine.

Five years ago he didn’t even know how to turn on a computer. But then someone showed him how useful a tool it could be and so, with motivation and desire, he’d taught himself how to use it. Now he couldn’t imagine how he’d survived all those years in the business without it.

There were places down there, deep in the Web, that most Internet-savvy criminals scorned and mocked. Places inhabited by interlopers in the criminal world. Wannabes-that’s the word they used these days. Computer geeks who set up shop in the underworld and tried desperately to be part of it.

He could picture them, caffeine-hyper beanpoles with bad skin and thick glasses, surrounded by pizza boxes and Coke cans, fingers flying across the keyboard, ferreting out every bit of underworld gossip and lore, endlessly searching for some tidbit that maybe, just maybe, would impress someone in the business, someone who’d seen dead bodies that weren’t just video game carnage. They lived in that hope, so they worked ceaselessly, improving their network of contacts, their data banks of information.

Ego being what it is, no success is a success unless it can be admired and envied by others. Lacking the audience they desired, these moles of the underground found another forum for their braggadocio. They talked to one another.

Tonight, as he sat in the Internet cafe, nursing a coffee, he’d prowled through three such chat rooms, ostensibly to get a heads-up on the investigation, hear the leaks, the rumors, the speculation. Perhaps, if he was being honest with himself, he’d admit to the thrill that came each time he saw his alter ego appear on the screen, each time someone typed the words “Helter Skelter killer.”

In one of the chat rooms they’d been debating some esoteric angle of the crimes, something about the randomness of good and evil. A doctoral dissertation in the making. He’d snorted, and glided from the chat room unnoticed. In the fourth one, though, he’d entered in the middle of a conversation that made his fingers freeze on the keys.

He read slowly, deciphering their cyber-shorthand as he went.

DRAGNSLAYR: …getting together and going after this guy.

RIPPER: Going after HSK?

The three initials were what made him stop. His acronym. The Helter Skelter killer.

DRAGNSLAYR: Who the fuck else are we talking about?

REDRUM: You mean other assassins are going after this guy?

DRAGNSLAYR: Isn’t that what I said? Fuck, maybe I should go find people who can read.

RIPPER: Who’s your source?

REDRUM: Hey, guys, wouldn’t that make a cool movie? Assassin versus assassin.

RIPPER: Been done.

REDRUM: When?

DRAGNSLAYR: Heard it from 22TANGO. Said those twins-Shadow and Sid-were going around to the brokers, asking questions, seeing if anyone hired this guy.

REDRUM: Shit. So why are they going after him?

DRAGNSLAYR: Who cares? It’s a great fucking story.

REDRUM: Bet it’s a job. HSK whacked the wrong guy. Now they’re going to whack him. Man, that would make a great movie. You sure it’s been done?

RIPPER: How about you go start writing it now?

REDRUM: Piss off.

He turned away from the monitor. His colleagues coming after him? There was something vaguely cannibalistic in that, something unfair, even treacherous. Yes, he had to admit, something hurtful. Why come after him? He hadn’t trodden on any toes, hadn’t stolen a job or offed a colleague. His attitude and behavior toward his fellow pros had always been respectful.

And yet…

True or not true, he’d have to take it into account. Maybe it was time to change gears. Consider the possibilities. Savor the power of choice.

One choice niggled at the back of his brain. The most intriguing of the lot.

In this game he’d created, he’d allotted himself a number of special moves. His trump cards. Perhaps it was time to play one of them, an ace he’d been saving in case things went wrong. The game had changed now, though, and it made no sense to play the card. And yet…

His father had been a gambler. Lost everything they owned. Yet his father always swore that Fortune had deserted him when he’d stopped trusting her, when he’d become nervous and started holding his cards too long. A smart gambler, he’d said, knows how to make a surprise play pay off.

A surprise play. He chuckled, then surreptitiously wiped down the keyboard with his sleeve, put on his coat, picked up his disposable coffee cup and left.

TWENTY-ONE

Jack left early that morning. Evelyn and I ate breakfast, then headed out. I’d threatened to burn my Mafia-bait outfit. Now I wished I’d followed through. I was indeed dressed again as a big-haired tight-jeaned boob-plumped Jersey girl. Evelyn swore that what had worked with Little Joe would work with Nicky Volkv, but I suspected she just liked forcing me to do things I didn’t want to do.

After dropping Evelyn off on the way to talk to a nearby source, I stopped to call Emma at the lodge. It was Thursday now, the weekend coming and no sign that I’d be home in time.

Emma assured me that wasn’t a problem-we were only half booked, and they were all fall foliage tourists, most of them seniors, none of whom had booked my extreme sports “extras” or access to the shooting range. She’d just tell any drop-ins that these services were unavailable this weekend, and offer a discounted rate if anyone complained. Everything else-supervising hikes, doling out bikes and canoes, hosting the bonfires-she and Owen could handle. I should just relax and enjoy my time away…and whomever I was sharing it with.

I arrived at the penitentiary just after morning visiting hours began. I parked the car, grabbed my new pleather purse and set out. Between the lot and the building was a postage-stamp bit of green space filled with staff on their smoking breaks and visitors psyching themselves up to enter the prison.

As I walked through the parking lot, my gaze swept across those faces, counting and memorizing. As both a hitman and a cop, you learn to take note of your surroundings. So, although I was still a hundred feet from that green space, I noticed when nine people became ten, and I knew that the tenth had not come out of the prison or stepped from the parking lot, but had simply appeared. That blip made me pay attention.

I sized him up. Burly with a trim light-brown beard and a forgettable face. Midforties. He lifted a half-smoked cigarette to his lips, but the way he held it marked him as someone unfamiliar with the vice. Something told me very few people took up smoking in their forties, and no casual smoker would brave today’s bitter wind for a cigarette.

I saw his gaze slant toward me. His face was still in profile, his eyes cast to the ground, but shifting in my direction. Measuring the distance.

I forced myself to take three more steps. His left leg turned, toe pivoting to point my way, knee following, hips starting to swivel. I stopped sharp and winced, delivering the best “oh, shit, I forgot something” face I could manage without slapping my forehead. Then I wheeled and quick-marched back to the car.

I glanced into the side mirror of each vehicle I passed on the way. The first three times, the angle was wrong and I saw nothing. On the fourth try, I caught a glimpse of the man, following as casually as he could manage.

I reached into my purse and pulled out my prepaid cell phone.

“Hey, Larry, it’s me,” I said, voice raised, as if to compensate for a poor connection. “You won’t believe what I forgot.”

Pause.

“Okay, you guessed. I am such a ditz.”

Pause.

“Well, you don’t have to fucking agree with me!”

As I talked, I kept glancing in the mirrors. The man started dropping back, then disappeared, unwilling to attack while I was talking to someone. I scanned the parking lot, making sure he wasn’t doing an end-run around me.

I recognized his intentions as clearly as if they’d been screen-printed across his jacket. If I hadn’t turned around, he would have headed into the lot, his path intersecting mine as I walked between the cars. A tight passage, a quiet shot to the heart and I’d fall, too far from the building to attract attention.

Once inside the car, I locked the doors and took a deep breath, calming that part of me that was screaming “what the hell are you doing?” Escaping, taking refuge, turning down a fight-not things I was accustomed to. I had to clasp my hands around the steering wheel to keep from throwing open the door and going after him.

But in this case, the instinctive choice wasn’t the wise one. So I glued my butt to the car seat, eyes on the mirrors, making sure no one snuck up on me, and concentrated on planning my next move.

Would he try again? I wouldn’t. Even if the mark appeared unaware of the situation, an aborted hit meant a failed attempt. I’d try another way in another place. But, having seen him head back toward the building, I guessed he wasn’t leaving yet.

If he was staying, then so was I.

I backed out and found the exit, then sandwiched the car between a minivan and an SUV, and waited.

Now came the big question. Who was trying to kill me? Start with “who knew I was here?” First, Jack. While I didn’t like the idea of suspecting him, that didn’t stop me from working it through objectively. But he’d only known Evelyn and I were visiting a former Nikolaev thug at a jail. We hadn’t given him a name or location, and he hadn’t asked. He’d also thought I was coming here with Evelyn, so if he set a hitman on my trail, it would be to kill both of us, which made no sense.

Then there was Evelyn. She knew exactly where I was and that I was alone. Why kill me? With Evelyn, I didn’t dare speculate on motivation. I didn’t know her well enough. But she was a viable suspect and I couldn’t discount her.

There was a third possibility-another person who knew we were coming to visit Nicky Volkv: the guy who sent us here. Maybe we’d stumbled onto the solution to the Helter Skelter killer mystery without knowing it-he was a hitman hired by the Nikolaevs to clean up some unfinished business.

If that was the case, then this man following me had to be the Helter Skelter killer himself. Hitmen are predators, in the purest sense of the word. Most don’t get a charge out of killing a mark, no more than a lion enjoys taking down a deer. It is a means to an end, a method of survival. As a human predator, we are at the top of the food chain. We hunt. We are not hunted.

When I realized there was a hitman after me, my instinctive response had been to turn the tables. To become the hunter. I may be misremembering, but I seem to recall some theorem about matter always wanting to return to its original state. That goes for people as well. We were chasing a predator. If Little Joe told him we were on his trail, he’d come after us.

And now, if I was lucky, he had.

My plan was to wait for him to drive out, then follow. I managed to stick to it for fifteen minutes before persuading myself I needed to make sure he was still around. So I got out of the car and scoped out the area first. I stood behind a van and waited for a car to leave the lot, listened to the bump-bump of its tires on the speed bumps and committed that sound to memory. If I heard it again, I’d know to look and make sure my target wasn’t leaving.

It took some effort to find the right path-the one that would allow me to travel without being seen. After scouting the lot, I gave thanks for the North American preoccupation with vehicles big enough to carry a whole hockey team. I darted from minivan to SUV to oversized pickup, working my way closer to the doors while checking over my shoulder to ensure I could still see the exit.

At last, as I peered through the windows of a minivan, I could see the visitor doors. But there was no sign of my target. The bump-bump of an exiting car sent me scrambling back to the lane, straining to see the exiting vehicle. A carload of people, driven by a heavyset woman.

As my heart rate returned to normal, I caught the eye of a passing couple. The woman’s gaze flitted past me, but the man’s lingered, checking me out, the response seeming more reflex than interest. I flashed my usual friendly grin-the sort that encourages strangers to ask me for directions but is only mistaken for a come-on by the most deluded. The man nodded and continued.

I breathed deeply, cursing. Not seeing my pursuer, then hearing a car leaving, I’d panicked. I should be above that. Better I should lose my target than risk exposing myself.

I returned to my spot, only to resume a fresh round of mental cursing. There was my target, back in place, smoking, having probably only been moving around when I’d first looked.

As I thought of the passing couple again, I was reminded that I wasn’t hidden, even here between the vehicles, so I pulled out my cell phone and put it to my ear. To anyone walking by, I’d look as if I was just making a call before I headed out.

Even as I set up my “excuse,” my gaze never left my target. I scanned him from head to foot, noticing and memorizing. He looked older than I’d first thought. Maybe early fifties. Casually dressed in jeans, a pullover and a jacket. A generic navy blue jacket. No insignia or markings. Likewise there was nothing about his appearance to draw the eye-brown hair, short beard, nondescript looks.

When he walked out to the smoking area, no one would notice. When he left, no one would notice. If he lingered, someone might think only “Is that the same guy who was there an hour ago?” but it would be a fleeting thought, chased away by his very mediocrity and the conviction that he probably just looked like someone who’d been there an hour ago. That was the goal in our business-to blend in, to pass unnoticed.

While I had to admire his skill, it didn’t make my task any easier. How would I pick him out from a crowd later, if I needed to? Even his sneakers were generic, and he’d probably be savvy enough to change them if he suspected a tail. I was too far to see distinguishing features-a scar, a tattoo, a crooked nose, a chipped tooth-and even if I could, I couldn’t accept them at face value. I’d been known to slap on a fake mole or birthmark just to give people something to focus on. Jack had taught me that. Witnesses love distinguishing features. If you can’t avoid being seen, it may be smart to give them one.

All I could do with this guy was focus on what would be hard to disguise. General height was one thing-lifts can only give you a couple of inches. Bone structure, too. He was broad-shouldered and burly. While it’s harder to fake being thin, his size gave me an attribute to remember. Facial shape was another thing. It takes a lot of work to change that-and it’s not something you can do as quickly as pulling on fresh clothes. So I measured, taking mental notes until I was reasonably sure I could find him in a crowd.

So I could follow him. But could I kill him? Here? Now?

My free hand slid under my jacket, finding the gun I’d taken from the car. I pulled it out, getting a feel for the unfamiliar weapon. Tested the weight and slid my hand around the grip, my gaze still on my target, cell phone still at my ear, my mind only half focused on the gun, but automatically running through the details-how close I’d need to get, the quirks of this particular model. My fingers were as keen as a wine connoisseur’s nose, recognizing the gun by feel, regurgitating everything I knew about this model.

There was a perfectly placed pickup in the front row, but with no vehicle on either side, it was too exposed. Next best location? The SUV one row away, with a minivan on the other side. Dark tinted windows meant I could creep up the side of the vehicle and take the shot over the hood, hidden behind the cab.

I slid the cell phone into my pocket and the gun into the holster. Then I set out, darting from oversized vehicle to oversized vehicle, leapfrogging across three rows. I slipped up along the SUV and checked my trajectory. Perfect. Target in sight and in line.

As I watched him, the world around seemed to constrict, like looking through a spyglass, everything focused on that one patch of the universe. The rumble of conversation from the smoking pit fell to a whisper. The bright sun faded, my eyes opening wider behind my sunglasses. The smell of cigarettes and exhaust disappeared. All I saw, all I cared about, was him.

I let myself hang there, in that pocket. One moment to revel in the exhilaration of total focus. Then, slowly, I closed my eyes, inhaled and shifted out of the bubble. As blissful as it was, I couldn’t stay there. Too cut off from the world, too unaware of my surroundings.

I traced my finger over the gun grip, but didn’t unholster it. Finding the perfect shot was step one. Deciding whether to take it was another.

This man still posed a threat. A hitman doesn’t drop a job when the first attempt fails, not unless he’s been made. So he’d try again, which was reason enough to kill him.

But killing him here was risky. Although I saw no cameras, this was a prison. There would be armed guards nearby. Yet should I decide he needed to die, all that would be merely obstacles, not barriers.

If I did this, though, I might never know who he was. A hitman hired by Evelyn? Someone sent by the Nikolaevs? Or the Helter Skelter killer himself?

I needed answers, and I wouldn’t get them by killing him. So I closed my jacket and withdrew to my first hiding place. I watched him for another twenty minutes. Then after one lingering look at his watch, he took keys from his pocket and started walking. I hurried back to my car.

He pulled out of the lot in a gray rental. I noted his license number and details of the vehicle itself, then waited until he was nearly out of sight before pursuing.

I followed the car along the highway, up the off-ramp and through the city streets. I stayed far enough back that he never saw me, but close enough that I never lost sight of him.

Finally, the car turned into a city-run parking lot. I pulled down a side alley, only to discover that I couldn’t see the sidewalk or the parking lot. No time to find a better place. I hurried from the car and crept alongside the building.

Near the end of the alley I dug into my purse and found what I wanted. Then I eased as close as I dared to the end of the alley, lifted the open makeup compact and angled the mirror.

The only people I saw were two elderly men heading toward me and a trio of teenage boys skateboarding in the opposite direction.

I was thinking of circling back when I caught a movement at the parking lot exit. A middle-aged executive, silver-haired, clean-shaven and bespectacled, briefcase swinging purposefully at his side. I sized him up against the man from the jail…then stepped back into the alley. Now I knew why he’d lingered in his car.

As I watched through my mirror, he crossed the road and marched away from me. A scant twenty feet later, he turned right, opened a door and went in. I eased out for a better look at his destination. A coffee shop.

It shouldn’t take him more than two minutes to grab takeout. Five minutes passed. Obviously, he wasn’t getting his coffee to go. Time for my own quick-change routine.

I zipped down the alley and came out on the main thoroughfare. The first promising shop I saw was a drugstore with a window display of tourist wear. Good enough. Three oversized sweatshirts, one ball cap, cold cream, a scrunchie and a bag of penny candy, and I was flying back to my car.

All three sweatshirts went on over my skintight sweater, bulking me up, schlepping me down and giving me ample room to hide my gun. Wig off. Hair pulled back in a tiny ponytail that disappeared under the ball cap. Cold cream on; makeup off.

I knew enough to take off my watch and hoop earrings. But when it came to my ankle boots, I was stuck. All I could do was pull my jean cuffs over them.

Then I returned to my spot at the end of the alley, crossed the road, fell in behind two women close to my age and proceeded past the coffee shop window. One sideways look was all I permitted myself. My would-be killer sat just beyond the window, drinking coffee and reading a newspaper.

I ducked down the first side road and checked behind the restaurant for alternate exits. There was an emergency door, but it was unlikely he’d risk setting off an alarm. So I circled back to my alley, took out my bag of candy and settled in to wait.

Thirty minutes later, I was still waiting.

I’d slipped past the coffee-shop window a couple of times to reassure myself the man hadn’t left. But there he was, either determined to read that paper from cover to cover, or waiting for someone.

Evelyn had expected me to pick her up twenty minutes ago. Had I been in active pursuit of a potential killer, I could be forgiven for not swinging by to grab her. But now, hiding in the shadows, I had no excuse…beyond the fact that I hadn’t ruled her out as a suspect.

If I called and said, “Hey, I’m across the road from a guy who tried to kill me,” she could tell him to sneak out and finish the job. Or come and do it herself. And that’s why I needed to phone her-to test my suspicions.

Evelyn picked up on the first ring.

“There better be a good excuse for this,” she said before I could get a word out. “I’m freezing my ass off out here.”

“You’d better get inside,” I whispered. “Find someplace warm. I-”

“What? Talk into the mouthpiece, Dee. That’s what it’s there for.”

“I’m whispering-”

“What?”

A notch higher. “I need to be quiet.”

“Oh.” A pause. “Wait, let me see if I can adjust the volume on this thing.” Pause. “There. Now, what’s going on? Is there a problem? Did you get to see Volkv?”

“No.”

“No to what? No, there’s not a problem? Or no, you didn’t see Volkv?”

I considered hanging up but, after another check of the street, I said, “Someone tried to stop me. Permanently.”

“Christ, Dee, you’ve been hanging around Jack too long. Speak in full sentences. Someone tried to-” She stopped. “Shit. Where are you?”

“Following him. He’s having coffee.”

“Good, good. How long has he been there?”

“Almost an hour.”

“He’ll be waiting to make his call, then. To report his failure. Where exactly are you?”

I gave her the name of the town and coffee shop.

TWENTY-TWO

It took Evelyn twenty minutes to arrive.

“Still there?” she whispered as she crept up the alley toward me.

“I think so. I’ve done three walk-bys, but I’m afraid of being too obvious.”

“I’ll take a turn, then. What am I looking for?”

I described him. She nodded and headed for the street.

Two minutes later, as she headed back toward me, the coffee shop door opened and the man walked out. I slipped back into the shadows. As soon as Evelyn appeared at the corner, I waved her over.

“He’s-” I whispered.

“Yes, I know. Stay-”

I swung past her, slid to the end of the alley and pulled the compact from my pocket. Through it, I watched the man stride into a phone booth. He dropped his briefcase, picked up the receiver and dialed.

Evelyn appeared at my side.

“Making a phone call?” she said, without even glancing in the compact mirror.

I nodded.

“Does star-69 work at pay phones?” she whispered.

“No idea.”

“Damn. Probably no time anyway. Where’s he parked?”

I hitched a thumb in the direction. “Half a block down, on this side. The main exit is off this road.”

“Here’s the plan, then. We’re ending this here. I’m going straight down this road, and you’re going to circle around the back way-over the curb, through an alley, whatever will get you out on the other side. Then you’ll wait for my signal. If you don’t see me, let him go. That means it isn’t safe. There’s only one way out of town, so if he leaves, we can catch up with him. Now where’s my car?”

I paused. Considered her “plan”…and how much sense it made.

“One lot to the west,” I lied.

“Keys?”

I made a show of searching for them, knowing she’d given me the backup set and still had hers.

“I have mine,” she said after a moment. “Just go.”

I drove to the lot where Evelyn was hurrying along the rows, her keys in hand, her lips moving in silent curses as she searched for her car.

I didn’t have time for this. Every moment I delayed was another moment for my target to escape. I should have left her here. I’d wanted to. The moment she’d given me the instructions, I knew she was planning to give me the slip and go after my pursuer herself, and I’d wanted so badly to say, “Fine, then,” take her car and peel out after him myself, leaving her where she’d planned to leave me-stranded in some no-name town.

I’d have been justified in doing so. Jack would have agreed. But letting Evelyn out of my sight wouldn’t be the smart move. After this, I trusted her less than ever. All the more reason to keep her at my side, where I could watch her.

So, I forced myself to turn into that lot, unclenched my hands from the wheel, forced my frustation-my rage-down, pulled up alongside her and put down the passenger window. She shook her head and reached for the door handle. I hit the lock button.

“Lean in first and toss your gun on the floor.”

She glared over at me. “We don’t have time-”

“I’m not the one playing games. Now get your gun out and on the floor or I go after him by myself.”

She looked around, then dropped it onto the seat. I leaned over and laid it on the floor.

“Backup weapon, too,” I said.

A colorful oath, but she took out the second gun and put it into the car. I unlocked the doors, and was moving again before she had hers closed.

“Leave your guns on the floor,” I said. “You can reach them if you need to, but not without me seeing you.”

She fastened her seat belt. “Nicely played. I’m impressed.”

“Well, I’m not. I don’t like games, Evelyn. Maybe you were testing me. Maybe you didn’t think I was competent enough to come after this guy with you. Maybe you wanted to make sure I didn’t go after him. If that’s it, and you’re protecting him or you’re in on this-”

“Then I would have killed you in that alley.”

“Maybe. All I’m saying is that just because I picked you up doesn’t mean I trust you.”

She smiled. “Good girl.”

His car turned off at an exit ramp. I noted which way he turned at the top, then put on my signal.

“So who do you think this is?” she asked.

I told her. She pursed her lips, saying nothing.

“Doesn’t that make sense?”

“It would certainly make our lives easier, wouldn’t it?” Before I could reply, she pointed at the signs atop the exit ramp. “Well, either he’s hungry or he’s holing up for a while. There’s nothing else up here.”

We found his car in an Econo Lodge parking lot.

“Pull over behind that transport.”

“Shouldn’t I park in another lot?”

Evelyn shook her head. “You’re not parking, just stopping and getting out. I saw a mall at the last exit. I’m going back for supplies while you watch which room he takes and keep an eye on it. I doubt he’ll go any farther than one of these restaurants before I get back.”

“So we’re going to interrogate him, I assume.”

“I prefer ‘talk,’ but yes, that’s the general plan.”

“What are you picking up?”

“Basic supplies,” she said. “Gloves, duct tape, rope…” She met my gaze. “Is that a problem?”

“Better grab garbage bags, too.”

Evelyn knocked on the motel room door. She hadn’t altered her disguise from earlier-blue-rinse hair, pince-nez, polyester slacks, a flower-dotted cardigan and a purse big enough to defy airplane carry-on regulations.

When no one answered, she rapped again and called out in a querulous voice.

“Harold? Harold? I can’t find my key.”

The door cracked open, the chain jangling, then snapping taut with a click. Standing by the hinges, I could see nothing of the person inside, meaning he couldn’t see me, either.

“No Harold here, lady.”

“What?” Evelyn leaned forward, blinking nearsightedly. “Who are you? Where’s my Harold?”

“You’ve got the wrong room.”

The man started to close the door, but Evelyn’s foot darted into the gap, leaving him no choice but to keep it open or crush her. Even cold-blooded killers have their limits.

“Look, lady-”

“Stop whispering, young man. I can’t hear you. Where’s my Harold? Open this door right now.”

“You’ve got the wrong-”

Her voice rose to a screech. “Open this door!”

I tensed, listening for a certain sound…

“Lady-”

“If you don’t open-”

Click. He’d disengaged the chain. I kicked the door open.

TWENTY-THREE

As the door crashed open, the man flew back. I swung in, gun raised, Evelyn covering me.

“On your knees,” I said.

The man froze, but didn’t drop. His gaze flicked down, presumably to the gun holstered under his jacket.

“Hands up and get on your knees,” I said as Evelyn closed the door behind us.

Still he hesitated, and I knew what he was thinking. He wasn’t about to drop for a couple of women-and one a senior citizen. Better to take the risk, pull the gun and trust that he could get the drop on us.

I pretended to glance toward Evelyn, as if getting her opinion. The moment I moved, he went for his gun. I kicked his kneecap and he dropped down with a grunt. When he looked up and saw my gun pointed in his face-and Evelyn’s at the side of his head-he decided to raise his hands.

I ordered him onto his stomach, hands to his sides, palms up. Evelyn motioned that she’d stand cover while I bound him, but I shook my head. I wasn’t lowering my gun and my guard while she had a gun. Not after that stunt in the parking lot.

As she bound him with the duct tape, I took a closer look at the man. Did he bear any resemblance to Manson? It was hard to tell, since I presumed he was wearing makeup. He was certainly bigger than Manson, but that could come from his mother. The age seemed reasonable.

Evelyn patted him down, removing a 9mm, a hidden switchblade and a wallet. When she finished, I repeated the pat down. If she was offended at my double-checking her search-and her binding job-she gave no sign of it.

I took the wallet. Inside were a half-dozen twenties, some smaller bills and a Virginia driver’s license. The name and the license were fakes, but I had no idea how good a forgery it was. That’s the beauty of using out-of-state licenses. If you get pulled over, chances are the officer who writes up your ticket wouldn’t know a real license from a fake.

“Robert,” I said. “Would you prefer Rob or Bob?”

The man only glared up at me.

“Bert, then,” I continued. “You look like a Bert to me. So, Bert, not exactly a story you can barter for beer at the legion hall, is it?”

“You made me, didn’t you?” he said, eyes on mine, voice as calm as if we were indeed discussing this at the legion.

“A takedown in a prison parking lot? In front of witnesses?” Evelyn shook her head. “Amateur hour.”

“I could have done it,” he said.

“But you didn’t. You fucked up. Having a mark make you before you even get within firing distance? Unbelievable.” Evelyn stepped forward, eyes trained on his. “But you didn’t have all the facts, did you? You didn’t know she was a pro.”

“Pro?” Bert squinted at me. “She’s a hitwoman?”

“No,” Evelyn said. “You just got your ass kicked by the Avon lady.”

His squint narrowed to a slit. “He told me she was a con artist.” A sharp twist of the lips. “Paying me five grand to off a pro? Fuck, I deserve twenty for this.”

“For what?” Evelyn said. “You didn’t kill her.”

Bert shrugged his brows as if he hadn’t abandoned the hope of collecting.

“And for me?” Evelyn said.

“Two.”

“Two grand? Two-”

I stepped forward, cutting her off. “Who hired you?”

Evelyn waved me back. We stared each other down for a few seconds, then I rolled my shoulders and moved beside Bert, gun at the ready. I’d already taken the muscle role. Too late to change my mind now.

“Who hired you?” she asked.

“I want to make a deal,” he said.

“Do I look like Monty Hall? Here’s your deal: either you tell me or you never leave this motel room.”

His gaze shifted from Evelyn to me. “Look, if you’re a pro, you know the score. If I go blabbing on my employer, my life ain’t worth shit.”

“And if you don’t, it ain’t worth shit, either,” I said.

He turned his attention to Evelyn.

“You’ve got to understand,” he said. “This isn’t some nobody I’m dealing with-”

“Isn’t it?” she said, taking a seat on the bed. “Perhaps he was a somebody once, but now he’s a toothless old lion desperate not to cut his last years short. That’s why he called you, isn’t it?”

I glanced sharply at Evelyn, but her gaze was riveted on the hitman.

“You know then,” he said. “So why are you asking me?”

“For confirmation.”

“Yeah, it was Little Joe Nikolaev. He said you two went to see him yesterday and he let something slip. Something big. I don’t know what it was, but he said if Boris heard, that was it. He’d shut him up for good.”

So that was what this was about? That old hit Little Joe had let slip, the details of which I’d already forgotten?

For twenty minutes Evelyn prodded and probed, trying to find out whether there could be a Helter Skelter connection. She even asked point-blank if he knew anything about the killer, but it was obvious he didn’t.

“All right then,” she said. “You can’t tell us what you don’t know.”

“I held up my end,” he said, gaze lifting to hers. “Now it’s your turn.”

She nodded. “Fair is fair. Dee?”

I walked behind him, aimed the gun at the base of his skull and pulled the trigger.

TWENTY-FOUR

Thirty minutes of driving and Evelyn had yet to say a word. Finally, I glanced her way. “You think I made the wrong decision. Killing him.”

“If you didn’t, I would have. Let him live, and he’d only keep trying to finish the job. We humiliated him. In such a situation, there’s no room for mercy.”

“So the problem is…?”

After a moment, she murmured, “No problem. Just…interesting.”

As soon as I got back, I took a shower. While I was dressing afterward, the hall floor creaked. One creak could be blamed on the older house, but a second told me someone was out there. I tensed.

I knew I was alone with Evelyn, but that was all the more reason for being nervous. I still wasn’t sure how to interpret her trick earlier.

I pulled on my shirt, unlocked the door as quietly as I could and cracked it open. There, at the top of the stairs was Jack, his back to me, hands in his pockets.

I released the door handle. At the soft click, he turned.

“Back already?” I said. “Do you need-?” I waved into the bathroom.

“Nah.”

I backed up to the sink again, leaving the door open. As I took out my comb, he stepped into the doorway.

“Did you find Baron?” I asked.

“Yeah.”

“Okay. So we’ll need a plan-”

He shook his head. “Can’t question him.”

A glance over his shoulder, head tilting as if listening for Evelyn. When I sidestepped, giving him room to come in, he did.

“Baron’s dead. Shot himself. A month ago.”

“Oh, geez, I’m sorry.”

As the words left my mouth, I realized how silly they sounded. Offering my consolations on the death of a colleague he hadn’t seen in years, and had suspected of being a serial killer. Yet he nodded, gaze sliding to the side.

I rubbed SPF moisturizer on my face, then scrubbed my hands and repacked my toiletry bag. “Are we sure about Baron? I know faking your death sounds like something out of a movie, but is there any chance…?”

“Slim. Talked to someone. Got the story. Looked it up. Found the obituary, picture. It was him. Other ways to check?” He shrugged. “No idea.”

“Short of digging up a grave, that’s probably the best we can do. Have you told Evelyn?”

He shook his head.

“We’ll get that over with, then.”

If Jack expected Evelyn to go off on her “see, I told you he was a loser” tangent about Baron, he was mistaken. She took the information in, said “Well, there’s one fewer theory for you, Dee” and moved on.

Evelyn’s source for Manson information had gotten back to her with a list of three possible Manson sons: a former Manson family member turned Nevada brothel owner, a drug dealer who boasted of an ongoing prison correspondence with Manson and a B amp;E artist who claimed to be Manson’s illegitimate son.

“Door number three sounds promising,” I said.

“He’s probably bandying the story around to gain street cred,” Evelyn said. “But we should look him up.” She turned back to her computer. “What’s the name on that sheet again?”

“Benjamin Moreland.”

“State?”

“Right here in Indiana.”

“Hold on.”

Jack shook his head and sunk back into the couch. Five minutes of keyboard-clicking later, Evelyn stopped.

“Well, that’s promising,” she said.

She swung around from the computer and waved at a grainy, enlarged photo on the monitor. Jack and I peered at the screen. A thin, wide-eyed face peered back.

“That good?” Jack asked.

“You don’t see the resemblance?” Evelyn said.

When neither of us answered, she sighed, retrieved the Helter Skelter book from the shelf, opened it to a page of photos and passed it to us. The guy did look like Manson, especially in the upper half of the face, through the eyes and hairline.

“Now, he could be trading on a coincidental resemblance to back up his story,” Evelyn said. “But I’d check it out. DNA is DNA.”

Twenty minutes later, she turned from her computer again. “I found Moreland. Seems he’s currently enjoying the hospitality of a mental institution outside Indianapolis.”

“So he’s Manson’s son after all,” I said. “Or, I suppose, one could argue that claiming to be related to the man is grounds for committal in itself. Either way, it can’t be him.”

“Not so fast,” Evelyn said. “We have no idea what kind of security this hospital has. If this was our killer, it would make one hell of an alibi.”

She pointed to the screen. “He had a series of arrests in the late eighties, then nothing. Maybe he’s moved up in the world. For all his fuckups, Manson was a bright guy. Let’s assume his kid inherited those brains.”

I glanced at Jack. “Do we have anything better to follow up on right now?”

He shook his head.

“How far to Indianapolis?”

“’Bout two hours.” He checked his watch. “Leave now? Should make visiting hours.”

We’d barely made it out of the driveway before Jack said, “Evelyn told me. What happened. At the motel.”

“Ah.”

He drove for another few minutes in silence, then said, “Something else, isn’t there? With Evelyn.”

“I don’t think she expected me to shoot-”

“Not what I meant. About Evelyn. What’d she do?”

“Nothing I couldn’t handle.”

“Don’t doubt that. What was it?”

When I didn’t answer, he pointed at the glove box. “Can you grab-?”

I had it open before he finished. A box of American cigarettes nearly fell in my lap. When he nodded, I opened the pack and handed him one. Even lit the match for him. He nodded his thanks, took the first drag and made a face, lips curving in a silent oath.

I arched my brows. “Not your normal brand, I take it.”

“Does it smell like it?”

“No, but I wasn’t about to assume that what you normally smoke at the lodge is your normal brand.” When he gave me a look, I shrugged. “Hey, if you smoked something different, trying to throw me off track, I wouldn’t blame you.”

“I don’t pull that shit, Nadia. Not with you.” He lifted the cigarette. “This? Just while I’m on a job. Other’s too…”

“Distinctive?”

He nodded. “’Course, if I had any brains? Quit altogether. Worst habit a pro can have. Started quitting ten years ago. Got down to maybe one a day. Then…stuck.”

Another drag. He shook his head and reached for the ashtray then stopped and held the cigarette out to me. I shook my head and he stubbed it out.

“About Evelyn,” he said. “Whatever happened? Like to know.”

He wasn’t going to let that slide, so I told him about Evelyn’s stunt in the parking lot, then said, “So what was that about? Testing me or trying to go after the guy herself?”

“Probably both. You spot her trick? You pass. You both go. You fail?” He shrugged. “Better to leave you behind.”

He passed a transport, then turned back to the slow lane before speaking again.

“Either way? Fucking waste of time. You’re pissed? Got a right to be.”

“She likes games, doesn’t she?”

“All there is. This investigation? A big game. That hitman? Smaller game. Testing you? Tiny game in that one. Like fucking nesting dolls. She pulls that shit again? Walk away.”

TWENTY-FIVE

The nurse behind the desk worried her identification badge, the surface dulled from handling. She looked no more than twenty-one. From the way she flinched every time a patient walked by, this was the only job she’d been able to find, and she was counting the days until she could transfer.

“Mr. Moreland doesn’t get many visitors.”

“But he is allowed to have them, correct?” I said.

She shot a nervous glance around. I couldn’t see the cause of her discomfort. There were no drooling, ranting, half-naked lunatics wandering the halls. The ID badges were the only way I could see to tell the patients from the staff.

“Mr. Moreland is permitted visitors, is he not?”

“Umm, right.”

“And your evening visiting hours are 7 to 9 p.m., correct?”

A nod.

“Then forget this”-I gestured to my business card on the counter-“and consider me a visitor.”

“Do you need a special room?” she asked.

“For privacy, yes, that would be best.”

She fingered her badge and bit her lip.

“Is that a problem?” I asked.

“No, I guess not.” She looked around, as if searching for someone. “Everyone’s on break, but I guess-” She swallowed. “I guess I could take you.”

So that was the problem. She didn’t want to leave her protective cage. I hoped she got a new job soon…for the patients’ sake.

After another worried look up and down the hall, she stepped out.

Nurse Nervous left me in a small windowless room that could have passed for a corporate meeting room. I studied the posters on the wall. Good taste on a budget. The furnishings were likewise a compromise between quality, comfort and cost: decent upholstered chairs and a sturdy conference table. A long way from padded rooms and leather restraints.

Outside the room, the silence was broken only by the occasional swoosh of a door and staccato clicks of staff passing by, their steps quick and purposeful. When I caught a whiff of cleaning solution, I thought of Jack and hoped he wouldn’t have a problem finding Moreland’s room.

While I waited, I ran through the list of questions I was going to ask Moreland. Basic queries, easily answered, none of which would reveal any hint of our suspicions because my main role was to get Moreland out of his private room long enough for Jack to get what he needed.

As footsteps squeaked down the hall, I listened. Voices drifted in, both female. The first I recognized as the young nurse.

“-ever tells me anything.”

An older woman answered, her voice clipped with authority. The squeal of a cart covered her first few words. “-show up, demanding access to Ben, saying it’s part of this horrible Helter Skelter killer mess. We’ve had to notify the director, round up every doctor Ben’s ever spoken to, alert security-believe me, Angela, informing a junior nurse was the last thing on our mind.” The women’s footsteps receded around a corner. “Who did you say wants to talk to Ben now…?”

I nearly shot out of the room, but managed to stop myself at the door and crack it open for a quick peek before hightailing it out. I started marching in the other direction and got five steps before Jack swerved around a corner and grabbed my arm.

“Lawyer?” the older nurse’s voice trumpeted down the hall. “Lord, that is just what we need. Where did you put-?”

“Fuck,” Jack whispered, drowning her out.

Still clutching my elbow, Jack strode to the first door, checked it, then moved to the next. Another peek. Then he yanked it open and propelled me inside.

I caught a glimpse of brooms and buckets. Jack wheeled in, closed the door and the closet went dark.

“FBI,” he whispered, breath tickling my ear.

“How many?” I whispered.

“Don’t know. Just heard the nurses talking.” A pause and he shifted, moving against my hip as he leaned toward the door.

I put my ear to the wall, but heard only pipes gurgling. The small closet made for very tight quarters. Warm, too. Much longer in here and we’d be putting our deodorant to the test.

The room already stank-of bleach, as if there was an open container or a small spill-and between the smell and the heat, my head started to spin.

“Hold on,” Jack whispered. Like I was going anywhere.

The soft grate of a doorknob turning. A splinter of light lit Jack’s face. He pressed his cheek against the gap, then pulled back. The light vanished and the door clicked shut.

“Nothing.”

“You get some of Moreland’s hair?” I whispered.

A shake of his head. “Don’t need to. It’s a match.”

“Wha-?” I bit off my near-yelp of surprise.

“That’s why Feds are here. Got a tip. Hair matches Moreland’s DNA.”

“Shit. So it was a plant.”

“Yeah.”

The word tickled my ear. He shifted, and his hand went to my hip for balance. As he breathed, that faint scent of the earlier cigarette wafted over me, and my pulse quickened. I told myself it was the smell of nicotine, but I suspected it had more to do with having a man pressed up against me, hand on my hip, breath against my hair…Like I’ve said, it’d been awhile.

Jack pressed closer as he shifted again, trying to get his balance or get comfortable. I could feel the heat of his fingers through my skirt. He leaned forward, listening, cheek a hairsbreadth from mine. I could smell him-the cigarette plus something faintly spicy: soap or shaving cream. He smelled very…male. When he moved again, his hand slipping on my hip, my imagination followed through where his fingers didn’t: down my skirt, catching the edge-

I jerked upright. “Sounds quiet. We should go.”

“Yeah.” A moment’s pause, then. “Nearest exit-”

“-is a staircase two doors on the other side of the meeting room, leading down to the first floor. There’s an emergency exit right there, but it supposedly triggers an alarm. If possible, it’d be better to cut back across the first floor to the main doors. The only alternate route I see is to head into the basement and cut across to another stairwell.”

A soft chuckle that reverberated along my back. “Good work. Basement’s it, then. Hold on.”

Putting his free hand on my other hip for balance, he opened the door and leaned into it. The sliver of light grew to a handsbreadth. Then he twisted back toward me, mouth lowering to my ear.

“Clear. Wait.”

He took a broom from behind us, and eased from the closet, leaving the door open a crack so I could see out. As I picked up my briefcase, I looked down at my new pumps. Take the risk of someone hearing me clicking along the floors? Or the risk of being spotted in stockinged feet? I went for option two and slipped them off.

Broom to the floor, Jack swept briskly, moving fast. He kept his head down, concentrating on his work and hiding his face. The hall remained empty. A few feet from the end, he stopped and turned so his back was to the nearby nurses’ station. Then he bent, as if to pick up something. As he leaned over, he peered under his arm, looking toward the station. Then he gestured for me to hightail it down there.

I crept out of the closet, closing the door behind me, and walked as fast as I could without breaking into a jog. I kept my face turned slightly toward the far wall. When I drew opposite the hall leading to the nurses’ station, I caught a glimpse of two men in suits, talking to the nurse, their backs to me. I kept walking.

Ahead, Jack waited by the stairwell. As I took that last step past the hall junction, one of the FBI men moved. I caught only the flash of motion, not enough to know whether he was turning to watch me or scratching his ass. I picked up the pace. Footsteps sounded behind me.

I flicked my fingers at Jack, telling him to get out of the hall. He stepped into the stairwell, but held the door open. Six steps, seven, and I was there.

Behind me, shoes squeaked against the linoleum, making a sharp turn. As I ducked through the door, Jack grabbed my elbow and pushed me toward the stairs.

He paused behind me, presumably to double-check. I didn’t wait for the verdict. I galloped down the steps as fast as I could without stumbling. As I rounded the first flight, Jack fell into step beside me, caught my eye and nodded. The Feds were following.

I lifted my forefinger, then swiveled my thumb down. “First floor or basement?” I mouthed. Jack pointed down. Basement. Above us, the door finally clicked shut, only to whoosh open seconds later. Footsteps thumped across the landing. I shifted to the outside, where I’d be harder to spot, and Jack fell in behind me.

At the first floor, I motioned for Jack to continue heading down, then turned toward the door. He caught my arm, but I motioned that I’d follow in a moment. I jogged to the first floor door, opened it as far as it would go, released it and turned to race after Jack. As we rounded the midflight turn, Jack glanced up. The door I’d opened was slowly swinging shut, where the agents would see it and assume we’d gone that way. Jack nodded his approval.

Above us, several sets of shoes clomped down the steps at double-time. When we reached the basement door, Jack waved me against the wall. He opened the door slowly and silently. We slipped through and he eased it shut behind us.

We turned to survey our surroundings. A typical industrial basement: big, semidark, full of wheezing, clanking machinery. Helpful signs on the wall indicated points of interest: furnace, laundry, storage, deliveries. Jack jabbed a finger at the last.

As we turned the first corner, a grating squeal cut through the mechanical roar, growing louder by the second. We looked around. To our left was a hall lined with old office equipment. We took refuge beside a filing cabinet.

The squeal turned to a steady squeaking. Wheels in need of oiling. Seconds later, the sound began to recede. I leaned out to see an employee wheel a metal cart of laundry onto an elevator. We waited until the doors clanked shut before we took off.

After years of being the hunter, it was strange being pursued-and by cops, no less. I felt an uncomfortable inkling of shame, not unlike when I was nine and Amy talked me into swiping a candy bar from the store. I hadn’t been caught. I’d even snuck back later and returned it, without her knowing. Running from these agents, I felt the same twinge, mitigated only by the reminder that I wasn’t committing a crime, but trying to solve one.

My ruse with the first-floor door wouldn’t stymie the FBI for long, but it had bought us a few critical minutes. We made it to the delivery loading dock without incident. From there, escape was a simple matter of unlocking the exit door and walking out.

We stepped into the fading light and found ourselves at the foot of a small flight of stairs.

“I’ll look. Wait here.”

I nodded. Though I was quite capable of scouting, I was the lawyer who’d snuck out. No one was looking for a janitor.

Jack climbed the steps and disappeared. By the time I’d slipped my shoes back on, he’d reappeared at the top. He waved me up. I was just high enough to peek over ground level when two men in maintenance jumpsuits walked around the corner. I ducked so fast I nearly fell backward down the steps. Jack started to follow, then let out an obscenity.

He turned to me, said, “Wait,” then strode off.

TWENTY-SIX

Had the maintenance men seen Jack, noticed his janitor’s uniform shirt and called him over to help with something?

A moment’s silence. Then a man’s voice, raised just loud enough to carry.

“Drive where?”

“Just drive,” Jack called back.

I walked up a few steps and stood on tiptoes to peek over the top. Jack and the two men were about twenty feet away, on the other side of a storage shed. I darted over to it.

“Not good enough,” one man said. “Tell me where the hell I’m driving, Jack, or…”

I didn’t hear the rest of it. My brain snagged on Jack’s name.

Jack walked past the storage shed. Hearing the other man still talking, I swung back, trying to get out of sight. I stepped on a branch, the crack of breaking wood loud enough to make Jack turn. His gaze met mine. He looked away quickly, but it was too late. The two men in maintenance suits were behind him, now both staring right at me.

One of them was around Jack’s age, average height and lean to the point of bony, with thinning ginger hair, a sparse beard and glasses.

The other man was closer to my age, a little over six feet with a solid build, light brown hair, and a face that was pleasantly handsome but no cause for second glances. Nothing about him screamed “cop”-no mustache, no brawny forearms, no steel-eyed glare of perpetual suspicion. But I knew that’s what he was, the same way I’d know a Beretta from a Glock with a split-second glance.

The cop looked from me to Jack. “Your new partner, Jack? Either that’s one hell of a disguise or there’s something you forgot to tell us.”

“Drive,” Jack said. “North. First rest stop.”

The cop opened his mouth to argue, but the red-haired man said, “We’ll be there.” He smiled at me, then shooed his partner toward the parking lot.

“That was Quinn, wasn’t it?” I said as we got into the car.

“Yeah.”

I fought the first bubble of panic rising in my gut. “Okay. Presumably, Quinn got the same message those Feds did, and came by hoping to find out what was going on. Bad timing, but now we have to deal with it. This meeting at the rest stop. Should I stay in the car?”

He pulled out of the parking lot. “Up to you.”

“My first instinct is to stay out of their way. But he already got a good look at me, and he obviously figured out I’m your mystery partner. So if I stay in the car, that’s going to arouse suspicion. They’ll wonder if it’s more than rookie nerves.”

“Yeah.”

I looked over at him. “Can I get some advice? Please?”

He drove for at least five minutes without answering, then did so slowly, as if with great reluctance. “Safer to meet them. Get it over with. You’re in disguise. Quinn’s a blowhard but…” A long pause, as if he’d rather not finish. “He’s good. Trustworthy. You’ll be fine.”

Quinn and his partner were waiting when we pulled into the rest stop. Jack drove past them, circled to the rear of the building and parked on the far side. He looked around, then got out and headed for the picnic area that, given the cool season and the late hour, was understandably empty.

He gestured at the table in front of us. “Here good?”

“Seems okay. We’re far enough from the buildings that no one should overhear if we keep our voices down. Watch the body language, though.”

When I looked up, Quinn was bearing down on us, jaw set, fists balled at his sides.

“So much for body language,” I murmured.

Jack stood, shoulders squaring. Quinn’s partner headed our way, as if to intercept, but he was too far to reach us in time.

“What’s this?” Quinn said, gesturing at me. “When you said you had a partner, we all figured you meant Evelyn or someone we knew. That”-his finger jabbed my way-“is neither.”

“I’m vouching for her,” Jack said.

“That’s very nice. But we’re taking a big risk, working with a stranger-”

“I said, I’m vouching for her.”

They stared at each other. Last time I’d seen that look it’d been on a pair of feral dogs, in a battle for control of the lodge’s garbage bins-right before I turned the hose on them. Some guys…you can teach them to walk upright, put them in nice clothes, but it still comes down to a good ol’-fashioned pissing contest. And me without my hose.

“Hey,” I said, inching between the two. I fixed my smile on Quinn and upped the wattage. “What’s a club without initiation rites? How about a test? Make sure I pass muster.”

“You don’t have to-” Jack began.

I put up a hand to stop him, never breaking eye contact with Quinn.

“Test me,” I said. “Can’t say I was ever any good at pop quizzes in school, but what the hell. Give it a try.”

Quinn’s gaze locked on mine. “You any good at distance shooting?”

“Got a rifle on you?”

The barest hint of a smile lit his eyes, but didn’t reach his lips. “Not right now. So, what’s the best silencer for Remington 700?”

“None.”

His brows rose a quarter-inch.

“First, it’s a suppressor. You can’t silence a gun. Ignoring that, a real distance shooter wouldn’t use one unless absolutely necessary. Most times, you’re taking the shot from far enough away that a suppressor isn’t necessary, and using one means you run the risk of throwing off your MOA.”

“Minutes of angle,” the red-haired man said with a smile. “She’s right. I’ve told you that before, but you never listen.”

I continued. “If you have to use a suppressed rifle, you’d be better off with a McMillan M89 or Steyr SSG. Their suppressors work okay, but personally I prefer-”

“All right, all right.” He extended his hand. “Quinn.”

“ Dee.”

The red-haired man took my hand with a smile. “Felix.”

Quinn turned back to Jack. “So what the hell was that fuckup at the hospital?”

“Following a lead. Same as you.”

“Well, that shit wouldn’t have happened if you’d listened to me and we actually tried a little teamwork on this job.”

Jack glanced my way, as if expecting a “told you so.” I looked away before I gave him one. As I scanned the rest stop, I slid between Jack and Quinn again.

“We have an audience,” I said.

Quinn followed my gaze. Next to the building a middle-aged couple stood beside their car, watching us.

“May I make a suggestion?” I asked.

Quinn nodded.

“How about we sit down, I’ll grab some cans of pop and we’ll have a picnic.”

“Good idea,” Felix said. “You stay here, Dee, and I’ll get the sodas.” A wry smile my way. “You make a better referee.”

Quinn waited until Jack was halfway seated, then picked up the argument where he’d left off. “I’m getting sick of this, Jack. I might not have the career you and Felix have, but on something like this, I’m the expert. You don’t handle a criminal investigation by having all the teams chasing whatever lead catches their fancy. It’s a cooperative effort, not a competition.”

Jack’s gaze slid my way. “Yeah. You’re right. Time to team up. On strategy. Investigate separately. But plan together.”

I expected Quinn to find a way to argue, but instead he smiled and relaxed.

“Thank God,” he said. “And thank you. Now maybe we can make some progress, because Felix and I are just spinning our wheels. What about Sid and Shadow? I tried calling them yesterday, but they aren’t answering the page.”

“Same here.”

Felix was approaching the table and overheard. “So either they’ve been arrested or they’ve changed their mind about doing this. Either is equally likely, I’m afraid, and little we can do about it, whichever it is. We’ll continue trying to contact them, but for now we’ll have to presume our investigation is down to four.”

“Five,” Jack said. “Evelyn’s in.”

Felix handed out our cans. “So you did manage to secure her participation. Excellent. Can we contact her with research questions?”

Jack nodded. They talked for a moment. As they did, I realized Jack sounded…odd. Had since we’d first met Quinn and Felix at the hospital, though it was only really obvious now, as he spoke more. It took a second to figure out what was different. Then it hit. The accent-or lack of it. Since meeting the others, he’d swallowed that trace of a brogue, as he did whenever we were out. With Evelyn, he let himself fall back into it. Everyone else got a standard undefinable American accent.

Quinn popped open his can. “Back to the case. The DNA is a match. That’s confirmed, so the question is, how did Moreland do it?”

“He didn’t,” Jack said.

I could see Quinn’s hackles rise, and jumped in. “It’s unlikely Moreland did it. He’s a diagnosed disorganized schizophrenic. If he did commit the murders, they’d be more like Manson’s. Of course, that doesn’t mean he’s an ironclad ‘no way,’ but combined with the problem of getting out of the hospital for each murder…”

“Damned near impossible,” Quinn said, nodding. “Feds are bound to figure that out soon.”

“So the hair was a plant,” Felix said. “Quite clever. Exceedingly clever, in fact, requiring only a hospital visit, and a plucked arm hair, strategically placed as trace evidence. I’ll have to remember that one. So, I suppose this puts us back to the proverbial square one. Shall we compare leads and set out again, then?”

“Not yet,” Jack said. “Wait for the fallout. See which way it blows. Shouldn’t take long.”

To Jack, “waiting for fallout” did not mean waiting as a group. He wanted to separate, then discuss leads by phone after Quinn found out what the Feds were doing about Moreland. Felix seemed inclined to agree, but Quinn argued that it made little sense when morning-and news-would be here soon enough. We should separate for the night, but reunite at breakfast so we could discuss our next steps together.

I understood Jack’s concern. Spending as little time together as possible made sense. But after mulling it over for a few minutes, he agreed that breakfast-in our hotel room-should be safe enough. He’d contact them later with the address.