Lethal People: A Donovan Creed Crime Novel

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LETHAL PEOPLE

(A Donovan Creed Crime Novel)

By

John Locke

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events or locales is entirely coincidental.

LETHAL PEOPLE

Special Smashwords Edition

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Copyright © 2009 John Locke. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical without the express written permission of the author. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials.

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ISBN: 978-1-935670-04-9 (eBook)

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PROLOGUE

The fire started in Greg and Melanie’s basement just after midnight and crept upward through the stairwell silently, like a predator tracking food.

Greg had never read the stats or he’d have known that home fires can turn deadly in just two minutes and that his odds of waking up were three to one.

Against.

And yet both he and Melanie had managed it. Was it because she’d screamed? He wasn’t sure. But she was screaming now. Groggy, disoriented, coughing, Greg stumbled to the door. Like millions of others, he’d seen the movie Backdraft, and although the proper term for the event depicted in the fi lm was a “flashover”and not a “backdraft,” he’d learned enough to touch the back of his hand to the top of the door, the doorknob, and the crack between the door and door frame before flinging it open.

As he did that, Melanie rolled to the edge of the bed and grabbed her cell phone from the charging cradle on the nightstand. She pressed 911 and cupped her hand around the speaker. Now that Greg was in motion, she felt better, like part of a team instead of an army of one. Only moments ago, Melanie had taken her panic out on Greg’s comatose body by kicking, punching, and screaming him awake. When he finally began to stir, she’d slapped him hard across the face several times.

Now they were working together. They’d silently assessed the situation and assigned each other specific roles in an unspoken plan. He’d get the kids; she’d get the firemen.

Melanie couldn’t hear anything coming from the phone and wondered if she’d misdialed. She terminated the call and started over. A sudden blast of heat told her Greg had gotten the door open. Melanie looked up at him, and their eyes met. She held his gaze a moment and time seemed to stop while something special passed between them. It was just a split second, but they managed to get eight years of marriage into it.

Greg set his jaw and gave her a nod of reassurance, as if to say he’d seen what lay beyond the door and that everything was going to be all right.

Melanie wasn’t buying. She’d known this man since the first week of college, knew all his looks. What she’d seen in his eyes was helplessness. And fear.

Greg turned away from her, shielded his face, and hurled himself into the rising flames. She couldn’t hear the 911 operator over the roaring noise, but she heard Greg barreling up the stairs yelling to the children.

She yelled, “I love you!” but her words were swallowed up in the blaze. The searing heat scorched her blistered throat. Melanie clamped her mouth shut and turned her attention back to the phone. Was someone on the other end? She dropped to her hands and knees, cupped her fingers around the mouthpiece, and shouted her message as clearly as possible to the dispatcher she hoped was listening.

That’s when she heard the crash—the one that sounded like columns falling in the foyer. Melanie figured the staircase would be next.

The kids’ room was right above her. Melanie instinctively looked up to launch a prayer and saw a thick, rolling layer of smoke hugging the ceiling. She let out a long, piercing wail. A terrible thought tried to enter her mind. She forced it away.

Melanie screamed again—screamed for her girls, screamed for Greg, screamed even as hot air filled her mouth and lungs and tried to finish her off.

But Melanie had no intention of dying. Not here in the bedroom. Not without her family. Coughing, choking, she crawled steadily toward the doorway.

The theory that the air was better near the floor apparently didn’t apply to basement fires because thick, gray ropes of smoke were sifting upward through the floorboards. Melanie’s lungs ached in protest as the heat and flames stepped up the demand on her oxygen. Her pulse throbbed heavy in her neck. The hallway, a mere twelve feet away, had been rendered nearly impenetrable in the moments since Greg had left her. During that tiny window of time, the flames had more than doubled in height and intensity, and their all-consuming heat sucked so much oxygen from the air, she could barely maintain consciousness.

As she neared the doorway, a bedroom window imploded with a loud crash. Hot, broken glass slammed into her upper torso like a shotgun blast, pelting her face, neck, and shoulders with crystals of molten shrapnel. The impact knocked Melanie to her side. She shrieked in pain and instinctively started curling her body into a protective ball. The skin that had once covered her delicate face was gone, and the meat that remained broiled in the heat.

That would have done it for Melanie had she been fighting solely for her own life, but she was fighting for Greg and the twins, and she refused to let them down. Melanie shrieked again, this time in anger. She got to her hands and knees, made her way through the doorway, crawled to the base of the stairs, and looked up.

The stairwell was an inferno, and the bottom half of the staircase was virtually gone. Melanie’s heart sank. She screamed for her family, listened for a response. There was none.

Then, as if an angel had whispered it, Melanie had an idea. She got to her feet and made her way to the powder room. She turned on the faucets, soaked the guest towels. She staggered back to the area where the steps used to be. Tapping into her last ounce of strength, she screamed, “Greg!” and flung the towels as hard as she could, upward into the rising flames, in the direction of the kids’ room.

Had he heard her? Had he answered? She couldn’t tell.

Emergency personnel arrived just four minutes after the 911 call was logged. Neighbors, hearing sirens, gathered in the street and watched in horror.

Later, when reconstructing the events at the scene, firefighters determined Greg had made it to the children’s room, opened the window, and hung a sheet from it to alert rescuers to the location. He’d had the presence of mind to gather both girls in his arms on the floor beneath him before dying.

Firefighters entering the bedroom through the window were impressed to find wet towels covering the girls’ faces. This is what saved their lives that night, they decided, though one of the twins died later on, in the hospital.

“Son of a bitch,” Augustus Quinn said. “You are one tough son of a bitch, I’ll give you that!” Shakespeare it was not, but Creed should have been dead by now and wasn’t. “Let’s call it a night,” Quinn said.

They were on opposite sides of prison cell bars, sixty feet below the earth’s surface. It took a while, but Donovan Creed staggered to his feet, a vantage point from which he now grinned at the hideous giant manning the torture device. “What was that?” Creed said. “Eight seconds?”

The ugly giant nodded.

“Give me ten this time.”

“You’ll die,” Quinn said. Though the two men had worked together for years, Quinn’s words had been uttered simply and gave no evidence of warmth or concern.

Creed supposed that for Quinn it was all business. Creed had paid his friend to administer the torture, and Quinn was expressing his opinion about continuing. Did he even care if Creed died tonight? Creed thought about that for a minute.

The ADS weapon had been created as a counter measure to the terrorists’ practice of using civilians as human shields during the Iraq War. Effective up to a quarter mile, ADS fires an invisible beam that penetrates the skin and instantly boils all body fluids. The idea was simple: you point the weapon at a crowd, flip the switch, and everyone falls to the ground in excruciating pain. You flip the switch off , collect the weapons, and sort out the terrorists. Moments later, everyone is back to normal. Unfortunately, during the testing phase, word got out about soldiers suffering irreversible heart damage and ruptured spleens. When human rights organizations got involved, the public outcry was so severe the weapon had to be scrapped.

Donovan Creed had been among the first to test the original ADS weapon without receiving permanent organ or tissue damage. From the first exposure, he believed the weapon held enormous potential as a field torture device, provided it could be modified to a handheld size. To that effect, Creed had persuaded the military to allow one of the original prototypes to go missing long enough for his geek squad to turn it into a sort of ham radio project.

The weapon currently aimed at Creed through the prison bars was one of a set of three that had been produced to date. The other two were locked in a hidden closet twenty feet away. These three weapons were second generation, meaning they were much smaller than the original but not as small as they would ultimately need to be for his purposes. Still, each phase required human testing.

“You don’t believe that about me dying,” Creed said. “You’re just hungry.”

Quinn ignored the remark. “Two hundred soldiers tested against the machine,” he recited. “Forty-six with battle-field experience …”

Creed waved the words away with his hand. “Old news,” he said.

Quinn turned to face the video camera. “I want it on record I’m advising you to stop.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Creed said. “If you leave, I’ll just figure out a way to do it alone.”

“My point,” Quinn said. “I leave and you pass out, who’s gonna shut off the beam?”

Creed studied the giant’s dark, dead eyes, searching for the proverbial ounce of humanity. “What,” he said, “you going soft on me?” Quinn didn’t answer, and Creed realized if there was an answer to be had, it wouldn’t come from Quinn’s eyes. Quinn’s eyes were not the gateway to his soul. They were the place mirth went to die.

Look,” Quinn said, by way of clarification. “I keep pushing the switch till you die, and every assassin, every kill squad, and half the country’s armed forces will try to plant me in the ground.”

“Aw hell, Augustus, these guys try to kill me every time they invent a new toy. Don’t forget, they pay me well for this shit.”

“In advance, I hope.”

Speaking to the camera, Creed said, “If I die tonight, hunt this ugly bastard down and kill him like the dog he is.” Creed winked at his monstrous friend and set his feet.

Quinn shrugged. “I can always edit that last part.” He held Creed’s gaze a second and then checked his stopwatch and threw the switch.

Ten seconds later, Donovan Creed was on his back, lifeless, though his screams continued to echo off the prison cell walls.

Augustus Quinn, a man entirely unburdened by sentimentality, left Creed where he dropped and removed the video card from the camera. Tomorrow he’ll send copies to NSA, the CIA, and Department of Homeland Security.

Quinn pocketed the video card but stopped short after hearing a small sound. In the absence of certainty, he preferred not to squeeze his huge frame through the narrow cell door opening, but this was Donovan Creed after all, so Quinn entered reluctantly, knelt on the floor, and tried Creed’s wrist for a pulse. Failing to find one, he cradled the dead man’s head in his giant hand and placed his ear close to Creed’s mouth.

A raspy whisper emerged: “That all you got?”

Startled, Quinn drew back. “Son of a bitch!” he said for the second time that night. Some day he’ll be drinking in a biker bar or hanging on a meat hook somewhere, and some guy will ask him who the toughest man he ever met was.

Quinn will say Donovan Creed, and he’ll give a dozen examples of Creed’s toughness, ending with these most recent events. He’ll tell it just the way it happened tonight, no need to embellish, and he’ll end the story with a recitation of Creed’s final words, “Is that all you’ve got?” The guy hearing the story will smile because, as final words go, Creed’s were gold.

As it turns out, those were not Creed’s last words.

“This time,” he said, “give me twelve seconds.”

Quinn sighed. “I should’ve brought a sandwich,” he said.

Quinn fears no human or beast in the world, save for the man at his feet. Specifically, he fears that thing inside the man on the fl oor that drives Donovan Creed to sleep in a prison cell every night when he’s here at his headquarters in Virginia—or in the attics and crawl spaces of homes owned by clueless strangers the rest of the time. Nor can Quinn fathom what fuels Creed’s insane desire to build his resistance to torture by scheduling these horrific late night sessions in order to play human guinea pig to the latest military death weapon du jour.

Quinn makes his way back through the cell door opening and places the video card back in the camera. He peers into the aperture, presses the record button.

The lens displays a stark prison cell measuring six feet by nine. A narrow bed with a bare mattress hugs the left wall, separated from the toilet by a stainless steel sink. The reinforced cinderblock walls and concrete floor are painted institutional gray. Two-inch-thick iron bars span the front of the cell. A center section can be slid to one side to accommodate prisoner access. The ceiling is high and holds fluorescent lighting above a grid designed to discourage prisoners from hurling food or clothing upward in an attempt to obtain shards of glass from which to fashion a weapon.

The grid diffuses the light into a greenish glow that slightly distorts the image of the man on the floor in the center of the prison cell … as he struggles, once again, to his feet.

CHAPTER 1

I awoke in mid-scream, jerked upright, and jumped off my cot like I’d been set on fire. My brain cells sputtered, overloaded by panic and crippling pain. I staggered three steps and crashed into the bars of my cell. I grabbed them and held on for dear life. It took a minute, but I finally remembered how I’d spent the previous night cozying up to the death ray.

My cell phone rang. I ignored it, made my way to the toilet, and puked up everything inside me, including, possibly, my spleen. The ringing stopped long before I felt like checking the caller ID. Nine people in the world had my number, and this wasn’t one of them. Whoever it was, whatever they wanted, could wait.

From my prison cell in Bedford, Virginia, getting to work was as easy as stepping into the elevator and pressing a button. I did so, and moments later, the row of nozzles in my office steam shower were blasting me full force. After several minutes of that, I knew my body wasn’t going to rejuvenate on its own, so I stepped out and shook a dozen Advil into my hand.

I looked in the mirror. Usually when I felt this bad I required stitches, and lots of them. I leaned my elbows on the sink counter and lowered my head to my forearms.

The ADS weapon was all I’d hoped for and more. I knew in the weeks to come I’d master the damn thing, but for the time being, it was kicking the crap out of me. I wondered if the suits at Homeland would be happy or miserable to learn I had survived the first session.

When the room finally stopped spinning, I swallowed the Advil. Then I shaved, put some clothes on, and buzzed Lou Kelly.

“You got anything on Ken Chapman yet?” I asked.

There was a short pause. Then Lou said, “Got a whole lot of something. You want it now?”

I sighed. “Yeah, bring it,” I said.

I propped my office door open so Lou could enter without having to be buzzed in. Then I dragged myself to the kitchen and tossed a few ice cubes and some water into a blender. I threw in a packet of protein powder and a handful of chocolate-covered almonds, turned the dial to the highest setting, and pressed the start button. By the time Lou arrived, I was pouring the viscous goop into a tall plastic cup.

Lou had a thick manila folder in his hand.

“Local weather for a hundred,” he said. He placed the folder on the counter in front of me.

“What are my choices?”

“Thunderstorm, ice storm, cloudy, or sunny,” Lou Kelly said.

My office apartment was above ground, but windows could get you killed, so I didn’t have any. My office walls were two feet thick and completely soundproof, so I couldn’t automatically rule out a thunderstorm. But it was early February, and I’d been outside yesterday. I drank some of my protein shake. Yesterday had been clear and sunny.

“I’ll take cloudy,” I said.

Lou frowned. “Why do I even bother?” He fished two fifties from his pocket and placed them beside the folder.

“Nothing worse than a degenerate gambler,” I said.

Lou pointed at the folder. “You might want to reserve judgment on that,” he said. He reached down and tapped the folder twice with his index finger for emphasis.

Lou Kelly was my lieutenant, my ultimate go-to guy. We’d been together fifteen years, including our stint in Europe with the CIA. I took another swallow of my protein shake and stared at the manila folder.

“Give me the gist,” I said.

“Your daughter was right not to trust this guy,” Lou said.

I nodded. I’d known the minute I answered the phone last week that something was wrong. Kimberly, generally a good judge of character, particularly when it came to her mother’s boyfriends, had felt the need to tell me about a curious incident. Kimberly had said, “Tonight Ken broke a glass in his hand. One minute he’s holding a drink, the next minute his hand’s full of blood!” She went on to explain that her mom (my ex-wife, Janet) had made a snide remark that should have elicited a withering response from her new fiancé. Instead, Chapman put his hands behind his back, stared off into space, and said nothing. When Janet whirled out of the room in anger, Chapman squeezed the glass so hard that it shattered in his hands. Kimberly had been in the loft watching the scene unfold. “There’s something wrong with this guy, Dad. He’s too …” she searched for a word. “I don’t know. Passive-aggressive? Bipolar? Something’s not right.”

I agreed and told her I’d look into it.

“Don’t tell Mom I said anything, okay?” Kimberly had said.

In front of me, Lou Kelly cleared his throat. “You okay?”

I clapped my hands together. “Wonderful!” I said. “Let’s hear what you’ve got.”

Lou studied me a moment. Then he said, “Ken and Kathleen Chapman have been divorced for two years. Ken is forty-two, lives in Charleston, West Virginia. Kathleen is thirty-six, lives in North Bergen, works in Manhattan.”

I waved my hand in the general direction of his chatter. “The gist,” I reminded him.

Lou Kelly frowned. “The gist is our boy Chapman has serious anger issues.”

“How serious?”

“He was an accomplished wife-beater.”

“Was?” I said.

“There is evidence to suggest he’s reformed.”

“What type of evidence?” I asked. “Empirical or pharmacological?”

Lou looked at me for what seemed a very long time. “How long you been holding those words in your head, hoping to use them?”

I grinned and said, “A generous vocabulary is a sure sign of intellectual superiority.”

“Must be a lot of room in your head now that you’ve let them out,” he deadpanned.

“Let’s continue,” I said. “I’ve got a headache.”

“And why wouldn’t you?” he said. Then he added, “According to the letter his shrink presented to the court, Chapman appears to have overcome his aggression.”

“A chemical imbalance,” I suggested.

“Words to that effect,” Lou said.

I gave Lou his money back and spent a couple minutes flipping through the police photos and domestic violence reports. The pictures of Kathleen Chapman would be considered obscenely brutal by any standard, but violence was my constant companion and I’d seen much worse. Still, I was surprised to find myself growing strangely sympathetic to her injuries. I kept going back to two of the photos. I seemed to be developing a connection to the poor creature who years ago had found the courage to stare blankly into a police camera lens.

“What do you say to a woman with two black eyes?” I said.

Lou shrugged. “I don’t know. What do you say to a woman with two black eyes?”

“Nothing,” I said. “You already told her twice.”

Lou nodded. He and I often used dark humor to detach ourselves from the brutality of our profession. “Looks like he told her a hundred,” he said.

I removed the two photos from the folder and traced Kathleen’s face with my index finger. And then it hit me. I handed the pictures to Lou. “Have our geeks remove the bruises on these and run an age progression to see what she looks like today.”

He eyed me suspiciously but said nothing.

“Then compare her to this lady.” I opened my cell phone and clicked through the photos until I found the one I wanted. I handed Lou my phone. “What do you think?” I said.

He held my cell phone in his right hand and the photos of the younger Kathleen in his left. His eyes went back and forth from the phone to the photos. Then he said, “They could be twins.”

“I agree,” I said. I took the phone back and started entering some commands on the keys.

“So who is she?” he asked. “The one in the picture you’re e-mailing me.”

I shrugged. “Just someone I know. A friend.”

“The geeks might question this project,” he said.

“Just tell them we’re trying to fi t a specific girl into a terror cell.”

He studied the photos of Kathleen some more. “A body double?”

“Right,” I said. “And, Lou?”

He looked up. “Yeah?”

“Tell the geeks I need it yesterday!”

He sighed. “What else is new?”

Lou turned to leave.

“Wait a minute,” I said. “What if Kathleen was not Ken Chapman’s first victim?”

“You think he slept around during his marriage?”

“Maybe. Or maybe he dated someone after his divorce, before he met Janet. Can you find out for me?”

“I’m on it,” Lou said.

When he left, I turned my attention back to the files. As I read the details in the police reports, the same thought kept running through my head: If I do nothing, a couple of years from now this could be Janet, or even Kimberly.

I could not believe Janet was planning to marry this bozo.

I remembered something Kimberly said a month ago when she told me about her mom’s engagement. She said she didn’t believe her mom was in love with Chapman.

“Why would she marry a guy she doesn’t love?” I’d asked.

“I think Mom would rather be unhappy than lonely.”

CHAPTER 2

The state capitol building in Charleston, West Virginia, is composed of buff Indiana limestone. Its dome rises 293 feet high and is gilded in 23.5-karat gold leaf. I was standing directly below it, in the capitol rotunda, staring at the statue of Senator Robert C. Byrd when I heard her high heels clopping across the marble floor.

Alison David.

“Call me Ally,” she said, extending her hand.

I shook her hand and introduced myself.

“So,” she said, “what do you think of our capitol building?”

Ally David had on a navy jacket with three-quarter sleeves and a matching pencil skirt. Her satin tank top featured a scoop neckline that offered the promise of superb cleavage. It took some effort not to drool while admiring the way she put her clothes together.

“Impressive,” I said. “But I’m confused about the statue.”

“How so?”

“Well, I know you can’t toss a cat in West Virginia without hitting a building that has his name on it,” I said. “But I thought you had to be dead at least fifty years before you got a statue.”

She smiled and gave me a wink. “We West Virginians have a pact with Senator Byrd. He sends us the pork, and we let him name the pigs.”

Alison David was the type of career woman who, without saying or doing anything out of the ordinary, gave the impression she was a creature of heightened sexuality. I wondered if this was a natural phenomenon or something she had purposely cultivated.

“Is it just me,” I said, “or does it appear your illustrious senator’s hand is pointing directly at my pocket?”

She forced a half smile, but I could tell I was losing her. Small talk isn’t my strong suit. “So,” I said, “where are you taking us for lunch?”

“Someplace close,” she said.

I waited for her to elaborate, but she chose not to. Unable to think of anything witty to say, I settled for, “Sounds perfect,” which caused her to arch an eyebrow and give me a strange look.

We walked a block together and entered Gyoza, a small Japanese restaurant that proved trendier than its anonymous exterior might suggest. Inside, tasteful Japanese prints hung on bright red walls. The lighting was muted but was bright enough to read the menus. In the center of the restaurant, a bronze-laminate sushi bar separated the sushi chefs from the diners, and glass-fronted coolers atop the bar displayed tidy arrangements of colorful seafood. There were a couple of empty two-top tables with white linen tablecloths. Ally picked one, and we sat down.

“Gyoza?” I said.

Ally lowered her eyes and smiled at me, and the way she did it made me wonder if gyoza meant something dirty.

“Gyoza,” she said, “is a popular dumpling in Japanese cuisine. It’s finger food, like pot stickers, but with different fillings. Most people order meat or seafood, but I like the vegetarian.”

A waitress appeared, and Ally did in fact order the vegetarian gyoza. I asked if the spider roll was authentic.

Our waitress looked confused and said, “This one very hot. Very, very hot! Yes, is spider roll."

“Spider,” I said.

“Yes, yes,” she said. “Spider. Is very hot.”

I feigned shock. “Do you mean to tell me there’s an actual spider inside?”

Ally David’s eyes skirted the room. She gave the waitress a tight smile, and the two of them exchanged a female look, as if my comment confirmed some sort of conclusion they’d already drawn about me. Ally said, “Perhaps I should translate.”

“Please do,” I said.

“The spider roll is composed of tempura soft-shell crab,” she said.

“Composed,” I said.

“That’s right.”

I may have detected a hint of annoyance in her voice.

Ally wasn’t finished with me. “Spider is the name of the roll,” she said, “and nothing more.” Then, as if she couldn’t stop herself, she added, “Why would you even think such a thing?”

I shrugged. “Eel is eel, right? And tuna is tuna, yes?”

Ally David looked at her watch. “I don’t mean to be brusque, but I’ve got a one o’clock and it’s already twelve fifteen. You wanted to talk to me about Ken Chapman?” she said.

“I did.”

I was not insensitive to the fact that our waitress continued to wait patiently for my order. “I’ll have …” I briefly looked through the menu again.

“Anytime today would be nice,” Ally said.

“I think I’ll try … the spider roll,” I said.

“For the love of God,” Ally said.

“Very, very hot,” our waitress warned. “Not recommend,” she said.

“But it’s on the menu,” I said. “So people must order it.”

“Yes, yes,” she said. She pointed to a large man sitting alone at the sushi bar. “He already order. I bring to him very soon.”

I smiled. “Then I’m sure it will be fine,” I said.

She nodded and sprinted away to place the order.

“Are you always this …”Ally searched for a word, gave up, and tried again. “Could you possibly be this obtuse?”

I shrugged and looked at her but she lowered her eyes and pretended to be intrigued by the place setting. I spoke to fill the silence. “Did you and Chapman date before his divorce became final?”

She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “No. Ken was legally separated when we met.”

There were delicate white china cups in front of us, and black lacquer soup bowls. I picked up my cup and tilted it so I could see if it said “Made in China” on the bottom. It didn’t.

“How long did you guys date?” I asked.

Ally looked up from the place setting to stare at me. “Can you tell me again what my dating Ken has to do with national security?”

“Like I said on the phone, we’re just building a profile,” I said. “Mr. Chapman is currently engaged to a woman whose former husband was a CIA operative.”

Ally made her eyes big and lowered her voice to an exaggerated whisper. “Is that against the law?” she asked. She rolled her big eyes at me the way my daughter Kimberly does. Only instead of being exasperated, Ally was mocking me.

“Against the law? Not in and of itself,” I said, sounding pathetic even to me.

“And yet,” she said, “simply by dating me and becoming engaged to another woman, Ken has managed to become a threat to national security! Perhaps I ought to call Senator Byrd’s office to sound the alert.”

This wasn’t going the way I’d envisioned. She was trying for smug and achieving it. She was also smarter than me, and I hate when that happens. There was but one thing to do: seize the initiative. I played the trump card God provided: I stared directly into her cleavage.

“During the time you dated Ken Chapman,” I said to her boobs, “did he ever beat you?”

“No.”

“You’re sure?”

“Of course I’m sure!”

“But you’re aware of his history, yes?”

She sighed. “I’m up here, perv.”

I reluctantly lifted my focus to her face, and Ally said, “Ken told me about Kathleen’s claims of abuse shortly after we started dating.”

“And?”

“And he explained what happened.”

I waited.

“I suppose you want to hear his version,” she said.

“It’s why I traveled all the way to Charleston,” I said.

“Not the spider roll?”

I smiled and shook my head.

“Not the capitol rotunda?”

“As hard as it must be to fathom, no.”

Our waitress approached carrying a heavy tray, which she perched on a portable stand. She poured scented green tea into our cups and steaming miso soup into our soup bowls. Ally picked up a white ceramic spoon and stirred her soup. I took a sip of my tea and was instantly overcome by the horrific taste. I looked around for something in which to spit the rancid liquid but finally gave up and swallowed it. I made a face to demonstrate how I felt about the tea. Ally rolled her eyes again, reaffirming something I already knew about my charm: though highly infectious to females, it sometimes requires an incubation period.

My cell phone rang. I glanced at the number and put it back in my pocket where it continued to ring.

“You’re an annoying person,” Ally said. “Anyone ever tell you that?”

I reminded her that she was supposed to be telling me her version of the Ken Chapman saga. She rolled her eyes. She sighed. She frowned. But she finally spoke.

“Ken had been married about a year,” Ally said, “when he learned Kathleen was mentally unstable. They had an argument, a shouting match, and he spent the night in a hotel. The next day, when he came home to apologize, he found her bloody and bruised.”

“He claimed not to remember beating her up?”

“She beat herself up.”

“Excuse me?”

“It was her way of punishing herself for making him angry.”

I took some photos out of my suit pocket and spread them on the table. “This look like something a woman might do to herself?” I asked.

Ally’s eyes avoided the photos. “I’m not an expert,” she admitted. “But it seems plausible, and it wasn’t an isolated case. Time and again during the marriage, Ken came home from work to find his wife had beaten herself for various reasons. When he tried to force her into therapy, she went to the police and told them Ken had assaulted her. This became a pattern. By turning him in to the police, or threatening to, she was able to control and manipulate the relationship.”

I sat there in disbelief. My jaw dropped, and I think my mouth may have been open during her entire response.

Ally pursed her lips and tasted her soup in the sexiest manner possible, as though she were French kissing it. It was amazing what she could do with her mouth while nibbling at the liquid on her spoon. You put two women side by side, let them both taste some soup. The other woman can be twice as hot as Ally. Out of a hundred guys, Ally wins ninety times. Guaranteed.

“Are you dating anyone now?” I asked.

“Are you asking on behalf of national security?”

“This is a personal query,” I said, flashing my high-voltage smile for good measure.

“Well in that case, yes, I’m dating someone.”

She was clearly insulting me or at least pretending to. Truth was, I didn’t even like her and certainly didn’t want to date her. I really just wanted to see if I could. What can I say, maybe it’s a guy thing, but she gives great soup.

“Your dating situation,” I persisted, “would you classify it as a serious relationship?”

“Yes, I would,” she said. “But I wasn’t certain about that until just now.”

“Well congratulations,” I said dryly.

“Well thank you,” she said, matching my tone.

Suddenly, the heavy-set customer at the sushi bar yelled, “Fuck!” and jumped off his stool. He grabbed his throat and spun around in a circle as if his left foot had been nailed to the floor. “Holy Mother of God!” he screamed and spit a mouthful of something onto the floor—something I was pretty sure had to be the spider roll. He jumped up and down in a sort of death dance, coughing and shaking his hands profusely. He yelled, “I’ll sue you bastards! I’ll sue you for every cent you have!”

The waitress ran out from the kitchen, took one look at him, and said, “Is hot, yes?”

He gave her a withering look. “Yeah, it hot! It plenty, plenty hot! And I know you not recommend. But here in America, we have laws against serving battery acid. By the time I’m finished with you, you’re all going to wish you’d never left China!”

The waitress and sushi chef looked at each other. She said, “We Japanese. Not Chinese.”

The enraged customer flung his head toward the ceiling and yelled, “Fuck you!” He slapped his face twice, made a barking sound, and stomped off in a huff . Most of the customers laughed. Ally didn’t, so I stopped laughing and changed the subject.

“So the police took Kathleen’s word over Ken’s,” I said. “About the beatings.”

“Wouldn’t you?”

“I would, in fact,” I said.

I tried a half-spoonful of the soup and wondered if miso might be the Japanese word for week-old sweat socks.

“I know what you’re thinking,” she said. “But I had reasons for believing Ken’s story.”

“Such as?”

“He never laid a hand on me. He never abused me verbally.”

“That’s it?”

“I never saw him lose control throughout our relationship. And even though Kathleen continued to accuse him of abuse, Ken never left her.”

I raised my eyebrows and watched to see if her cheeks would flush. They did, just slightly. She’d basically just admitted to dating Kathleen’s husband while they were still married. We both realized it, but I was the only one smiling about it.

“Look, Mr. Creed,” she said, “whether you want to believe it or not, Ken’s a decent guy. He was always there for his wife. He did everything he could to get Kathleen to seek treatment.”

I looked at the photos. “He seems to have been very persuasive in that regard,” I said.

She started to say something, then stopped and had some more soup. She looked at me and shook her head. Ally seemed comfortable with the silence, but I was even more comfortable with it. When she finally spoke, her voice was steady. “You may think I’m stupid, Mr. Creed, or gullible. But it was Kathleen, not Ken. You’d know it if you spent any time with him.”

What I now knew, thanks to Ally, is what Ken Chapman would say to Janet if I confronted her with the photos and police reports. I couldn’t believe this scumbag had invented a back story that made him the victim! I mean, I could believe it, but I couldn’t believe it worked. But he had, and that put me in a quandary. If I couldn’t use the police reports, how could I prevent Janet from marrying this creep?

I could always kill him. But I couldn’t kill him. I mean, I’d love to kill him, but Janet would know I did it, and she’d never forgive me. No, everything in my gut told me that Janet had to be the one to find out about Chapman. She’d have to learn about him in such a way that he wouldn’t be able to con her like he conned Ally David.

The waitress brought our main courses. Ally gave a coy smile and purred, “Dig in, Spider-Man! Show ’em how tough you are!”

I looked at the concoction on my plate. Every part of it was colorful, but the colors seemed wrong for the dish in a way that reminded me of Tammy Faye Bakker’s makeup. I pushed a few items around the plate with my chopsticks and may have seen little puffs of smoke. I decided to concentrate on the soup instead.

When we left the restaurant, Ally said not to bother walking her back to the rotunda. I sat on a nearby bench and watched her walk away. About twenty steps into her departure, she lifted her arm and waved without turning her head. I wondered what gave her the confidence to assume I’d been staring at her ass that whole time.

I sat awhile and thought about my ex-wife, Janet. It was clear I’d have to come up with something novel to help her understand the enormous mistake she was about to make in marrying Ken Chapman. I had an idea playing through my mind, but before I could put it on paper, I’d need to spend some time with Ken Chapman’s ex, Kathleen Gray.

Kathleen was currently living in North Bergen, just outside New York City. Lou Kelly had run a credit check on her and learned she had recently applied for a home loan with her local bank. The loan was still pending, and Lou suggested I pose as a loan officer and use that pretense to set up a meeting with her. Of course, I could simply threaten her, Lou had said. I thanked Lou for the advice and explained that I wouldn’t need to rely on threats or a cheesy cover story. Truth, honesty, and an abundance of natural charm were my allies.

I dialed her number.

“Hello,” Kathleen Gray said.

“Kathleen, my name is Donovan Creed and I’m with Homeland Security in Bedford, Virginia. I’d like to talk to you about your ex-husband, Kenneth Chapman.”

The connection went dead.

Not a problem. I could always fly into LaGuardia tomorrow and sweet talk my way into a dinner date with her. Since I had my phone out anyway, I decided to dial my mystery caller, the persistent person who shouldn’t have had my number.

I punched up the number and watched it connect on the screen with no premonition of the effect this simple act was about to have on my life.

CHAPTER 3

“Mister … Creed … thank … you for … re … turning … my … call.”

At first I thought it was a joke. The voice on the other end of the line was metallic, choppy, like a guy on a respirator or maybe a tracheotomy patient who had to force air through a speaking valve in his throat.

“How did you get my number?” I asked.

“Sal … va … tore … Bon … a … dello,” he said.

“How much did he charge you for it?”

“Fif … ty … thou … sand … dollars.”

“That’s a lot of money for a phone number.”

“Sal says … you’re … the … best.”

The tinny, metallic voice revealed no hint of emotion. Each word bite was cloyingly monotonous and annoyed the shit out of me. I found myself wanting to imitate it, but resisted the urge. “What do you want?” I said.

“I want … to em … ploy you … part … time … the way … Sal … does.”

“How do I know I can trust you?” I said.

“You can … torture … me … first … if you … want.”

He offered to write down a name and give it to me and I could torture him until I was satisfied he’d never reveal it. This was supposed to prove he wouldn’t sell me out later if something went wrong in our business arrangement. The man was obviously insane, which meant he was pretty much like everyone else with whom I associated.

“Before we go any further,” I said, “what shall I call you?”

“Vic … tor.”

“There’s a fl aw in your plan,” I said. “Torture is only one way to make you talk. What if someone kidnaps your wife or kids or your girlfriend? What if they threaten to blow up the day care center where your sister works? Trust me, Victor. It’s hard to let your loved ones die a horrific death when you could save them by simply revealing a name.”

There was a long pause. Then he said, “I’m … wheelchair … bound. There … is no … one … in … my life. When … you … meet me … you will … under … stand.”

I thought about that for a moment and decided I already understood. “I’d rather limit our relationship to the telephone for now,” I said. “I actually do believe you wouldn’t talk. Something tells me you’d welcome torture and maybe even death.”

“You are … very … percep … tive … Mr. … Creed. So … when … can you … start?”

I wasn’t worried about speaking freely on my cell phone. The few people in the world capable of breaching my cell security already knew what I did for a living. “I have three clients,” I said. “If you want me, you’ll be fourth in line. Each contract is fifty thousand dollars, plus expenses, wired in advance.”

“Can … I … de … cide how … the hits … go … down?”

“Within reason,” I said.

Victor gave me the details for the first target. Then he hit me with a stipulation I’d never encountered: he wanted to speak to the victim minutes before the execution. I told him that would require kidnapping, which would place a major burden on me. It meant a second person, more time, and more exposure. I refused all the way up to the point where Victor offered to double my fee.

Victor proceeded to tell me exactly what he wanted me to do, and why. And as he spoke in that creepy, metallic voice, I realized that even though I thought I’d stared in the face of the deepest, darkest evil the world could possibly produce, I had never encountered anyone as vile. I came away thinking I’d have to scrape the bowels of hell with a fine-tooth comb to uncover a plan as morbidly evil as his.

I told him I’d do it.

CHAPTER 4

“Before you meet them, you need to see them,” Kathleen Gray said as she signed me in. “They do this for the children, so they won’t see you cry or recoil in horror,” she added.

The William and Randolph Hearst Burn Center at New York-Presbyterian/Weill Cornell is the largest and busiest burn center in the country, entrusted with treating more than a thousand children each year. I got that and a bunch of other information from a brochure in the lobby while waiting for Ken Chapman’s ex to show up. I had called her at work and explained I needed to meet her in person before I could consider approving her house loan.

“Bullshit!” she had said. “You’re the guy from Homeland Security who called me yesterday. Don’t bother denying it; I recognize your voice.”

Nevertheless, Kathleen agreed to meet me after work at the burn center, where she volunteered two hours of her time every Tuesday. She escorted me through the lobby door and down a long hallway.

“What made you decide to work with burn victims?” I said.

“After my divorce, all I wanted was to get out of Charleston and make new friends, so I moved here and got a job. But I didn’t know anyone. Then one day my company offered tickets for a charity event, and I took one just to have someplace to go, thinking maybe I’d meet someone.”

“And?”

“And here you are!” She burst out laughing. “Well, you’re a liar, of course, but at least you’re good-looking. And everything about you screams ‘single guy!’”

We turned left and headed down another hallway. Several corridors ran off that one, and I tried to keep up with the route we’d taken in case I had to navigate back on my own. Doctors and nurses came and went, walking with purpose. A short, pudgy nurse in a light blue lab coat winked at Kathleen and made kissing sounds as she passed. We walked a few steps, and I cocked my head and said, “I bet there’s a story there!”

“Oh, hush, you!” she said.

I raised my eyebrows, and she started giggling.

“Don’t even,” she said.

I didn’t. “What makes you think I’m single?” I asked.

She laughed. “Oh, please!”

We passed a window. The sky was darkening outside, and the gusting wind made a light buzzing sound as it attacked the weaker portions of the window frame. Kathleen had entered the hospital wearing a heavy cloth overcoat that she now removed and hung on a wooden peg by the outer ward doors. She pushed a silver circle on the wall and the doors flew open.

“I didn’t meet anyone special at the fundraiser,” she said, “but I was touched by the video presentation. That night, I read the brochure from cover to cover and got hooked.”

“So you just showed up and they put you to work?”

“Yeah, pretty much. Until that point, my life had been in a downward spiral. I’d felt sorry for myself, victimized, after the whole Ken thing. Then I met the burn kids and I was humbled by their optimism and their passion to survive.”

“Sounds like you found a home.”

She smiled. “Yes, that’s it exactly. I made an instant decision that changed my life.”

“And now you come here every Tuesday?”

“Yup. Every Tuesday after work for two hours.”

Kathleen picked up a clipboard. While she studied it, I took the opportunity to study her face and figure. I had come here expecting to fi nd a timid, broken woman, but Kathleen’s divorce obviously agreed with her. She was attractive, with large eyes and honeycolored hair that stopped an inch above her shoulders. I took her for a natural blond because she wore her hair parted in the middle and I couldn’t detect any dark roots. High on her forehead, just beneath her hairline, I could make out a light dusting of freckles. She had a few more freckles scattered across the bridge of her nose as well. Her body was gym tight, and she had a friendly, easygoing manner that revealed nothing of the difficult past I had witnessed in the police photos. Her voice was unique. You could get caught up in it, especially when she spoke about her volunteer work. We were about to enter the burn center treatment area, and despite my concerns about what might lie beyond the next set of doors, I found myself hanging on her every word.

“The pain these children live with daily is something you and I will never encounter or comprehend,” she said. “And the toddlers, oh my God, you can’t help but burst into tears the first time you see them. It’s best to see them through a one-way mirror before you meet them because the worst thing you can do is let them see your pity. It erodes their self-confidence and reinforces the fear that they’re monsters, unfit for society.”

I admired her character, but the last thing I felt like doing was looking at severely burned children. Kathleen sensed it and said, “If you want to talk to me about Ken, you’ll have to participate.”

“Why is it so important to you that I do this?” I said.

“Because even though you look like a thug, who’s to say you won’t turn out to be the person who winds up making a difference?”

“Let’s assume I’m not that person. Then what?”

“If you really are with Homeland Security, I’m guessing you spend most of your time distrusting people. I can think of worse things than exposing you to some wonderful children who deserve compassion, friendship, and encouragement.”

“Friendship?” I said.

Kathleen smiled. “Could happen,” she said. “And if it does, it will change two lives: theirs and yours.”

“But …”

Just keep an open mind,” she said.

Kathleen escorted me through the double doors and into a viewing room that put me in mind of the ones in police stations—only instead of overlooking an interrogation room, the burn center viewing room overlooked a play area. She asked if I was ready. I took a deep breath and nodded, and she pulled the curtain open.

There were a half-dozen kids in the play area. We watched them interact with toys and each other for several minutes, and at some point, I turned and caught her staring at me. I don’t know what Kathleen Gray saw in my face that evening, but whatever it was, it seemed to delight her.

“Why, Donovan,” she said. “You’re a natural!”

I assumed she was referring to my casual reaction to the kids’ severe disfigurement. Of course, Kathleen had no way of knowing that my profession had a lot to do with it, not to mention my close friendship with Augustus Quinn, a man whose face was singularly horrific and far more frightening than anything going on in the playroom.

Kathleen took me by the wrist and said, “All righty then. Let’s meet them.”

I have a soft spot for children and rarely find it necessary to kill them. That being said, in general I’m uncomfortable around kids and expect I come across rather stiff and imposing.

These kids were different. They were happy to see me. Or maybe they were just happy to see anyone new. They giggled more than I would have expected, and they seemed fascinated by my face, especially the angry scar that runs from the side of my cheek to the middle of my neck. All six of them traced it with their fingers. They were truly amazing, all of them.

But of course, there was one in particular.

Addie was six years old. She was covered in bandages and glossy material the color of lemon rind. She smelled not of Jolly Ranchers or bubblegum but soured hydrocolloid.

I knew what I was seeing.

According to something I’d read in the waiting room, fourth-degree burns affect the tissues beneath the deepest layers of skin, including muscles, tendons, and bones. This, then, was Addie.

Except for the eyes. Her eyes were unharmed, huge and expressive.

Though relatives were told that Addie and her twin sister Maddie would not survive the initial treatment, amazingly they did. They were ordinary kids who should have been running around in a yard somewhere, playing chase or tag, but sometimes life deals you a shit hand. Around noon the second day, while Addie stabilized, Maddie took a turn for the worse. She alternately faltered and rallied all afternoon as a team of heroes worked on her, refusing to let her die. Kathleen wasn’t there but she heard about it, what a special, brave child Maddie was.

In the end, her fragile body failed her. A nurse said it was the first time she’d seen a particular doctor cry, and when he began bawling, it caused the rest of the team to lose it. They were all touched and personally affected by the fight in these little twins, these tiny angels. They said they’d never seen anyone quite like them and didn’t expect to ever again.

“Want to see the picture I drawed?” Addie asked.

I looked at Kathleen. She nodded.

“I’d like that,” I said.

Before showing it to me, Addie wanted to say something. “All the camera pictures of me and Maddie got rooned in the fire, so I drawed a picture of Maddie so all my new friends could see what we looked like before we got burned up.”

She handed me a crayon drawing of a girl’s face.

“That’s Maddie,” she said. “Wasn’t she beautiful?”

I couldn’t trust myself to speak so I just nodded.

When we left the burn unit, Kathleen said, “I love them all, but Addie’s the one who got me praying.”

“What happened to her?” I asked.

Kathleen took a deep breath before speaking. “About two weeks ago, Addie’s house caught on fire. Her parents, Greg and Melanie, died in the fire while trying to save the girls’ lives.”

“Addie was able to talk about it?”

Kathleen nodded. “There was also the 911 call Melanie made.

Apparently she got trapped downstairs. Greg made it to the girls’ room and put wet towels over their faces to keep them alive until the firefighters arrived.”

“Smart guy to think about the towels,” I said.

“Addie originally thought the wet towels flew into the room by themselves. When they explained her mom threw them, her face lit up. Until that moment, she thought her mom had run away.”

We were both silent awhile.

“There was a lot of love in that marriage,” I said.

Kathleen said, “I haven’t experienced it personally, but I’ve always believed that during the course of a good marriage, especially when children are involved, husbands and wives often perform random acts of heroism that go largely unnoticed by the general public.”

“And in a great marriage,” I said, “when one spouse goes down, the other takes up the slack.”

Kathleen gave me a look that might have been curiosity, might have been affection.

“You surprise me, Creed.”

CHAPTER 5

“These little bombs weigh in at 490 calories,” Kathleen Gray said.

I glanced at the paltry square.

“That number seems high,” I said.

“Trust me,” she said. “I used to work at the one in Charleston.”

It was 7:45 pm and we were in Starbucks on Third and East Sixty-Sixth. Neither of us had much of an appetite, but Kathleen said she always treated herself to a raspberry scone after spending time at the burn center. She took a bite.

“Yum,” she said. “Technically, it’s a raspberry apricot thumbprint scone.” She cocked her head and appraised me.

“You sure you don’t want to try one?”

I didn’t and told her so. “Plus there’s the other thing,” I said.

“What other thing?”

“The acronym for it is RATS,” I said.

She studied me a moment, a faint smile playing about her lips. I saw them move ever-so-slightly as she performed the mental calculation.

“You’re an odd duck,” she said. “You know that, right?”

I sipped my coffee and made a note of the fact that I had now met three of Ken Chapman’s women, and two of them had commented on my strangeness on successive days. The third of Chapman’s women was my ex-wife, Janet, and her opinion of me was beyond repair.

Someone pushed open the front door, and a rush of wind blew some rain in, lowering the temperature by ten degrees. Or so it seemed. Something behind us caught Kathleen’s eye and she giggled.

“The barista was talking to someone and pointing at you,” she said. “I think it has something to do with the venti.”

I frowned and shook my head in disgust. “Barista,” I said.

Kathleen giggled harder. She scrunched her face into a pout.

“You’re such a grump!” she said.

“Well, it’s ridiculous,” I said.

She broke into a bubbly laugh. I continued my rant.

“These trendy restaurants, they’re all so pretentious! Just yesterday I saw a guy nearly die from eating some kind of exotic Japanese dish. And here,” I gestured toward the coffee-making apparatus, “you have to learn a whole new friggin’ language in order to justify spending four bucks for a cup of Joe.”

She laughed harder. “Joe? Oh, my God, did you just say Joe? Tell me you just climbed out of a forties time machine.”

I think she liked saying the word “Joe,” because she said it two more times while laughing uncontrollably.

The other customers glanced at us, but I wasn’t finished yet.

“Grande,” I said. “Solo. Venti. Doppio. What the hell is doppio, anyway—one of the seven dwarfs?”

“No,” she squealed. “But Grumpy is!” Kathleen’s laughter had passed the point of no return. Her cheeks were puffy, and her eyes had become slits.

I frowned again and recited the conversation for her. “All I said was, ‘I’ll have a coffee.’ ‘What size?’ she says. ‘A regular,’ I said. ‘We have grande, venti, solo, doppio, short, and tall,’ she says. ‘Four hundred ninety calories,’ you say. It’s a flippin’ two-inch square!”

Kathleen gripped the sides of the table. “Stop it!” she said. “You’re going to make me pee!”

When her last bubble of laughter died down, she told me it felt good to laugh after two hours with the kids. I understood what she meant. Bad as her life had been with Ken, she still managed to feel guilty that she had it so good by comparison.

I said, “I hate to end the party, but I need to ask you a few questions about Ken Chapman.”

She frowned. “Just when we were having such a good time.”

“I know.”

“I really hate to talk about it,” she said.

“I know.”

She looked at me and sighed. “Okay, Homeland. You put in your time. What would you like to know?”

For the better part of an hour, we talked about her marriage to Ken Chapman. It was hard on her, and by the time she dropped me off at my hotel, I could see she was emotionally drained. I didn’t ask her to join me for a nightcap, and she didn’t offer to, though she asked if I wanted to get together the next day.

“Tomorrow’s Valentine’s, you know,” she said.

I told her I had to meet someone, which was true. In fact, I said, I had to pack my overnight bag and head back to the airport that very night—also true. She nodded in an absentminded way as though this were something she’d heard before, something she expected me to say.

What I didn’t tell her: I had contracted to kill someone the next morning. What I did tell her: “I’m flying back tomorrow after my meeting to take you someplace special for dinner.” When I said that, her face lit up like a kid at Christmas and she gave me a big hug.

Then I said, “I’ll call you at work tomorrow just before noon and we can work out the details.”

An hour and change later, I was settling into my seat on the Citation. Ten minutes after that, I was sleeping soundly. But just before falling asleep, I thought Kathleen Gray had to be the nicest human being I’d ever met.

CHAPTER 6

Monica Childers didn’t want to die.

It was just past daybreak, Valentine’s Day, and we were north of Jacksonville, Florida, at the Amelia Island Plantation resort. Callie had positioned herself near the ninth tee box, where the main road intersected the cart path.

Monica was no terrorist or threat to national security, but I had already agreed to kill her, so here we were. These freelance contracts meant money in my pocket. Although it’s noble to pretend my fulltime job is killing suspected terrorists for the government, they pay me with resources, not cash. Of course, the resources are supposed to be used exclusively for monitoring or tracking terrorists. But Darwin, my government facilitator, knows full well how I earn my living. He rarely complains because killing civilians during the down times keeps me focused and sharp. At least that’s what he believes.

Darwin provides me with unparalleled clout. A simple call from him and doors get opened, legal procedures become irrelevant, and no turns magically to yes. While I’m very good with my own crime scenes, there’s always a random element to taking lives. On the rare occasions when something goes wrong, Darwin can be counted on to dispatch a crew to remove a body, clean a crime scene, or cover my tracks. He even controls a secret branch of the government that provides me and my crew with body doubles. Of course, the body doubles don’t know they’re working for us, but they remain safe until we need them. Darwin sees to that. He has a group of people who secretly protect them. I myself protected one of the body doubles the first year after leaving the CIA. I’ll probably do it again if I get bored in my retirement years. Listen to me: retirement years, what a laugh!

About 70 percent of my income had been coming through Sal Bonadello, the crime boss. Most of the rest came from testing weapons for the army. But now Victor Wheelchair had entered my life with what he said would be a lifetime of contracts—contracts so simple to fulfill, a rookie could do them. My typical hit involved high-profile targets and often required days, sometimes weeks, of planning. By contrast, the types of hits Victor needed could be planned and executed in a matter of hours. I’d have to be careful not to over-think them.

Victor said Monica had done nothing wrong and wanted to know if that was a problem for me. I said, “She’s obviously guilty of something or you wouldn’t want her dead. That’s good enough for me.”

Something in my comment struck a chord that resonated with the metal-voiced weasel, and he asked me to “E … la … borate.” I explained, “We who kill people for a living avoid making personal judgments about our targets. In Monica’s case, I’m not her attorney. Not her judge. Not her jury. I’m not being paid to determine her innocence. I’m being paid to render justice. Whether it’s you, Sal, Homeland, or Captain Kangaroo, all I need to know is that someone, somewhere, has found Monica Childers guilty of something and sentenced her to death. My job is to carry out the execution.”

Victor told me where to find Monica and how he wanted her to die. He said she ran at daybreak every morning and would do so even while on vacation at Amelia Island Plantation. So Callie waited for Monica by the ninth tee box, decked out in the latest dri-fi t Nike athletic apparel. To complete the ensemble, she wore custom running shoes and a high-tech runner’s watch. When she heard Monica coming her way, she started running and timed her approach to hit the intersection a few seconds after Monica passed. The two ladies noticed each other and nodded. Callie rounded the corner, increased her speed, and fell into step with Monica.

“Mind if I run with you?” Callie asked.

Monica pressed her lips into a tight frown. “As you can see, I’m not very fast.”

“Actually, you are!” Callie said. “I had to sprint like a boiled owl to catch you!”

Monica wrinkled her nose. “Boiled owl? I hope no actual event occurred to inspire such an expression!”

Callie giggled. “Oh my God, I hope so, too!”

Monica smiled in spite of herself.

“In any case,” Callie said, “this is a good pace for me. Plus, I hate running alone, especially when I don’t know the area.”

That was all it took to form a runner’s bond: two very pretty, fashionable ladies who shared a passion for running. I imagined them jogging fluidly over the plantation road, the cadence of their stride adding a human counterpoint to the morning sounds of the island’s bird and insect population.

Monica cast an envious glance at her running mate. “You have perfect legs!” she said.

Callie, caught a bit off guard, responded, “What a nice thing to say!”

Monica flashed a friendly smile and said, “You’re a model, right? I could grow to hate you!” After laughing, she added, “Are you staying at the plantation?”

Callie said, “We—my husband and I—checked in late last night.”

“You always run this early?”

“Not really. But my in-laws are arriving soon and I want to get in a few miles before they do.” The way she drew out the word “in-laws” made Monica smile.

“Oh God,” Monica said. “The in-laws.”

“Exactly!” Callie said. “By the way, I’m Callie Carpenter.”

“Hi, Callie. I’m Monica Childers.”

They exited the resort and turned left onto A1A. Looking down the highway a bit, Monica said, “Let’s avoid the van. It shouldn’t be there.”

Callie agreed.

They were about to head the opposite way when Callie said, “Oh my God! That’s my in-laws!” She sighed. “Oh well, so much for my run!”

Monica slowed. “Let’s try again tomorrow.”

“Come with me!” Callie suddenly blurted out, her eyes twinkling. “I want to introduce you. It’ll just take a sec, and you’ll be speeding down the road again in no time!”

As we planned, Callie ran ahead without giving Monica time to reply. Monica barely knew this girl and certainly wouldn’t want to stop her run to meet the in-laws. But she also wouldn’t want to appear rude, so we counted on her to follow Callie to the van.

And she did.

As the girls approached, I slid the side door of the van open and stepped out, smiling broadly. I’d dressed in what I considered to be coastal casual, a white, spread-collar dress shirt and tan linen slacks with matching Italian loafers. When I picked Callie up that morning, she had pointed at me and laughed a full minute. Even now, I saw her smirking at my choice of attire.

While waiting to be introduced, Monica ran her fingers through her fashionably short black hair. Though I knew her to be fortyone, she looked years younger. She was in excellent shape, with deep, expressive eyes and a willowy frame that boasted a set of Park Avenue’s fi nest implants. I wouldn’t classify her as stunning, but she was certainly pretty, possibly even striking for her age. She would probably hate to hear a man add the words “for her age” when describing her looks, but things were what they were.

Callie made the introductions, saying, “Donovan’s handsome, isn’t he! Check out that engaging smile and those penetrating, jade green eyes.”

“Oh please,” I said, rolling my penetrating, jade green eyes.

Monica smiled politely. As far as I was concerned, Callie could step back and let me take it from there, but she was on a roll. “And that outfit,” Callie said, winking at me, “very stylish.” Then she said, “Monica, what would you call that look?”

Monica smiled. “Umm … continental?”

“Coastal casual,” I said.

Monica was itching to get back to her run, but she returned my smile. “Hello, Donovan,” she said, extending her hand.

I took her hand in mine and made a slow, exaggerated bow as if intending to kiss it. Callie started to giggle, and Monica glanced at her and blushed. Monica seemed to want to say something, but I increased the pressure on her hand and suddenly everything in her world turned crazy. Monica gasped and tried to pull away, but I shifted my weight and clamped my other hand on her upper arm. Before her mind could process what was happening, I hurled her into the van with such force her body crashed into the far wall and rebounded to the floor.

Wide-eyed, terror-struck, Monica scrambled for the door. But I was already in the van, blocking her escape. Stunned mute by the sudden explosion of violence, Monica tried to scream. My hand was already at her throat, and the pressure was so intense she couldn’t achieve more than a squeak.

Monica’s eyes frantically searched for Callie. What was going on here, she must have wondered. Why wasn’t Callie helping her?

I pushed Monica’s head against the exposed metal floorboard with my left hand and slid the van door shut with my right. She tried to wriggle out of my grasp, so I applied more pressure to hold her in place. I heard something crunch and guessed it was the cartilage in her ear. Cartilage or not, it seemed to take the fight out of her. Monica’s chest heaved, and her breath came in quick bursts, like a child gasping after a hard cry. She let out a low moan like a terrified animal caught in a trap: too frightened to scream, too disoriented to react.

She must have heard the engine turn over, must have felt the van jerk into gear. Somewhere in the part of her brain that was still functioning, a puzzle piece fell into place. I know because I saw it register on Monica’s face: Callie was driving the van, and there would be no escape.

Something worked its way up her throat and triggered her gag reflex. A mixture of drool, nose fluid, and blood collected at her chin and hung like a thick strand of rope. Victor would be proud to see how far Monica had fallen in such a short period of time. As if on cue, her tears began fl owing freely. She whimpered in a little girl’s voice, “Please, please stop! You’re hurting me! You’re hurting me! Please! Let me go!”

Callie scanned the highway and checked the rearview mirror before slowing the van. She made a sharp left onto the meager trail we’d cased earlier. As she worked the van into the thicket, scrubby pine boughs and overgrown bushes and vines parted before us and instantly closed behind us, effectively swallowing us up. Callie pushed us in about a hundred yards, then, with great effort, turned the van around, pointed it back toward the highway, and put it in park.

“We’re good,” Callie said. She kept the engine running so the heater could work. Then she turned halfway around in the seat to watch.

“Monica,” I said, “I’m going to let you sit up now if you promise not to scream.”

She nodded as best she could, and I helped her get to a sitting position. She glared at Callie. Callie shrugged and mouthed, “Sorry,” then handed me some tissue to pass to her former friend. We watched Monica dab at her face until she’d got it as presentable as it was going to get under the circumstances. She tentatively touched some tissue to her ear. She winced and lowered her hand to inspect the blood. There wasn’t much on the tissue, but it was enough to cause some more tears to well up in her eyes. When she blinked, most of them got caught up in her eyelashes and only a few wound up tracing down her cheek. I’d been watching her all this time, waiting for her to catch her breath, maybe relax a bit. It seemed to be working. I think she was finding some hope to cling to. After all, why would we bother with tissue if we intended to kill her, right?

I called Victor. “She’s ready to talk,” I said. I handed the phone to Monica, and Callie and I climbed out of the van and closed the doors behind us.

“Did you see the look on her face when you handed her the phone?” Callie said.

I nodded. It was a look I couldn’t easily describe: a mixture of shock, confusion, hope, fear. This whole experience had been a first for me.

“You think she’ll try to lock us out?” Callie said.

“I doubt it. She knows she can’t get to the front seat faster than we can open the door.”

Callie nodded. We watched the poor soul holding the phone to her good ear, straining to understand the clipped, metallic voice at the other end of the line. I knew the feeling.

“How are you coming with the body double?”

“The one for you?” I asked. “I’m still working on it.”

Callie laughed. “I’ll bet you are.”

“Not easy finding a nice, sweet librarian looks like you.”

“Librarian, huh?”

“Sure, why not?”

“Your last ‘librarian’ was Fifi the French whore. Had a tattoo on her pussy that said, ‘Read My Lips!’”

I smiled at the thought. “Fifi ’s right, but I don’t remember her calling herself ‘the French whore.’”

Callie frowned. “It’s a librarian expression. But she wasn’t the first hooker librarian with a crotch tat. Do you even remember the name of that other one?”

I did. Constance would have been a perfect body double for Callie … except for the crotch tat that said, “Is it hot in here or is it just me?”

“I think I deserve more credit,” I said. “It’s not easy finding a body double for you. Not to mention the detailed inspections I have to make, you being so fussy about tattoos and such.”

“Yeah, well I agree that when it comes to hookers, you put everything you have into your work.”

Inside the van, tucked against the far corner, Monica had pulled her knees up to her chest. Tears streaked her cheeks, and her mouth formed words I couldn’t hear. She seemed to listen for a while and then she started crying softly.

“What do you think he’s saying to her?” Callie said.

I had no idea and hated myself for caring.

“This next body double,” Callie said. “Does she have a tattoo?”

“Jenine? I don’t know yet.”

“But you’re itching to find out.”

“My devotion to detail is legendary,” I said. “Timeless.”

“So is the clap,” Callie said.

Monica looked up at me through the window and nodded, and I opened the door. I heard her thank Victor and wondered what that meant. She handed the phone back to me. I put it to my ear.

“Creed,” I said.

“You know … what … to do,” Victor said.

CHAPTER 7

I did know what to do, but I was curious about a couple of things. I asked Monica if she knew Victor.

“I know of him,” she said.

“How’s that?”

“Through my husband.”

I nodded. So Victor was killing her to punish the husband. At least that made some sense. I didn’t want to ask too many questions, though. Questions lead to answers, and answers lead to doubt, and doubt will ruin a good contract killer. I looked at Callie. She was about to explode, she wanted to know so badly.

“Tell me about Victor,” I said.

“I can’t. If I tell you, you’ll kill me.”

Callie and I exchanged a look. Callie couldn’t hold it back any longer; she had to speak. “This Victor guy, you’re saying he told you we’d let you go if you kept quiet about your conversation with him?”

Monica looked confused. “Is this a trick question?”

Callie looked at me in disbelief. “What a twisted fuck.”

“Hey, watch it,” I said. “You’re talking about our employer.”

We all sat there looking at each other for a minute. I could have forced it out of her, but I didn’t want to torture her. I could have threatened her into telling me, but that would require giving her false hope, and that didn’t feel right to me somehow. I decided to let the motive slide.

“Okay, Monica,” I said. “You didn’t tell us anything about your conversation with Victor or about your connection to him, so you did well. I won’t ask you again. But tell me this: why is his voice so weird?”

“He’s a quadriplegic.”

I nodded. “Still,” I said, “it’s eerier than that. There’s more to it.”

Monica was loosening up now, convinced she was about to be released. She had stopped crying, and her voice was steadier. She seemed encouraged. “It’s probably because he’s so young,” she said, “and a midget.”

Callie and I looked at each other. I said, “Midget?”

Monica gasped. “Little person,” she said. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to say that.”

Callie asked, “Young? How young?”

Monica looked at me before speaking. “I don’t know,” she said. “Early twenties?”

“Your husband must have done something terrible to make Victor this angry,” I said.

She nodded. “He saved Victor’s life,” she said.

CHAPTER 8

I gently lowered Monica’s head back to the floor and held it there. I stroked her hair a couple of times to help calm her. And she was calm … until she caught sight of the syringe in my free hand. At that point, her eyes grew wide with terror. She started thrashing around in the van. Then she lost control of her bladder. Too frightened to care, she peed explosively. I heard it strain against her clothing, burbling hot against her crotch, down her thigh. Because of our close proximity, she managed to drench my pants leg in the process. I looked over at Callie, exasperated.

“Believe me, Donovan,” she said, “that can only improve your ‘coastal casual’ look.”

I frowned and loosened my grip ever so slightly—but just enough—and this time Monica’s scream was loud and piercing. Of course, it had no effect out there in the middle of nowhere. I got her back under control, parted her hair, and pricked the side of her scalp with the tip of the syringe. A few minutes later, I slid open the side door and pushed Monica out. Her body tumbled into a thicket and skidded to a stop. She staggered to her feet and managed to walk a few shaky steps before falling down to stay.

Callie put the van in gear and steered it carefully through the underbrush and back onto the highway. She kept to the speed limit, drove south, and put the crime scene behind us.

“A real fighter, that one,” I said, making my way to the front passenger seat. “She impressed me just now, the way she got to her feet.”

Callie nodded.

The van’s tires thrummed rhythmically over the patchy road tar. We passed a golf course on the right and an ambitious condo development on the left, which appeared to be unfinished and abandoned. The few residential community entrances we passed were camouflaged by foliage so dense and overgrown, even in February, I had to wonder what sort of people would pay these astronomical prices to live a half mile from the beach, among the spiders and mosquitoes, without benefit of an ocean view.

“She had gorgeous hair,” I said.

“Very stylish,” Callie agreed. “And classy.” She paused a minute before asking, “How long you think before someone finds her?”

“This close to the plantation? Probably two days.”

“You think they’ll notice the needle mark on the scalp?”

“What are we, CSI? I doubt the ME will notice it.”

“Because?”

“I put it in one of her head wounds.”

Callie thought about that and said, “She must have hit the wall head first when you threw her in the van.”

“That’d be my guess,” I said.

We rode in silence awhile, content to watch the scenery unfold. We were on A1A, south of Amelia Island, where the two-lane road cuts a straight swath through the undeveloped scrub and marsh for fifteen miles. There was a primal element to this stretch of land that seemed to discourage the rampant commercialization running almost nonstop from Jacksonville to South Beach. A couple miles in, we passed three crosses and a crude, homemade sign that proclaimed “Jesus Died For Your Sins!”

“Monica seemed nice,” Callie said. “A little snooty, but that could be the money. Or the age difference. Still, I liked her. She had great manners.”

I laughed. “Manners?”

“She had a premonition about the van,” Callie said. “But she didn’t want to offend me, so she came anyway.”

I tried the sound of it in my mouth. “She was killed because of her good manners.”

“I liked her,” Callie repeated.

“I liked her, too,” I said, “until she peed on me!”

I placed two bundles of cash in Callie’s lap. She picked one up, felt the weight in her hand.

“I like this even better,” she said.

We dropped the van off behind an abandoned barn a couple miles beyond the ferry boat landing. We removed the explosives from the wheel well in Callie’s rental car and positioned them throughout the van.

“How much you have to pay for this thing?” Callie asked.

“Four grand,” I said. “Not me, though. Victor.” Right on cue, my phone rang.

“Is it … fin … ished?” Victor asked.

“Just a sec,” I said. I climbed in the passenger seat, and Callie drove us a quarter mile before putting the rental car in park.

“Are we far enough away?” I asked.

“If we go too far,” she said, “we’ll miss the fun part.”

She got out of the car and dialed a number on her phone and the van exploded in the distance. Callie remained out of the car until she felt the wind from the explosion wash lightly over her face.

“You’re insane,” I said to Callie.

“It’s done,” I said to Victor.

Victor said, “Good. I … have … two more … jobs … for you.”

“Already?” I retrieved a small notebook and pen from my duffel and wrote down the information. The names, ages, occupations, and addresses were so different, it seemed as though they’d been plucked out of thin air. I asked Victor, “Do you even know these people?”

“All … part … of a … master … plan,” he said. I covered the mouthpiece and said to Callie, “I take back what I said before, about you being insane.” Then I said to Victor, “Are there many more?”

“Many,” Victor said in his weird, metallic voice. “Real … ly … Mr.

… Creed … evil is … every … where … and … must … be pun… ished.”

CHAPTER 9

“I must see the Picasso,” Kathleen said.

“Then you shall,” I said.

“And the maître d’,” she said. “They have one, right?”

“They do indeed.”

“Is he stuffy? I hope he’s insufferably stuffy!”

“He will be if I don’t tip him,” I said. We were in the Seagram Building on East Fifty-Second, in the lobby of the Four Seasons restaurant.

She touched my arm. “Donovan, this is really sweet of you, but we don’t have to eat here. I don’t want you to spend this much on me. Let’s just have a drink, see the painting and maybe the marble pool. We can share a pizza at Angelo’s afterward.”

“Relax,” I said. “I’m rich.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

The Four Seasons is famous, timeless, and the only restaurant in New York designated as a landmark.

“Do you mean really, you’re rich,” she said, “or that you’re really rich?”

“I’m rich enough to buy you whatever you’d like to have tonight.”

She laughed. “In that case, I’ll have the Picasso!”

Did I mention I liked this lady?

I gave my name to the maître d’ and led Kathleen to the corridor where the Picasso tapestry had hung since the restaurant opened back in 1959. The twenty-two-foot-high Picasso was in fact the center square of a stage curtain that had been designed for the 1920 Paris production of The Three Cornered Hat. When the theater owner ran out of money, he cut the Picasso portion from the curtain and sold it. Now, with the economy in distress, Kathleen had heard the tapestry was about to be auctioned for an estimated eight million dollars. This might be her only chance to see it.

“Oh my God!” she said, her voice suddenly turning husky. “I love it!”

“Compared to his other work, the colors are muted,” I said. “But yeah, it’s pretty magnificent.”

“Tell me about it,” she said. “Impress me.”

“It’s a distemper on linen,” I said.

“Distemper? Like the disease a dog gets?”

“Exactly like that.”

She gave me a look. “Bullshit!”

“Well, it’s spelled the same way. Actually, it refers to using gum or glue as a binding element.”

She made a snoring sound. “Boring,” she said.

“Okay,” I said, “forget that part. Here’s what you want to know: Picasso laid the canvas on the floor and painted it with a brush attached to a broom handle. He used a toothbrush for the detailed work.”

Kathleen clapped her hands together. “More!” she said.

“It took three weeks to paint.”

She looked at me expectantly.

“He wore carpet slippers so he wouldn’t smudge the paint.”

I struggled to remember what else I’d read about the thing. I shrugged. “That’s all I’ve got,” I said.

Kathleen smiled and nudged up against me. “You did well,” she said.

We had a drink at the bar. Among the small crowd waiting for tables, Kathleen spotted Woody Allen, Barbara Streisand, and Billy Joel. I said, “See those two guys by the palm frond? That’s Millard Fillmore and Jackie Gleason!”

She sniffed. “At least the famous New Yorkers I’m lying about are still alive.”

A number of seasonal trees surrounded the white marble pool in the main dining room, and the head waiter sat us beneath one of them. Spun-metal curtains hung in rows against the walls, undulating softly as the air fl ow from the vents teased them.

“This is fantastic,” she said, looking around the room. “Everything is so elegant, especially the breathing curtains!”

“Especially those,” I said.

I tossed back a shot of bourbon and watched Kathleen sip her pomegranate martini. The waiter had brought us drinks and given us time to study the menus. Now he returned, ready to take our order.

“Of course I’ve never been here before,” Kathleen said, “so you’ll have to order for me.”

I nodded. “We’ll start with the crispy shrimp,” I said.

“Oops. No shellfish,” Kathleen said.

“Sorry,” I said. “How about the foie gras?”

“Goose liver pate?” she said. “Ugh!”

“Peppered quail?”

“Sorry,” she said. “Meat product.”

“Perhaps you should just pick something,” I said. She may have detected some annoyance in my voice.

Kathleen burst into a hearty laugh. “I’m just messing with you, Donny. I’d love some crispy shrimp.”

The waiter and I exchanged a glance.

“She might very possibly be insane,” I said, and Kathleen laughed some more.

Then she told the waiter, “Watch out for this one. He’s very grumpy in restaurants.”

The waiter left to place our order.

“Donny?” I said. I huffed a bit, and she placed her hand on mine.

“Okay, I won’t call you Donny,” she said. “But if we’re going to start seeing each other, I’m going to want a pet name for you.”

We looked at each other, and I rotated my palm so I could hold her hand. She cocked her head slightly and raised an eyebrow.

I said, “I have to admit there’s something special about you … Pablo!”

“Oh, God,” she said and laughed some more. “Okay then, no nicknames!”

I tried to remember the last time Janet and I shared a laugh.

“Something about me,” Kathleen repeated. Her eyes hinted amusement. She winked at me and sipped her cocktail. “Mmm,” she said. She touched the napkin to her mouth. You could add up all her looks and mannerisms and never total gorgeous, but you’d get to adorable pretty quick, and that was enough for me. Hell, I couldn’t take my eyes off her.

“Go ahead,” I said. “Ask me.”

“Ask you what?”

“Something’s bothering you. I can see it in your eyes.”

She twitched her mouth to one side and held it there, a sort of half-frown. “I don’t want to ruin the moment,” she said.

“The moment will survive.”

“Okay then, brace yourself.”

I took my hand away from hers and grabbed both sides of the table and pretended to hold on tight. “Let ’er rip!” I said.

She took a deep breath. “Last night at Starbucks, you told me about Janet and Ken dating. You were worried about his temper, what he might do to her if they decide to get married.”

I kept quiet.

“Do you still love her?” she asked.

“No. But I don’t want my daughter’s mother to marry a wifebeater.” She made a face, and I said, “I’m sorry. I can’t imagine what it’s been like for you.”

Kathleen was wearing the same cloth coat she’d worn the night before. She’d been cold and hadn’t wanted to surrender it to the coat check girl downstairs. But now she stood and removed it and folded it over the back of her chair, revealing a white blouse, a tan faux suede skirt, and a wide brown belt with two gold buckles. She wore very little makeup, or maybe it hadn’t been freshened up in a while, since she’d come straight from work. It didn’t seem to make her uncomfortable the way most women would be. She sat back down and surprised me by taking my hand in hers and kissing it.

“I don’t wish him dead or anything,” she said. “But Ken is …” She sighed. “Ken is not a part of my life anymore. I mean, there’s not a day goes by I don’t think about him or the terrible things he did to me. But.” She paused and showed a bittersweet smile as the memories danced across her face. “There were some good times, too. In the beginning.”

I nodded.

Then she said, “I’ve heard he’s gotten treatment, and I’m glad. I hope he’s okay. I hope he finds peace.”

I nodded again.

I had already finalized a plan for handling the Ken and Janet situation, and now I realized I’d been right all along not to involve her in it.

We had a wonderful dinner, and afterward, my driver took us to her place and she invited me in. Home for Kathleen was a modest duplex cottage with faded green siding. Her side of the duplex had three rooms: a kitchen, living room, bedroom—and a bath. A small stack of books sat on one end of a threadbare couch in the living room. She picked up the books and stacked them on the coffee table so we’d have room to sit.

“I’m sorry it’s not nicer,” she said.

“Don’t be silly.”

“It’s just, everything is so expensive here.”

“It’s wonderful,” I said.

And to me it was. When I’m in Virginia, I sleep in a prison cell. When I’m anywhere else for more than a day or two, I generally break into the homes of strangers and sleep in their attics. Sometimes I’ll live in an attic for weeks at a time. By comparison, Kathleen’s duplex was a palace.

“I can offer you a gin and tonic, bottled water, a hot chocolate with skim milk,” she said, “or a diet coke.”

I asked, “Do you have an attic?”

“What a strange question,” she said.

“No, I just meant, there’s not a lot of room for storage.”

“I have half an attic and half a basement,” she said. “Does that win me some kind of prize?”

I placed my hand to her cheek, and we looked at each other. “Don’t ask me to show them to you,” she said. “The attic is totally junked up, and the basement has rats, I think.”

I asked if I could kiss her. She said, “Okay, but just once. And not a movie kiss,” she added.

CHAPTER 10

“I’m not sure I appreciate your tone, Mr. Creed.”

“Why should you be the exception?” I said.

It was morning, a few minutes past eight. I was in the hospital coffee shop chatting with Addie’s Aunt Hazel.

“And just how is it you’re connected to Addie?”

“She’s my friend.”

After learning how special Addie was to Kathleen, I’d come to the hospital to check on her. During a discussion with one of the nurses, I learned that Addie’s father, Greg, had won ten million dollars in the New York State Lottery six months ago. I also learned that Hazel and Robert Hughes had originally planned to adopt their niece after her release from the hospital but had changed their minds after learning the money was gone. So when Aunt Hazel showed up, I ambushed her in the coffee shop.

“We’re not wealthy people, Mr. Creed,” Hazel had said. “Addie will require specialized care for the rest of her life, and yes, we were counting on the inheritance to provide it.”

“Perhaps your interest in Addie’s welfare extended only as far as the inheritance,” I’d said, and that’s when Aunt Hazel told me she didn’t appreciate my tone.

“What happened to the lottery money?” I asked.

“Greg used part of it to pay off the house, the cars, and credit cards. The balance, more than nine million, was placed in an annuity.”

I had a sudden revelation and immediately began experiencing a sick feeling in my stomach.

Hazel said, “The annuity was supposed to provide a huge monthly check for the rest of Greg and Melanie’s lives. But the way it was structured, the payments ended with their deaths.”

“Can you recall some of the specific provisions?” I asked.

“No,” she said. “But the whole business sounds crooked to me.”

“Who can tell me?” I asked.

She eyed me suspiciously. “I suppose Greg’s attorney can give you details.”

She rummaged through her handbag and gave me the business card of one Garrett Unger, attorney at law. I put some money on the table to cover our coffees.

“I’ll have a talk with Unger and let you know if anything develops.”

“We can’t afford to pay you,” she said.

“Consider it a random act of kindness,” I said. “By the way, can you give me the address of the house? I may want to poke around a bit.”

“Now who are you, exactly?” she asked.

“Someone not to be trifled with,” I said.

Hazel gave me a look of concern, and I smiled. “That’s a line from a movie,” I said.

“Uh huh.”

“The Princess Bride,” I added.

“Well it doesn’t sound like a wedding movie to me,” she said. I pulled out my CIA creds and waited for her to ooh and ah. Instead, she frowned and said, “This looks like something you’d find in a five and dime.”

“What’s a five and dime?”

“Like a Woolworths.”

I shook my head. “Doesn’t matter. As I said, I’m a friend of Addie’s. I met her through Kathleen, one of the volunteers here. I want to help.”

“What’s in it for you?”

I sighed. “Fine, don’t tell me.” I took out my cell phone, called Lou. When he answered, I said, “There was a fire two weeks ago at the home of Greg and Melanie Dawes.” I spelled the last name for him. “Both adults died in the fire. Their twin girls were taken to the burn center at New York-Presbyterian. I need the address of the house that burned down. No, I’m not sure of the state. Try New York, first.” I got our waitress’s attention and asked her to bring me a pencil and paper. By the time she fetched them, I had the address. I hung up and smiled at Aunt Hazel.

“Who was that?” she asked.

“Inigo Montoya.”

CHAPTER 11

Valley Road in Montclair, New Jersey, runs south from Garrett Mountain Reservation to Bloomfield Ave. Along the way, it borders the eastern boundary of Montclair State University’s sprawling campus. Coming west from NYC, you’re not supposed to see any of this on your way to the fi re station, but if you make the wrong turn off the freeway like I did, you get to see the sights. While I was doing so, my cell phone rang. Salvatore Bonadello, the crime boss, was on the line.

“You still alive?” Sal said.

“You call this living,” I said. It was still morning, not quite ten. I’d left the coffee shop, and Aunt Hazel, less than two hours earlier.

“I been hearing some things,” he said. “You stepped on someone’s toes big time.” He waited for me to respond, playing out the moment.

“Joe DeMeo?” I said.

Sal paused, probably disappointed he hadn’t been the one to break the news. “You didn’t hear it from me,” he said.

“Don’t tell me you’re afraid of DeMeo,” I said. “Big, tough, hairy guy like you?” I turned left on Bloomfield, heading south east.

“I don’t gotta fear the man to respect the power. And I got—whatcha call—compelling evidence to respect it. Whaddya mean, hairy?”

“Figure of speech,” I said.

I hadn’t been certain that arson was involved in the Dawes’ house fire but figured if it was, DeMeo was responsible. The fact DeMeo knew I was looking into the fire confirmed my suspicions. Still, I was shocked at how quickly he’d gotten the word. “How long you think I have before the hairy knuckle guys show up?”

“You in someone’s attic or what?”

“Rental car.”

“Okay. You prob’ly got a couple hours. But I was you, I’d start checking the rearview anyway.”

“Thanks for the heads-up.”

“Just protectin’ my—whatcha call—asset.”

“DeMeo called you personally? He doesn’t know we’re doing business?”

Sal paused, weighing his words. “He knows.”

I was stuck in a line of cars at the intersection of Bloomfield and Pine, waiting for the light to change. I had nothing else to think about beyond Sal’s comment or I might have missed the clue. I kicked it around in my head a few seconds before it hit me. “DeMeo offered you a contract on me.”

“Let’s just say your next two jobs are—whatcha call—gratis.”

Two jobs? That meant … “You turned down a hundred grand?”

Sal laughed. “It ain’t love, so don’t get all wet about it. I just don’t have anyone—whatcha call—resourceful enough to take you outta the picture. Plus, where am I gonna get a contract killer good as you? Unless maybe that blond fox you use. You tell her about me yet?”

The light turned green, and I eased along with the traffic until I got to the curb cut. “I’ve got to go,” I said.

Sal said, “Wait! We got a deal on the contracts?”

“I’ll give you one free contract,” I said. “You already made fifty Gs giving my name to that homicidal midget.”

“Which one?”

“You know more than one homicidal midget? Vic … tor,” I said, imitating my newest client.

Sal laughed. “I met the little fuck. He’s got dreadlocks.”

“You’re shitting me.”

“Long, nasty dreads, swear to Christ!”

We hung up, and I parked my Avis rental in one of the visitor’s parking slots and asked the guys out front where I could find Chief Blaunert. They directed me to the kitchen area of the station house. I walked in and asked the one guy sitting there if he happened to be the fire chief.

“Until October,” he said. “Then I’ll just be Bob, living on a houseboat in Seattle. You’re the insurance guy, right?”

I nodded. “Donovan Creed, State Farm.”

“Seattle’s cold this time of year,” he said, “but no worse than here. The wife has a brother, owns a marina up in Portage Bay near the university.”

From under the table, he positioned his foot against the seat of the chair across from him. His brown leather shoes were well-worn, but the soles were new. By way of invitation, he gestured toward the chair and used his foot to push it far enough away from the table for me to sit down. “Ever been there?” he asked. “Portage Bay?”

“Haven’t had the honor,” I said. I grabbed a Styrofoam cup from the stack near the sink and helped myself to some coffee from the machine.

“Well, some don’t like the rain, I guess. But to us, it’s as close to paradise as we’re likely to get.” The old Formica table in front of him had probably started out a bright shade of yellow before decades of food and coffee stains took their toll. I sat in the chair he’d slid out for me and tasted my coffee. It was bitter and burnt, which seemed fitting for fire house coffee.

“How’s the java?” he asked.

“Wouldn’t be polite to complain,” I said. “Of course, in seven months, you’ll have great coffee every day.”

He winked and gave me a thumbs-up. “You know it,” he said. “Seattle’s got a lot of nicknames, but Coffee Town’s the one I use.” He savored the thought a moment. “Course they’ve got Starbucks and Seattle’s Best. You probably don’t know Tully’s, but that’s a great coffee.”

We were both quiet a minute, two guys sipping bad coffee.

“You have much fire experience, Mr. Creed? Reason I ask, we weren’t expecting an insurance investigator.”

I raised my eyebrows. “Not ever?”

For the slightest moment, he seemed uneasy, but he adjusted quickly. “Not this soon, I meant.”

Chief Blaunert didn’t look much like a fi re marshal. He looked more like the love child of Sherlock Holmes and Santa Claus. He had white hair, a full white beard, and thick glasses with large, round frames. He also had an engaging smile and wore a wrinkled brown tweed suit over a white shirt and knit tie. All that was missing was a pipe and the comment, “Elementary, my dear Creed.”

Lou Kelly had set up the impromptu meeting while I picked up the rental car in West Manhattan. Lou had given Chief Blaunert my State Farm cover story, and Blaunert put Lou on hold a long time before agreeing to meet me. He said he was doing a field inspection at the Pine Road Station, but if I hurried, I could speak to him before the meeting. Finding him wearing a suit instead of his uniform, I doubted he was conducting an inspection. At the moment, I noticed he was eyeing me carefully.

“I’m more of a grunt than an arson investigator,” I said. “I interview the firemen, the neighbors, check the site. In the end, I tell the company if I think a fire’s accidental. Of course, even if I think it is, they’ll still want to send a forensic accountant to check the insured’s books, see if there’s any financial motive.”

Chief Blaunert nodded. “I wish I could save you the trouble,” he said, “but I know your company’s going to want a full report. Still, you can take my word for it—this fire was definitely an accident.”

“You checked it out yourself?”

“Had to, the media was all over it. Pitiful tragedy,” he said. “The whole family dead, all but one child, and she was burned beyond recognition.”

“No motive you’re aware of?”

Chief Blaunert’s face reddened. “Motive? You tell me the motive! What, they’re trying to screw your company out of a few hundred grand? They won the whole damned New York Lottery a few months back, ten million dollars!” He seemed genuinely upset by my question. “You think they’re going to torch their own home, kill their own kids?”

“No, sir, I don’t,” I said. “Truth be told, I’m just going through the motions. I’ll need to see the first firefighters on the scene, ask them a couple questions. I assume they’re here, this being the station that took the call.”

He stared at me until his anger subsided. When he finally spoke, his voice was clear and steady. “Yellow flame, gray smoke,” he said. “No suspicious people at the scene. No open windows. No sign of forced entry. No doors locked, no rooms blocked. Single point of origin, basement. No accelerants.”

“You definitely know the drill.”

“Ought to; I been doing it my whole life. You want, I can give you a couple names. You can say you interviewed ’em, take a quick peek at the scene, snap a few shots, and be back in Bloomington by dinner time.”

“Sounds like a plan,” I said. “I’ll have to interview one or two neighbors, though.” He nodded, and I handed him the pen and spiral notebook I’d bought for the occasion. I’d also bought the camera sitting on the front seat of the rental car in case one of the firemen wanted to accompany me to the scene. Chief Blaunert wrote some names in the notebook.

“Three enough?”

“That should do it.”

He tore out a clean sheet from the notebook and wrote down my name. “Got a cell number?”

I gave it to him and thought about Sal’s warning. I could see where this was going.

“Need an escort over there?”

“Naw, it’s only a few blocks,” I said. “I’ll get out of here and let you get on with your inspection.” I stood up, reached over to shake his hand. He hesitated, deciding whether to say something else.

“As to the neighbors,” he said, “my guys were on the scene in four minutes twenty after the call was logged. You can check it out: four twenty.” He stared at me through serious eyes.

“That’s really quick,” I said, just to fill the silence.

“It was after midnight,” he said, “darker than a closet in a coal mine. We set up a perimeter, pushed the neighbors back pretty far. They won’t be able to tell you anything different that’s reliable.”

“Chief, no worries. We’re going to pay this claim. That little girl’s been through enough. Meanwhile, you’ve saved me some time and trouble, and I appreciate it.” I smiled, and this time he shook my hand. “See you in Seattle, chief!”

“That’s where I’ll be,” he said. “Up by Portage Bay.”

“Drinking coffee with the wife,” I said.

He smiled and gave me another thumbs-up. “You got it.”

CHAPTER 12

Greg and Melanie’s burnt-out home was one neighborhood removed from the posh Upper Montclair Country Club. These were two-story, upper-middle-class homes with basements, brick exteriors, and asphalt shingle roofs. I’m no expert, but I’d price them around seven fifty, maybe eight hundred thousand.

I got out of the car and locked it with the remote. Before heading to the house and without staring at anything in particular, I scanned the area and didn’t like what I saw out of the corner of my eye: a 2006 Metallic Blue Honda Civic Coupe parked where one hadn’t been parked a few seconds earlier. I suddenly spun around, pretending to have forgotten something in the trunk. This didn’t require an Oscar-winning performance on my part, since I had a small-frame Smith & Wesson 642 hidden in the wheel well.

As I opened the trunk and retrieved the handgun, I noticed the Honda moving toward me. Though the sun was reflecting off the windshield, I was able to see that the driver was a woman.

The Honda came to a stop about ten feet in front of mine, which meant it was positioned where I couldn’t see anything without exposing at least part of my face from behind the raised hood of my trunk. I put the gun in my right hand and waited. Could DeMeo have sent a woman to do the job? I wracked my brain. Were there any women in the business brazen enough to drive right up to me in broad daylight and make an attempt on my life? Callie, maybe, but she was on my team. No one else came to mind.

Suddenly, I heard the car door open, and every synapse in my brain became locked and loaded for deadly confrontation. I waited for footsteps, thinking, yeah, DeMeo could have sent a woman. But while there were dozens of contract killers who might come straight at a guy, Joe DeMeo knows me, knows what I’m capable of. Would DeMeo send just one person to do the hit?

No way.

Which meant there was probably someone else working their way behind me, getting into position to make the kill shot.

Which meant I should turn my head and see what was happening behind me. Unfortunately, just as I was about to do that, I heard her step out of the car, heard her footsteps coming my way. I didn’t dare look behind me and didn’t dare not to. The way things were developing, I didn’t like my chances.

She walked purposefully, coming straight at me, but so far no one had tried to shoot me from behind. A number of thoughts flooded my brain, forcing me to make split-second decisions. I was going to have to rely on skill sets and survival instincts honed over fifteen years of daily application.

She was in the vicinity of my right front bumper, which would normally cause me to move to my left. But no, that’s what they’d expect me to do. It’s what they’d be counting on.

But I’d already looked in that direction and hadn’t seen anything to worry about. What was I missing? What was to the left of me that could possibly pose a threat?

The house.

Someone was probably inside the house, waiting to get a clear shot. She comes from the right, I move to my left, and bang.

White shirt time.

I waited another second until she was nearly on top of me, then ducked down and moved to my right and peered out from behind the rear bumper—then did a double-take.

It was Kathleen Gray.

“Donovan, what the hell are you up to?” she said, giving me just enough time to drop the gun into the trunk without her noticing. It would take a few seconds to gather myself and get my pulse back to normal. I took a deep breath and stood up.

“Of all the gin joints, in all the towns, in all the world, she had to walk into mine,” I said.

She didn’t fall for the misdirection. “Is that a gun in your trunk? Jesus, Donovan! Really, what are you up to?”

“What do you mean?”

“I got a call from my friend at the burn center. Addie’s Aunt told her you were coming to look at the house. By the time I got Hazel on the phone, she was seconds away from calling the police! I told her she must have misunderstood your conversation, yet here you are.”

“Relax. I’m just checking the scene.”

“Excuse me? What are you, some kind of closet detective? What is it you’re looking for?”

“Arson.”

That threw her for a moment, made her pause. I said, “I spoke to Hazel because I wanted to see if anyone had set up a fund for Addie. I wanted to make a contribution.”

“Imagine your surprise when you learned her family won the lottery.”

“Yes, but then I found out the payments ended when her parents died, and now Hazel has changed her mind about adopting Addie.”

“What does all this have to do with arson?”

I lowered my voice and looked around to make sure no one else was lurking about. “It’s probably nothing,” I said. “But I know a guy who buys structured settlements. Then he kills the annuitant and keeps the money.”

She looked at me like I’d lost my mind. “That sounds like a bad movie script,” she said.

“Uh huh.”

She shook her head. “Look, I know you’re some kind of muckymuck from the State Department or the CIA or Homeland Security or whatever. But this is Montclair, New Jersey, not Gotham City.”

I said nothing.

“You said you know this is happening. How do you know it’s true?”

“A couple of years ago, this same guy tried to hire me to do the killing.”

She looked startled for a moment. Then she burst into laughter. “Fine, so don’t tell me. Jesus, Donovan. You are so full of shit!”

She was wearing a burgundy patent tweed coat that showed her legs from the knees down. She had on textured panty hose that looked hotter than they sound, with burgundy ankle boots.

I said, “You heading back to work now?”

“What, and miss the big caper?”

I scanned the area around us again, knowing my time was running short. It wouldn’t be long before Chief Blaunert called Joe DeMeo, who might very well dispatch some thugs to kill me. I had to get Kathleen out of there, and quickly.

“You got any idea what soot will do to those boots?” I said.

“God, Donovan, you must date the girliest girls! I’ll just find a clean spot in there and watch you poke around, trying to impress me. Then you can take me to lunch.”

“Look,” I said, “I’ll make you a deal. You pick out a busy restaurant and go there now. I’ll get this done in twenty minutes and meet you there.”

She looked at me for what seemed like a long time before glancing at the house.

“Look at all the flowers and stuffed animals by the porch,” she said. “That’s so sad.” She paused a moment, thinking about it. “I know it’s only been a few weeks, but she’s so adorable. If anyone on earth deserves a mother’s love, it’s Addie.”

I nodded. “Pick a booth if they have one, and make sure my seat has a view of the main road.”

“Are you for real?”

“I am. And make sure I can see the restrooms and the kitchen from my side of the booth.”

She hesitated. For a second, I was afraid I’d frightened her. Then she shrugged and said, “You’re a lot of work, you know that?”

“I do.”

“Promise you’ll show?”

I did.

She named a restaurant and told me how to get there. She started to go, then spun back around, smiled a mischievous smile. “Kiss me,” she said.

I felt myself smile. “Okay, but not a movie kiss,” I said.

I watched her drive away and kept watching to make sure no one followed her. Then I inspected the house. Most of the exterior walls were in place, but the interior had been decimated. I couldn’t get down to the basement or up to the second floor, but sections of the second floor had fallen into the master bedroom. It took me less than ten minutes to figure out what had happened and how, but I interviewed one of the neighbors anyway.

CHAPTER 13

“Okay, so the attic window was open,” Kathleen said. “What does that prove?”

We were in Nellie’s Diner. Nellie’s was my kind of place, though worlds apart from the Four Seasons. The outside looked like the club car on a passenger train. Inside made you feel like you’d taken a step back into the fifties. I hadn’t been alive in the fifties, but Nellie’s was how I imagined the restaurants of the day: gleaming places filled with chrome. Vinyl booths, easy-to-clean laminate tables and countertops, and smiling, clean-cut waiters dressed in white shirts, black bow ties, and white paper hats. On the tables: plasticized menus propped against mini jukeboxes that showcased rock ’n’ roll music. Menu fare included fried onion rings, baked beans, corn bread, patty melts, club sandwiches, pork chops, pot roast, chicken pot pie, spaghetti with meatballs, and fried chicken. Drinks included cherry and vanilla Cokes, root beer fl oats, and old-fashioned milk shakes. On the bar counter under glass covers were displayed chocolate fudge brownies, chocolate chip cookies, and cherry, lemon meringue, and coconut pies. Each of the pies had at least one slice missing so the customers could see what was inside. The waiter took our orders, and I told Kathleen, “Wait a sec,” so I could hear him tell the cook. She rolled her eyes.

“One cowboy with spurs, no Tommy; a mayo club, cremated, and hold the grass!” he said.

“What on earth?” Kathleen asked.

I beamed. “It’s authentic diner talk. The ‘cowboy with spurs’ is my Western omelet with fries. ‘No Tommy’ means I don’t want ketchup. ‘Cremated’ means toast the bread. And ‘hold the grass’ means no lettuce on your club sandwich.”

“How do you know this stuff ?” she asked. “And why would you want to?”

“Say it,” I said.

“Say what?”

“I’m fun.”

She looked at me until a smile played around the corners of her mouth.

“You are fun,” she said. “Now tell me why the open attic window means something, and tell me what else you think you found.”

“Okay. First of all, a fire requires three things to burn: oxygen, a fuel source, and heat. That’s called the fire triangle. An arsonist has to tamper with one or more of those elements to fake an accidental fire. For example, this fire was set at the end of January and the attic window was open. Who leaves a window open in January?”

“Maybe the firemen opened it after the fact.”

“No. The arsonist opened it to provide an oxygen source.”

On the juke in the booth across from us, Rod Stewart was singing. Maggie May had stolen his soul and that’s a pain he can do without.

“Tell me you’ve got more than the open window,” she said.

“In the basement there were at least two points of origin. Also, in the floorboards in the master bedroom, under the bed, I saw some curved edges. I found some more in the hallway, and I’d bet the stairwell was full of them.”

“So?”

“So I think someone used a circular drill bit to drill holes in all those floorboards. That’s what created the air flow to feed the fi re and make it spread much faster than it should.”

“Well duh,” she said. “If a guy was traipsing all over the house, opening windows and drilling holes, especially under the bed, don’t you think Greg and Melanie would have heard him?”

“The prep work was done earlier, before they got home. They wouldn’t have noticed the open attic window or the drill holes under the bed. The steps were carpeted, so those holes were hidden. The arsonist probably broke into the basement before they got home so he wouldn’t have to chance waking them up later. I noticed the attic access doors were open, and that’s something Greg and Melanie would have noticed when they tucked the kids in for the night. So the arsonist must have waited for the family to fall asleep. Then he sneaked up the stairs and opened the attic doors and doused the carpet in the kids’ room with gasoline.”

“What? Excuse me, Columbo, but how do you know he doused the carpet?”

“I pulled some of it up and guess what I saw?”

“A stain that looks like Jesus on a tricycle?”

“No, I found char patterns.”

“Char patterns,” she said.

“When you pour a liquid accelerant on carpet, it soaks into the fibers. When it burns, it makes concentrated char patterns on the sub-floor.”

Kathleen frowned, still unconvinced. “What was all that with the neighbor guy and the color of the smoke?”

“The color of the smoke and flames tells you what’s making it burn. Wood makes a yellow flame, or a red one, with gray or brown smoke.”

“So what’s the problem? The neighbor guy said he saw a yellow flame.”

“Right, but he also said black smoke.”

“So?”

“Black smoke means gasoline.”

The waiter brought our orders and set them on the table. I tore into my omelet, but Kathleen just stared at me. Her face had turned serious.

“Donovan, all these details, this isn’t your first rodeo,” she said. “You obviously know a lot about arson. You said this guy tried to hire you a couple years ago.”

“So?”

“To kill people.”

I didn’t know what to say, so I waited for her to speak. She gave me a look like she wanted to ask me something but wasn’t sure she wanted to hear the answer.

When my daughter Kimberly was eight, she started to ask me about Santa Claus. Before she voiced her question, I looked her in the eye and said, “Don’t ever ask me anything unless you’re ready to hear the truth.” Kimberly decided not to ask. Kathleen, on the other hand, had to know.

“Have you ever done this to someone?” she asked. “Set their house on fire?”

“You should eat,” I said. “That sandwich looks terrific.”

She didn’t respond, so I looked up and saw her eyes burning a hole into my soul. “Have you?” she repeated.

I signaled the waiter and handed him a twenty. “Before you do anything else,” I said to him, “I need a roll of duct tape or sealing tape.” He nodded, took the bill, and moved double-time toward the kitchen. To Kathleen, I said, “I’ve done some terrible things. Things I hope I never have to tell you about, and yes, I’ve been trained to set fires. But no, I’ve never done it.”

“You swear?”

I swore. Happily, it was the truth. Still, I decided not to tell her how close I’d come a few times. And I was well aware that by swearing on the past I hadn’t ruled out the future.

She stared at me awhile before nodding slowly. “I believe you,” she said. “Look, I’m sure you’re a world-class shit heel. It wouldn’t even surprise me if you’d killed people for the CIA years ago, and God help me, I might even be able to live with that, depending on the circumstances. But since I started working with the kids at the burn center … well, you know.”

I did know.

Kathleen’s club sandwich had been cut into four pieces. She picked up a wedge and studied it. “What about the fire chief?” she asked. “If you’re right, that makes him wrong, and he’s the expert.”

I speared a couple of fries and popped them into my mouth. There’s nothing like the taste of diner French fries. “They put hamburger grease in the oil,” I said. “Makes the French fries burst with flavor. You want some?”

“No. What about the fire chief?”

The waiter returned with a thick roll of clear sealing tape and said he’d be right back to refresh our drinks. I nodded and began taping the fingers on my right hand.

“What are you doing?”

“Making sure I don’t splay my metacarpals.”

She showed me her bewildered look and watched me tape my wrist. After doing that, I removed a thin sheet of plastic from my wallet and began fitting it to the bottom part of my palm, from pinky to wrist. “Can you wrap this for me?” I asked.

“You’re insane,” she said, but she wrapped the tape around the palm of my hand, covering the plastic and holding it in place. I flexed my hand to test it and decided it would do. “What about the fire chief?” she repeated.

“He’s in on it.”

“What?”

“They paid him off after the fact. They didn’t want to, but they had to.”

“What are you talking about?”

“This arsonist was good. The only reason he appears sloppy is because the fire department got to the scene so quickly. Four minutes and twenty seconds, if you can just imagine. Another five minutes and the fire would have killed all the evidence. The chief knew it was arson, some of his men probably knew. So whoever ordered the torch—I’m guessing Joe DeMeo—had to get to the chief.”

“You said the chief was talking about his retirement.”

“It’s all he talks about.”

“So this Joe DeMeo character, he gave the chief enough money to look the other way?”

“I expect the money was a bonus, like a reward for doing the right thing. DeMeo probably got the chief’s attention by threatening his wife, kids, and grandchildren.”

The composite plastic affixed to the edge of my hand was invented by an engineering team at the University of Michigan in mid-2007. It’s strong as steel and as thin and pliable as a small sheet of paper. Made from clay and nontoxic glue, it mimics the brick and-mortar molecular structure found in seashells. The nanosheets of plastic are layered like bricks and held together with a gluelike polymer that creates cooperative hydrogen bonds between the layers. It takes several hours to build up the three hundred layers needed to make the thin sheet I kept in my wallet at all times.

Kathleen watched me studying my hand. She said, “If Chief Blaunert’s involved in the cover up, why didn’t he destroy the evidence? It’s been two weeks.”

“I’m guessing he hasn’t had a chance, what with all the press coverage, candlelight vigils, and people coming day and night to place shrine items on the lawn.”

“But he must have known the insurance company would send someone to investigate.”

“That’s the thing. He told me he wasn’t expecting anyone this soon, which tells me no one has filed the claim yet. Or if it’s been filed, someone at the insurance company has either submitted a phony report or they’re delaying their investigation.”

“Are you sure this DeMeo guy has that much clout?”

“That much and more.”

Again she looked at the piece of sandwich in her hand but didn’t taste it.

“There’s something bothering you,” I said. “What is it?”

“Are you in danger?” she asked.

“I could be. The chief probably called DeMeo this morning right after my guy set the appointment. DeMeo probably told him to meet me and find out what I was up to.”

“Doesn’t DeMeo know you’re with the government? Doesn’t he know you’ll turn him in?”

I smiled. “These things aren’t as black and white as you might think. Taking Joe DeMeo down won’t be easy. He’s killed enough people to fill a cemetery.”

Kathleen’s eyes began to cloud up. “Are you going to die on me?”

“Not on purpose,” I said. “But nine million dollars is a lot of money, even to Joe DeMeo.”

“What will he do?”

“Send some goons to try to kill me.”

She put her uneaten sandwich wedge back on her plate. “Donovan, I’m scared. What if he really does send some men to kill you?”

“I’ll kill them first.”

“You can do that?”

I smiled. “I can.”

“Are you sure?” she said. “You aren’t even scared?”

“Not even,” I said, trying to sound not even scared. Then I asked her to help me tape the fi ngers and wrist of my left hand.

“Why are we doing this?” she asked.

“Don’t turn around,” I said, “but DeMeo’s goons are here.”

A look of panic flashed across her face. “What? Where? How many are there?”

“Two in the parking lot, one in the kitchen.”

“Jesus Christ, Donovan! What are we going to do?”

“The right thing.”

“What, call the cops?”

“No. The right thing in this situation is kill the guy in the kitchen first.”

“Kill him?” Her words came out louder than she’d intended. I noticed the couple across from us glancing in our direction. Katherine lowered her voice. “Why would your first thought be to kill him?”

“I don’t want him sneaking up behind me while I’m attacking the others.”

“You’re planning to attack the others? Trained killers? No way,” she said. “I’m calling the cops!”

I put my taped hand on her arm, shook my head. “Don’t make such a fuss. This is what I do.”

She looked … everything at once. Angry. Frightened. Exasperated. The businessman at the table across from us got to his feet. He put a little menace into his voice for my benefit while speaking to Kathleen. “Are you okay? Do you need any help?” She looked at him and back at me, and we locked eyes. She smiled at the man and shook her head no. Then she settled back in her seat, took in a deep breath, let it out slowly. When she spoke, her voice was small but steady. “Okay.”

“Ma’am?” the businessman said.

“I’m fine. Really,” Kathleen said, and the guy eased back into his seat, much to the relief of his wife. He did the right thing, too: stood up for a woman in distress, impressed his wife. If all went well, we’d probably both get laid tonight.

“You okay now?” I asked.

“I trust you.”

I nodded and looked back at my plate. It was harder to finish my greasy fries with my hands taped up, but I managed it. Then I asked, “You going to eat that sandwich?”

CHAPTER 14

“Care for any desert today?” Our waiter looked nervous.

“What’s your name, son?” I asked.

“Jared, sir.”

I passed Jared a Franklin and asked if he’d seen the big guy in the kitchen, the one in the dark suit with the black shirt who kept peeking through the glass every thirty seconds. Jared’s face clouded over. He tried to give me back the hundred. “I really don’t want to get involved in this,” he said.

“Don’t look toward the kitchen,” I said. “Just answer me. Where is he standing in relation to the door?”

“When you go through the door, he’s on your right.”

“The door pushes open to the right,” I said. “So when I ���rst walk through, he’ll be hidden from view, yes?”

“Yes, sir. What are you going to do?”

“Has he caused any trouble yet?”

Jared lowered his voice to a whisper. “He’s got everyone scared. He’s got a gun.”

“Anyone call the cops?”

“They don’t dare. And I don’t blame them.”

“Good,” I said. “Okay, here’s what we’re going to do.”

“We, sir?”

“That’s right, son. You’re going to be a hero today.”

I told Jared and Kathleen my plan. She asked, “What’s a Glasgow Kiss?”

“I’ll tell you later.”

“Assuming it works,” she said.

“It’ll work. These aren’t DeMeo’s best people.”

“How do you know?”

“First, I know his best people, and they’re in LA, guarding him. Second, there are three guys here.”

“So?”

“If they were really good, he’d only need two. The one in the kitchen is the least experienced. He’s related to one of the goons in the parking lot, probably his kid brother. I can tell by the resemblance. That bit of knowledge will work in our favor.” I removed my belt and measured a space about twelve inches from the buckle. I pushed the tip of my knife there and worked it enough to create a small hole. Then I draped it loosely around my neck. To Jared I said, “Ready son?”

He looked at my hands. Swallowed. Looked at Kathleen. She shrugged. He looked back at me. I nodded. He said, “Yes, sir.”

I waited until the goon checked the window again. When he ducked back behind the door, I jumped to my feet. Jared began walking straight to the kitchen door, deliberate pace, me right behind him. As he pushed the door open, I spun around and backed into it. Everything else happened in real time, in sequence, and though I didn’t see it all happen, I heard or felt it playing out around me. Jared lowered his head and ran full speed through the kitchen, screaming at the top of his lungs. A waitress shrieked and fell to the floor in a dead faint. The cooks waved their hands and ran in all directions. I ducked under the roundhouse right my grandmother would have seen coming.

Jared’s job was to run into the parking lot screaming, “Oh my God, he’s dead!” That would create a diversion and force the parking lot goons out of their plan. This was important because the fundamental lesson every successful street fighter learns is you do not want to fight your opponents the way they are trying to attack you.

I trusted Jared to do his part and began focusing on mine. While the kitchen goon was off -balance, trying to recover from the haymaker he’d launched in my direction, I straightened to my full height and slammed the top of my forehead down into the bridge of his nose full force, instantly shattering it.

The Glasgow Kiss.

I’d done this in the gym a thousand times, though maybe only twenty in real life. The Glasgow Kiss always works, even against experienced fighters, provided they’re not expecting it. I would never attempt to lead with my head against a real pro, but this guy was easier to hit than the heavy bag in my gym.

The momentum I’d created carried my forehead downward into his cheekbones, which meant his nose fragments had to follow the same path. He crumpled to the floor. I noticed a gun bulge in the small of his back, under his suit jacket. I stuck his gun in my belt and rolled him over with my foot, glanced at his face. I didn’t recognize the guy, but even his wife or girlfriend would have a hard time recognizing him now. His nose and the blood from it had spread outward from the center of his face like pancake batter poured into a hot skillet.

Breaking the bridge of a man’s nose in this manner creates a surprising amount of pain, dazes him, and blurs his eyes, which gives me time to explore other options. Like removing the belt from my shoulders, wrapping it around his neck, threading it through the belt buckle, and pulling it tight while pushing his head in the opposite direction with my foot. I forced his huge neck to fit into the tiny space created by the hole I’d cut into my belt moments earlier.

The goon was choking. His face sprayed blood like the blow hole of a whale, and I guessed he’d be dead in two minutes. I jerked him to his feet, but he was too heavy to hold with one hand, twitching and kicking as he was. I pulled the door open, got it between us, draped the belt over the top of it, and held him in place by pulling on the belt with my left hand. This way, the door was doing most of the work and the goon was hanging on the front of it, with me behind. I backed us up into the wall, which was a good place to be because the two parking lot goons had just burst through the back door of the kitchen with their guns drawn.

The first thing they saw was their partner hanging from a belt over the door, choking, spewing blood everywhere, grabbing at his neck, kicking and gasping for breath. The second thing they saw was part of my head poking out from behind the guy.

The one who looked like the dying goon’s brother screamed, “Ray!” The other one called me a bad name and threatened to shoot me if I didn’t let Ray go. Everyone else in the kitchen had long since hit the floor and found cover—everyone except the waitress who had fainted. She was starting to regain consciousness. The customers in the front part of the diner were just beginning to realize something very wrong was happening in the kitchen. I heard the sounds a group of strangers make when they’re trying to decide what to do. If they were smart, they’d follow Kathleen’s lead and jump under their tables.

“Here’s how it’s going to happen,” I said to the gunmen. “You’re going to drop your guns and kick them across the floor to me. Or else Ray chokes to death.”

Ray’s friend sneered. “I don’t give up my gun to no one.”

I squinted to get a better look. “That a Monster Magnum?” I asked. “Hell, I don’t blame you. That’s a damn fine gun.”

The guy with the magnum ignored me, kept talking while he took a step away from Ray’s brother, trying to create distance between them and work his way into my blind side. “Broken nose, belt around his neck—he’s not gonna die. That’s total bullshit.”

Ray’s brother wasn’t so sure. “Joe, shut up. He’s dying. Look at him! My brother’s dying.” To me, he said, “Let him go, Creed. Let him go and we’ll walk away, I swear to God.”

But Joe had other plans. He grabbed the fallen waitress and put his gun to her ear. “Let him go, Creed, or I’ll kill her. Don’t think I won’t!”

She screamed. I laughed. “You think I care if you shoot her? Someone must have forgotten to tell you what I do for a living.”

Ray, the goon on the door, was heavy, and my left arm was starting to gimp up from the strain of holding him there. I knew I wouldn’t be able to keep him upright much longer. Ray had been packing a small frame .38-caliber revolver, a good choice for a belt gun. I gripped it in my right hand.

Joe said, “Last chance, Creed. You know what this cannon will do to her head. It’ll put you in mind of Gallagher smashing a watermelon.” He pulled the hammer back and cocked it for dramatic effect.

It worked. It made the satisfying, precise clunk I’d come to love in that particular hand gun. I’m sensitive to the unique sounds each gun makes, and my ears were able to isolate this one over the gasping death rattle in Ray’s throat, above the sound of his legs kicking the bottom of the door from which he hung. I heard it above the commotion in the front of the restaurant as customers screamed and ran and knocked over chairs and trampled each other while trying to evacuate. I heard the sound of Joe’s gun and loved it. Though the .500 was too big to use in everyday situations, I couldn’t wait to add it to my collection.

Joe had made his threat and felt compelled to follow through on it. He instinctively leaned his head back, away from the waitress, which told me he was about to pull the trigger and didn’t want some of her brains on his face. I felt the heft of Ray’s gun in my hand. At twenty ounces and less than seven inches in length, its capacity was only five rounds, but I’d only need one to kill Joe. I didn’t know what Ray was using for ammunition, but I put one of them in Joe’s temple and his head jerked when it hit. He fell to the floor, and a thin wisp of smoke escaped from the hole in his head as dark blood started to puddle. I heard the nonstop shriek of the waitress and wondered how many years of therapy this experience might require.

But I didn’t look at her. I was too busy looking at Ray’s brother. He said, “Creed. Please. Let him go.”

“You going to drop your gun?” I asked.

He shook his head no and I could see tears streaming down his cheeks. Ray’s left leg had gone limp, and his right one was barely twitching. “I love you, Ray,” he said.

I saw what was coming and released Ray just as his brother shot him. Then Ray’s brother dove for the floor to my right, angling for position on me where I was most vulnerable. I couldn’t let him get there, so I took a knee and squeezed a round into his left eye and another into the top of his head. I tried to push the door forward, but Ray’s body kept it in place, so I eased my way out from behind it and checked myself to see if I’d been shot through Ray’s body.

I hadn’t.

I walked over Joe’s body and spotted the magnum a few feet away. You don’t just pick up the Monster Magnum; you have to lift it. I did so and took a few seconds to admire it. The .500-caliber Smith & Wesson Magnum was the biggest, heaviest, most powerful factory-production handgun in the world. It makes Dirty Harry’s weapon of choice look like a BB gun. I hadn’t been counting on a gun this size and wondered why Joe hadn’t thought to shoot Ray. The 50-caliber bullet would have gone through him as well as the door, me, and the wall behind us.

I couldn’t wait to tell Kathleen how lucky I’d been. I felt I finally had a woman I could talk to about these things besides Callie. Callie was great, but there was no warmth to her. She was part killer and part smartass. Callie wouldn’t have considered me lucky; she’d have said Joe was stupid. And don’t even get her started on Ray and his brother. She wouldn’t have fallen for the Glasgow Kiss, she wouldn’t have tried to cut a deal with a guy hanging her partner from a door, and she wouldn’t have waited around in the parking lot in the first place. Callie would have marched right in the front door of the diner, put a slug between my eyes, and stolen Kathleen’s sandwich for the ride home.

I told the people in the kitchen they could come out now, told them to take care of the waitress who was no longer hysterical but had turned catatonic with shock. I took my trophy gun, walked into the diner, and found Kathleen hiding under the table where I’d told her to wait for me. I got on one knee to get a better look at her. She was pale, shivering violently. I put the magnum on the floor and reached out to her. She screamed and slapped my hands away. I told her it was over. She was safe; everything was fine. I wanted to tell her what had happened, tell her how shocked I’d been when Ray’s brother killed him to prevent his further suffering—I was even prepared to tell her more about how I earned my livelihood—but she kept screaming and told me she never wanted to see me again. I knew she’d probably be upset, but I’d failed to gauge the extent.

I removed the tape from my hands and wrists and put the plastic back in my wallet. As

I left the diner, walked to my car, and began the relatively short drive back to Manhattan. When I hit the turnpike, I called Lou first, then Darwin, and caught them up to speed. I asked Darwin if he had the power to prevent police from stopping my car.

He said he’d try.

CHAPTER 15

It was early afternoon, and I was back in Manhattan, in my hotel room. I’d ordered a glass tumbler and a bottle of Maker’s from room service, which for some reason took them over a half hour to deliver. The tardy delivery guy tried to make conversation to increase the tip I noticed was already added to my order. While money is not an issue for me, the thought of paying one hundred and twenty dollars for a thirty-five dollar bottle of whiskey is enough to discourage an extra tip. I dismissed him curtly, and we exchanged frowns. I went to the sink, turned on the hot water faucet, and waited for it to work.

It had been a hell of a day so far. I’d learned that Addie’s entire family had been murdered in order to cheat them out of their lottery winnings. I’d been attacked by three goons who tried to kill me in a public diner. I’d lost Kathleen, the first woman in years who had offered a glimmer of hope for a possible relationship and normal future. I’d made an enemy of Aunt Hazel, which probably cost me visiting privileges with Addie.

The water from the faucet was steaming. I hoped that in a hotel like this, no one had peed in the glass tumbler, but I rinsed it thoroughly anyway. Then I poured a half-ounce of whiskey in it and swirled it around to flavor the glass and kill any stubborn germs that might be hoping to breach my bloodstream.

I sipped some whiskey.

There’s something special about high-tone Kentucky bourbon. My favorite is the twenty-year-old Pappy Van Winkle, but Maker’s Mark is easier to come by and is plenty sumptuous in its own right. Bourbon is not a pretentious drink, although there’s a movement underfoot to make it so. Experts have started organizing tasting groups to explain the “softness” of the quality bourbons and the elegant flavors you’re likely to encounter when tasting them, including such exotic notes as orange peel, licorice, almonds, and cinnamon.

In my opinion, listing all these flavor and aroma components leads to snobbery. As they might say in Kentucky, “Don’t go around talking metric to decent folk.” All a good Kentucky bourbon needs to show you is a smooth, mild burn on the tongue and the hint of a caramel taste. You drink bourbon straight, without mixers or ice, and if you’ve chosen a good one, it will taste like bourbon and not medicine or rubbing alcohol like most other spirits do.

I sipped some more.

I wanted to call Kathleen, wanted to work things out. I thought about calling her, wondered if humor might be the best approach. I thought about that awhile but decided she wasn’t in the right mood to find any of this amusing. I could apologize, but what sense would that make?

First of all, I hadn’t done anything wrong. I’d been investigating a crime someone else had committed, a crime that had permanently disfigured a darling little girl and caused the brutal murder of her entire family—a crime that caused the loss of her house and her inheritance, and would certainly have an impact on her future mental stability. And did I mention this was a little girl Kathleen was very fond of? And did I mention I had done all this while putting my own life in danger? And did I mention I had done all this for free?

Hell, she should be apologizing to me!

Second, because I had taken it upon myself to help Addie, three professional killers nearly destroyed a wonderful diner and traumatized an excellent cook and wait staff while attempting to whack me.

Third, Kathleen’s life hadn’t really been in that much danger in the fi rst place. I thought about that and decided I might have to rethink being with a woman who could be so drastically affected by such a minor event. If someone attacked her on the street while we were out for a stroll, would I refuse to see her again?

Of course not.

Then again, if things worked out between us—even if I quit the business—there would always be the random murder attempt to deal with. After all, there were plenty of husbands, wives, parents, brothers, sisters, sons, daughters, business associates, and friends whose lives I had impacted by whacking someone close to them. Most of these people would pay to see me dead. Whether they come after me by themselves or in groups, or pay someone else to do it, I’d be a fool to assume they wouldn’t even try.

Fourth, the violence at the diner could have been avoided altogether had Kathleen not driven out to the house, uninvited, to question my motives.

I was running out of whiskey in the glass so I added a couple inches and then dialed the number on the card Aunt Hazel had given me a few hours earlier. I sipped from the glass as Greg and Melanie’s lawyer, Garrett Unger, told me he refused to discuss the details of Greg’s estate with a nonrelative.

“Even if you were a relative, I wouldn’t discuss a sensitive topic like this over the phone,” he said.

“I’m a relative by extension,” I said. “I’ve been asked by Melanie’s sister to look into the details regarding the structured settlement.”

“Then you’ll have to set up an appointment through the proper channels,” Unger said, “and that will take some time. You’ll have to file the proper documents as well.”

“What documents would those be?” I asked.

“I’m sure you can appreciate it’s not my job to explain the law to you. If you don’t understand the procedures involved, I suggest you hire your own attorney.”

“You don’t appear to be very supportive of the family,” I said.

“Terrible tragedy,” Unger said, “but there’s nothing anyone can do about the annuity. Believe me, I wish I could, but the language in the contract is quite precise and has stood the test of time.”

“Aunt Hazel said Greg only received one payment before the accident.”

“Not true,” he said. “The family received three payments.” Then he said, “Wait, you pulled that out of your ass just now, didn’t you?”

I admitted it. Then I said, “Let me see if I can save us both the trouble of a visit. I have a theory.”

“I’ll entertain a hypothetical,” Unger said, “provided it’s a short one.”

“Suppose I win ten million dollars in the state lottery.”

“Go on.”

“I get a lump sum payment of ten million and use one million of it to pay off my outstanding loans. I look for a way to invest the balance. My attorney tells me about an annuity he’s found that’s offered by a privately funded group of investors from California.”

Unger had been saying, “Uh huh,” to move me along, but when I said, “California,” he suddenly became silent. I continued, “The lawyer says the return is astronomical, three times what I can get anywhere else. Not only that, but I’ll get this huge monthly payment for the rest of my life! If I die before receiving the first month’s payment, my wife gets the annuity payment for the rest of her life. But somewhere in the fine print, the contract says if my wife and I both die after receiving at least one payment, the entire principal is forfeited to the company. That sound about right?”

We were both silent awhile until I said, “How much did they pay you?”

“I beg your pardon?” Unger asked, working to put on a show of great indignation.

“Joe DeMeo,” I said. “How much commission did he pay you to place the contract, to sell out your own client?”

“I don’t have to listen to this!”

“You signed their death warrant,” I said.

“I’m going to hang up now,” Unger said.

“Before you do, I want you to give DeMeo a message for me.”

“I don’t know any DeMeo,” Unger said.

“Of course you don’t.” I gave Unger my cell phone number and said, “If by some chance you happen to cross paths with DeMeo, have him call me before six tonight. If he fails to do so, I’m going to call the FBI and see what they think about my hypothetical theory.”

CHAPTER 16

I hung up and waited to hear from DeMeo.

Joseph DeMeo lived in LA, which got me to thinking about Jenine, the young model and potential body double from Santa Monica I’d told Callie about, the one I’d been sharing e-mails with for a couple of months. Listen to me: model. At best she was a model hopeful, and I was nearly twice her age. We both knew what this was. We’d shared a couple of photos and text messages, she’d invited me to visit her, and I’d said I’d try, next time I was in the area.

I took a cat nap and woke up and waited for DeMeo’s call. While waiting, I challenged myself to remember all the plates I was trying to keep spinning in the air. I was testing the ADS weapon for the army. Okay, that’s one. Two, I was trying to keep Janet from marrying the shit bird from West Virginia. Three, I was trying to start a romance with the shit bird’s ex. Okay, well that plate had already fallen and crashed, but I was going to have to deal with the effect it had on me, so maybe that’s four. Maybe the model from LA could help me get over the feelings I had for Kathleen. I’d make that one plate number five.

I spied the empty tumbler by the phone. There was plenty left in the bottle. I poured another shot into the glass and worked it around my tongue, thinking, Now let’s see, where was I? Oh yeah, plates in the air. Number six: I had started accepting murder contracts from an angry, quadriplegic midget with dreadlocks. Seven: I was still taking contracts for Sal Bonadello, the crime boss. Eight: I was trying to set up a face-to-face with Joe DeMeo, a meeting that would almost certainly result in my death. And of course, I still had my day job of killing terrorists for the government. So that made nine plates.

I was as out of control as the Looney Tunes conga line. It was time to wrap up some of these loose ends. I called Lou Kelley.

“You got my information yet?”

“If you’re referring to the age progression on Kathleen, I e-mailed it to you an hour ago.”

“What about the match profile on Lauren?” I asked.

“Well, I didn’t know her name till just now, but you were right. If her picture is current, our guys can get her up to 91 percent.”

“So that’s a powerful resemblance,” I said.

“It is.”

“If I wanted to pass Lauren off as Kathleen, who could I fool?”

Lou thought about that a bit. “You wouldn’t fool her spouse or a close friend or relative. Beyond that, you’re probably okay.”

“Good. That’s what I was hoping to hear.”

I asked Lou about getting me a jet. He put me on hold a few minutes while he made the arrangements. He got back on the line and said, “Got one. It’ll be waiting for you at the FBO in White Plains, at the Westchester County Airport.”

“How far is that from where I am?”

“Depends on where you are,” Lou said.

I told him. He hit a few computer keys and said, “Fastest way is to get you a chopper. The flight is only ten minutes, but it’ll take me about forty to set up. If you’re not in a hurry, you can use a driver, but I’d wait a couple hours before heading there, since it’s rush hour now.”

I looked at my watch. “If I leave the hotel around seven?”

“You’re looking at an hour’s drive to White Plains, maybe more.”

I told him I could live with that. I hung up and started packing my gear. My cell rang.

Joe DeMeo.

“You’ve been busy,” he said.

“Jesus, Joe, where’d you find those guys?”

“Ah, what can I tell you? Short notice and all. Look, sorry about today. Your whole thing caught me off guard, pissed me off . You shoulda called me first instead of poking around out there. I’d have cut you in. Now the whole thing’s turning into a mess.”

“You get my message about setting up a meeting?”

“Our phones are secure. We can work this thing out right now.”

“I’d rather meet face-to-face.”

“You got some balls, my friend. I always said so.” He sighed. “Okay, Creed, we’ll meet. You say when, I’ll say where.”

We worked it out for Saturday morning in LA, which gave me plenty of time to do some other things, including having another Maker’s while waiting for my seven o’clock drive to White Plains.

And flying to Cincinnati to meet my good friend, Lauren.

And making plans to meet a certain young model wannabe at a beachside hotel in Santa Monica on Saturday afternoon—assuming I survived my Saturday morning meeting with Joe DeMeo.

CHAPTER 17

Lauren Jeter had been an escort since the early days of the internet. Over time, she’d built a clientele that included a dozen of Cincinnati’s most prominent public figures, most of whom managed to spend quality time with her several times a year. Add the income from these wealthy regulars to her hourly outcalls and Lauren was pulling down more than a hundred grand a year, all cash.

Not a bad business, but not without risk.

This particular morning, around ten o’clock, she knocked on the door of the upscale hotel room in downtown Cincinnati where I was staying. I handed her a quarter-inch stack of hundreds, and she smiled and said, “You’ve always been way too generous with me.”

Lauren loved her Mimosas with fresh-squeezed orange juice, and she enjoyed several as we caught each other up on our families, our problems, our health, and the books we’d read in the months that had passed since my last visit.

At some point she smiled and asked, “So, you wanna …?”

Instead of answering directly, I told her I had a unique proposition for her: we could spend the next few hours in the traditional manner and afterward go our separate ways happy and richer for the experience, or I could pay her an obscene amount of money to let me beat the shit out of her.

For a split second, Lauren’s smile remained frozen on her face, caught in the moment like a deer in the headlights. Then she made a funny noise and bolted for the door. She fumbled a bit, trying to get it open. When she finally did, she flew out of the room and slammed the door behind her. I watched her do all that, and after a minute or so, I topped off my glass, sipped some more champagne, and moved closer to the phone. A few minutes passed before it rang.

“You didn’t chase me,” she said.

“Why would I do that?”

“I thought maybe you’d snapped or something. No offense.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No, it’s just—I don’t know, I guess I’ve always had the feeling you could turn violent on me, though you’ve always been a perfect gentleman in the past. Still, what you said a while ago, well, you sort of threw me for a minute there.”

“And now?”

“Now I feel sort of bad that you paid for an overnight and I bailed.”

“You were scared.”

“I was really scared!” she said.

We were quiet awhile.

“You’ve got a good heart,” I said.

“I’d like to be your friend, Donovan,” she said, “but I might be just a little afraid of you right now.”

“I can’t fault you there.”

“Should I be?”

“What’s that?”

“Afraid of you?”

I paused a moment. “No.”

“Well,” she said, “you didn’t grab me or hit me. You didn’t force me to do anything. When I ran you didn’t chase me. And you’re very generous—the money, the champagne.”

“Does all that add up to let’s try again?”

“I don’t know, Donovan. I’d like to save our relationship …”

“But?”

“But I’d have to feel safe.”

“Well,” I said, “I didn’t chase you.”

She thought about that some more. Then she said, “I’m only about a block away, sitting in my car. If I agree to come back, will you promise I’ll be safe? I mean, I’ll treat you real good and all, but can you promise not to hit me?”

“Yes. If you want, you could bring someone with you.”

“Another girl?”

I laughed. “No, I meant a guy. You can bring a guy with you, for protection.”

She pondered that a minute. “Is there anyone I’m likely to bring who could protect me if you wanted to hurt me? Even if he had a gun?”

“No,” I said, “but, Lauren, you have my word. This choice I mentioned, like anything else we’ve ever done or might do, is completely up to you.”

“And you have my answer to your offer, right?”

I laughed. “You’ve made it abundantly clear. No hitting, no hurting.”

Back in my room a few minutes later, she asked, “Do you get off on beating up women? Again, no offense meant,” she added.

“None taken,” I said, shaking my head. “No, I would never get any pleasure out of hitting a woman, and I don’t understand those who would.”

“Then why?”

I thought about telling her Kathleen Chapman’s story, how she had experienced years of physical abuse at the hands of her ex. I wondered if Lauren could possibly put herself in Kathleen’s place, imagining the heartbreak, the pain and anguish, the humiliation Kathleen had suffered all those years.

My idea did have one major flaw: when you came right down to it, I’d be beating Lauren up now to protect Janet from getting beaten up someday. Of course, Lauren would have made the conscious decision to be beaten up. I wondered if that type of logic would provide suffcient justification for the way I’d feel later.

In the end, I just waved it off . “My mistake,” I said. “Water under the bridge.”

Lauren looked me over carefully. When she spoke, her voice was clear and steady. “You don’t appear to be a freak,” she said.

“Thank you.”

“Of course,” she said, “in my experience, most freaks don’t appear to be freaks.”

“I’ve found that to be true in my experience, as well,” I said. She extended her hands in front of her, palms open, as if to say, Help me out here, will ya? Then she said, “But if someone were to ask me for an assessment at this stage of our relationship …” she paused a beat. “Can you understand why I might question your sanity?”

“You’d be crazy not to,” I said.

She nodded slowly.

“Would you like me to take off my clothes now?” she said.

“I’d like that a lot. If it’s your choice.”

“It’s what you’ve paid for,” she said.

“Actually, I don’t look at it that way.”

She flashed me a skeptical look. “You don’t, huh?” There was an edge of sarcasm in her voice.

I said, “Sex isn’t the same as intimacy. Intimacy only works if it’s a choice you’ve made about me.”

She stiffened a bit. “A choice,” she said.

“That’s right.”

“Like letting you beat me up?” I saw the anger flash through her eyes. Now that she trusted me not to hurt her, she was fired up.

“It’s nothing personal,” I said, hoping to diffuse the fireworks I could see coming.

“Really? Nothing personal, huh? So your offer had nothing to do with the fact that I’m just a low-life hooker? Tell me, Scarface, how many teachers, nurses, and housewives have you offered to beat up for money?”

I heard her. I don’t mean I listened to her; I mean that what she said and the way she said it made me see it from her point of view. Now what could I say, except that she had a point.

“Lauren, you’re right, of course. That was a big part of it, the fact you do things for money.”

We sat there quietly and looked at each other, neither of us knowing quite what to say.

“There was something else,” I said. “I didn’t give you my reasons, but a big part of it had to do with an uncanny resemblance. But again, I’m sorry I brought it up. I feel terrible for scaring you. I really care about you and always have.”

We were out of orange juice, but she reached for the champagne and poured some into a clean flute. She glanced at her champagne glass and a strange look crossed her face. She picked it up and held it to the light and stared at the amber liquid. What now? I wondered. Maybe there weren’t as many bubbles floating to the surface as she thought there should be. Maybe …

“It’s not drugged,” I said.

“Then you drink it.”

I sighed. “I’ve lost your trust, and for that I apologize.” I took the champagne flute from her hand, put it to my lips, and drained it. Then I refilled the glass, handed it back to her. She nodded slowly and took a sip. Then, to her credit, she winked at me.

“Hookers have feelings, you know.”

I smiled. “It’s not because I think you’re unworthy of being treated well. It was never that. If it makes you feel any better, you’re the only person I’ve ever offered to pay to beat up.”

Lauren had a light, airy laugh. Now, for the first time since she’d run out, she showed it. “Why the hell would that make me feel better?” she asked.

I laughed, too. “I’m sorry, Lauren. You’re right. I prejudged you. Now I’m making it worse trying to talk about it. Big surprise: I’m not very smooth with women.”

“Hey, ya think?” She smiled.

“Now you know why I have to pay for sex.”

“Intimacy,” she said.

“Yes.”

“A choice,” she said.

“It is,” I said. “Or should be.”

She nodded slightly, as if confirming some private thought. Then she took off her clothes and helped me with mine. Then she did the things Janet used to do to me all those years ago, things she was surely doing to Ken Chapman every night for free.

Lauren held me afterward and kissed my cheek.

“Just for the sake of argument,” she said, “how much would you have paid?”

CHAPTER 18

“I see you had better luck finding me this time,” Joseph DeMeo said, flashing a grin I knew to be insincere. It was Saturday, and we were in the George Washington section of Hollywood Hills Cemetery near Griffth Park. DeMeo stood on the landing above the sidewalk next to the flagstone wall that shaded Buster Keaton’s grave. He wore a black suit and a lavender silk shirt, buttoned all the way up, with no tie. DeMeo was flanked on either side by two dead-eyed thugs whose ill-fitting suits could barely contain their musculature.

“Your pets look uncomfortable,” I said. “I hope they didn’t squeeze into their prom suits just for me.”

“No need to taunt,” DeMeo said. “We’re all friends here.”

“That right?” I said to the goons. We all looked at each other a minute, trying to decide who could take whom, if it came down to it, and how best to do it. I didn’t know these particular guys but I knew their type. Violence leaked out of them like stink on a wino.

Joseph DeMeo chuckled and walked down the steps toward me. “Walk with me,” he said and passed me without shaking hands. I stood my ground. I wasn’t comfortable walking with him if it meant turning my back on his goons. DeMeo chuckled again and said, “Don’t worry about them. They’ll follow at a respectful distance. Same as your giant,” he added.

His comment rattled me. Quinn was my only backup, which meant he and I were as good as dead. Unless I could convince DeMeo I had another backup. In the meantime I had to display confidence.

“Big as he is,” I said, “not many people can make Quinn. What’d he do, fall asleep?”

“I have the advantage that comes with setting the location,” DeMeo said.

“Speaking of which,” I said, “what’s this fascination you have with cemeteries? Two years ago, it was Inglewood Park, James Jeffries’ grave. This time it’s Hollywood Hills, Buster Keaton.”

“I meet people where it is fitting to do so. If you were an artist, I’d meet you at a gallery or art museum.”

“Where do you meet Garrett Unger? Snake oil conventions?”

Forest Lawn Hollywood Hills is an oasis surrounded by bustling traffic. Though Disney, Universal, and Warner Brothers all have studios located just minutes away, the vast acreage has a self-contained quality that keeps it isolated and tranquil. Uncluttered by mausoleums, it features mountain views, gently rolling hills, fussy landscaping, and bright white statuary.

DeMeo suddenly stopped short and placed his hand on my arm, and I nearly came out of my skin. I spun out of his grasp and jumped into a fighting stance. I swept the area with my eyes to make sure the goons were where they should be. They were, but they had their guns drawn, waiting for any type of twitch or signal from DeMeo. I had no idea where Quinn was, but I believed he was wherever he needed to be to keep me safe. DeMeo seemed not to notice my jumpiness, focused as he was on something in front of us.

“Look at that,” he whispered.

I tried to force myself to relax. I turned my head and followed his gaze and saw nothing, but his eyes were fixed on something. “What, the bird?” It was the only living creature I could detect in front of him.

“Not just any bird,” he whispered. “A Western Tanager.”

When I’m keyed up like that, I’m ready to kill or be killed. I want to kill or be killed. It was hard to focus on the bird. I looked behind us again. The goons’ expressions had never changed, but at least their guns were holstered. For a moment, I almost felt sorry for them, having to guard their nut case of a boss. I got my breathing under control and said, “Western Tanagers: are they rare or something?”

“Not rare,” he said, “but very shy. You almost never see them in such an urban setting. See the bright red face and black wings? That’s the male of the species.”

I couldn’t care less and hoped my expression showed it. DeMeo watched the bird fly off . Then he studied me a moment. “You’ve come a long way for this meeting,” he said. “I should let you conclude your business so you can enjoy our warm climate and friendly atmosphere.” He winked at me.

“Actually, I wanted to talk about your business,” I said.

“To which business are you referring? I have lots of businesses.”

I reminded him that a couple of years ago, he wanted to hire me to kill people who had signed contracts for structured settlements. I asked if he personally okayed each hit.

“This is a very disrespectful question,” he said, “considering I haven’t even patted you down.”

I told him whoever he hired to kill the Dawes family in Montclair had been sloppy. I told him a little girl survived and I wanted him to personally underwrite her medical expenses for a complete facial reconstruction. Further, I wanted him to write a certified cashier’s check to the estate of Greg and Melanie Dawes in the amount of nine million dollars so Addie could try to cope through life with the disability his actions had caused.

DeMeo laughed out loud. “You got some stones,” he said. “I always said that about you.”

“Me and my stones will give you five days to come up with the money.”

DeMeo’s eyes grew hard. “An ultimatum?”

I tried to think about it from his perspective. “Mr. DeMeo, I don’t want to come across as disrespectful. Nine million plus the surgeries, that sounds like a lot of money. But let’s be honest: it’s no more than a bucket of sand off the beach to someone like you. I would consider it a personal favor if you do this thing for this one small girl. In return, I’ll owe you a favor.”

“I can make you stay out my business for all time with a simple hand gesture,” he said.

“And you’ll be dead before I hit the ground.”

“Your giant? We’ve got three people on him.”

“My girl.”

“The blond?”

I nodded.

DeMeo turned to me, made a show of opening his jacket. “I’m just reaching for my phone,” he said. He pressed a key on the touch pad and said, “You have the girl?” Then he said, “Why not?” He turned his attention to me and said, “Nice bluff , but that’s all it is. She’s not here.”

“You believe that, go ahead and give your signal.”

He smiled that Cheshire cat smile again and said, “I don’t think it would have worked out, you working for me.”

Then we parted company.

I took a deep breath. I had faced down Joseph DeMeo and lived. Of course, it didn’t mean much, since Joe had no intention of paying the money.

I made my way to the front of the cemetery and stood a block away from the black sedan and waited for Coop’s signal. Cooper Stewart had been driving limos in the LA area for more than ten years. Before that, he’d been a capable light-heavyweight with a stiff jab. Coop was tall, maybe six five. His rugged face showed extensive scar tissue around the eyes, confirming his status as a journeyman, not a contender. Augustus Quinn knew Coop better than I did, but I’d ridden with him several times and trusted him. Coop gave the signal, and I walked over to the limo and climbed in.

“Your phone rang while you were out there,” Coop said. “About twenty minutes ago.”

I checked the display and found that Janet had called. A large shadow crossed the window, and I looked up and saw Quinn standing a few yards away. Coop flashed him a signal, and Quinn opened the side door and joined me.

“How’d it go?” he asked.

“Pretty much the way I thought it would. No sale.”

“What’s our next move?”

I motioned for Quinn to raise the privacy glass so we could talk. Though we trusted Coop, we were in DeMeo’s town. No sense forcing him to choose between us.

“DeMeo made you out there,” I said.

“Yeah, I know,” Quinn said. “He had nine guys surrounding the place.”

“Still,” I said.

“According to Tony,” Quinn said, “they been there since midnight.”

Midnight! No wonder they saw him. “Who’s Tony?”

“One of DeMeo’s guys. At the end, we talked some. He recommended a restaurant, Miceli’s.”

“He’ll probably be waiting there for you with an Uzi,” I said.

Quinn shrugged. “So DeMeo won’t pay. No surprise there. Got a backup plan?”

“We’re going to rob him,” I said.

“Joe DeMeo.”

“Unless you’re scared.”

“How much you taking?”

“Twenty-five million,” I said, “maybe more. Ten for Addie, two for each of us.”

Quinn cocked his head. “That leaves more than ten million on the table.”

“We’ll need some help.”

Quinn nodded. “I’m in.”

We lowered the partition, and I told Coop where to take us. Quinn said, “Hey, Coop, you know a restaurant called Miceli’s?”

“I do,” Coop said. “Pizza’s good; all the waiters sing to you. They got a pie they call the Meat House: pepperoni, sausage, meatballs, salami. If you decide to go there, get that one.”

We turned the corner and passed a couple of protesters holding global warming signs. “Not much of a turnout,” I said.

Coop chuckled. “There’s usually a bunch of them. They got a chart from the fifties, tells them what the average weather used to be. Every day it’s warmer than that, they gather at that corner to bitch about it. But when the weather’s this nice, most of them sneak off to the beach.”

I hit the voice mail button on my cell phone, and my ex-wife Janet shrieked, “You bastard!” She went off on me with such gusto I had to hold the phone away from my ear. Quinn laughed, and Coop just shook his head. I grinned. I mean, I wasn’t happy she was upset, even less happy she blamed me for it, but what was I going to do, right? She finished her screaming fit with a flourish, and Quinn said, “What the hell did you do to her, anyway?”

“She didn’t go into detail,” I said, “but the bottom line is she’s not getting married.”

Coop said, “So … is that bad news? Or good?”

“Bad for me, good for her,” I said. In my mind, I allowed one of my spinning plates to crash.

CHAPTER 19

After her divorce from Donovan Creed three years ago, Janet and Kimberly moved to the sleepy town of Darnell, West Virginia, where Janet’s best friend, Amy, had made a comfortable, happy home after marrying one of Darnell’s native sons.

Amy made it her mission in life to find Janet a husband. Janet gave it a shot, but after two years of dreadful setups, she was about to swear off men completely. Then, suddenly, Amy introduced her to a nice guy from Charleston.

Janet was caught completely off guard by the casually sophisticated Ken Chapman—so much so that a mere eight months of heavy dating led to a wedding announcement.

Kimberly thought her mom was rushing things, but she had to admit, Janet was happy for the first time in years. To her father, Kimberly played down the courtship, saying, “I think what’s happening is Mom is talking herself into being in love, but it doesn’t feel right.”

One sunny morning while Janet was straightening up the living room, she opened the front door to find a thin, pretty girl in a sunhat wearing large, round sunglasses. The lady introduced herself as Kathleen Gray and said, “I don’t want to cause you any problems; I just want to talk to you about Ken Chapman.”

Janet stiffened. “Look Miss … whatever your name is …”

“Gray.”

“Miss Gray. I don’t know who you are or what you’re talking about, but I’m rather busy right now, so if you don’t mind …”

“But I do mind. I need to ease my conscience. If you’ll allow me the courtesy of three minutes, I promise to never bother you again.”

Janet looked at the manila folder Kathleen was holding. “Whatever you’ve brought,” she said, “I’m not interested.”

Kathleen held out her hand. “Janet,” she said, “Gray is my maiden name. My married name was Chapman. Mrs. Kenneth Chapman.”

Janet’s face flushed crimson. “Miss Gray, I have no interest in anything you have to say about my fiancé. I have an ex-husband of my own, but I don’t go around saying disparaging things about him to everyone he dates.”

Kathleen shook her head. “Really, Janet, you don’t need to be upset. I’m not in Ken’s life, and there are no children involved, so you and I don’t have to be friends. I’m just trying to ease my mind, the same way you might do for the next one who comes along. My story’s short and simple. May I come in?”

“Oh, do come in, by all means,” said Janet, making no effort to hide her sarcasm.

Kathleen took a moment to study the photos of Ken and Janet on the fireplace mantle. Then she turned to face Janet Creed. “I hope it’ll be different for you,” she said. “I really do.”

“Well I’m sure it will be. For one thing, I’m not a pushy person.”

Kathleen smiled. “If you’re ever in my situation someday, I hope you do a better job of it than me.”

“I’m sure I will,” said Janet. “Anything else?”

“Just this.” Kathleen removed her hat and sunglasses. The sight of Kathleen’s blood-red eyes surrounded by massive bruises stunned Janet into silence. There was an egg-sized lump on the side of Kathleen’s head and strangulation marks on her neck. Kathleen unbuttoned her blouse and turned her back to Janet, revealing dozens of black and blue welts that covered her back and shoulders, each the approximate size of a man’s fist.

Janet’s pulse began to race. She felt her throat constricting. Her knees buckled, and she had to put her hand on the back of the sofa to steady herself. By the time Kathleen buttoned her blouse and put her hat back on, Janet regained some of her composure.

“I’m sorry for your condition, Miss Gray, but surely you don’t expect me to believe Ken did this to you. I’ve known him, intimately, for eight months.”

Kathleen’s lip trembled slightly. She nodded.

“Have you been sleeping with him?” asked Janet. “Is that what this is about?”

“No. He did this to me yesterday, as a warning.”

Janet’s world started to whirl. “Warning about what?”

“He didn’t want me to tell you he beat me throughout our marriage.”

Janet felt a sudden rush of nausea. “I don’t believe it,” she said.

Kathleen sighed. “I’m not surprised. I wouldn’t have believed it either. Look, I’m not trying to influence you or tell you how to live. I’m not saying Ken hasn’t changed. I hope he’ll be different with you.”

While Janet found Kathleen’s words impossible to believe, there was something in her voice that rang true. Janet said, “I don’t understand. Did you threaten him somehow? Did you tell him you were planning to see me?”

“That’s the crazy part. I had no intention of talking to you. When he told me he was getting married, I was so relieved! I figured he’d finally leave me alone and move on with his life. I would have been glad to keep my mouth shut. But he showed up on my doorstep yesterday, telling me about how your wedding announcement would be in the paper soon. He knew I’d see it and was afraid I’d make trouble. I told him to get the hell out of my life, but he told me he’d always be there, always around the corner or down the street. I laughed at him and turned away, but that’s something you don’t do to Ken Chapman. You don’t laugh at him. He kicked the screen door open, grabbed me by the neck, and, well, this is the result. He said it was a hint of what would happen if I ever told you or anyone else about what happened in our marriage.”

“And yet here you are.”

“Yes.”

Janet surveyed Ken’s ex. “Miss Gray, I appreciate what you’ve said, but I sincerely doubt you’re telling me the truth.”

“I can live with that.”

Janet shook her head. “Either way, I’m only getting one side of things.”

Kathleen said, “Quite so.” She extended her hand. “Janet, I’ve said what I came to say, and I appreciate your seeing me. My conscience is clear, and I wish you all happiness. I did want to leave these for you.” She placed the manila folder on the table next to the front door. Then she carefully placed her sunglasses over her eyes and let herself out.

Janet didn’t want to look at the folder, didn’t want to touch it, didn’t want to open it, didn’t want it in her house. Even as she saw her hand reaching for it, she told herself not to do it, and that worked—she left it lying there a few extra minutes. Yet she knew she’d eventually reach out and take it and open it, and she knew that when she did, her life would change forever.

The folder contained numerous front and side views of Kathleen’s battered face and torso, and several similar shots of her back and buttocks. Something cold and hard began forming in Janet’s heart as she flipped through page after page of police photos chronicling years of brutal physical abuse. Medical records documented dozens of black eyes, split lips, knocked out teeth, a broken jaw, several broken noses, and numerous broken or cracked ribs. She reviewed the restraining orders, the violations of same, the police reports, and the arrest records.

In the end, Janet broke down and cried for two straight hours.

Then she made three phone calls.

Her first call was to her ex-husband, Donovan Creed. He didn’t answer, so she left a message on his voice mail. She was short and to the point. “You bastard!” she said. “I know you told that woman to give me her files. Maybe I screwed up again, and maybe you saved me from a lot more hurt in the future, and maybe someday I’ll even appreciate what you did. But right now my heart is broken and it’s all your fault and I hate your guts! Don’t call me, Donovan. Don’t even think about it. I hate you! I hate you! So don’t say a fucking word to me!”

Her second call was to her fiancé, the casually sophisticated Kenneth Chapman. “Ken,” she said, “you know my ex-husband is Donovan Creed, and I’ve told you he is one of the top people with the National Security Agency. What you don’t know is that he’s a former assassin for the CIA. You can try checking it out if you don’t believe me.”

Ken paused before answering. “I believe you, honey, and that’s pretty scary, but why are you telling me this now?”

“Because he’s probably going to kill you.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“It’s possible that as a personal favor to me, he might agree not to kill you. But he’s a nut job, and I can’t guarantee your safety.”

“Janet, what’s going on? What are you talking about?”

“Donovan sent me a package today. A package filled with photographs and police documents describing in great detail all the violent things you did to your ex-wife, Kathleen.”

“Look, Janet, that’s bullshit. I can explain.”

“Can you?” Janet said. “That’s great, because I can’t wait to hear your explanation. After all, I’m looking at more than thirty pages of documented police evidence. It’s sitting in my lap right now, evidence spanning more than eight years of abuse.”

The line was silent for awhile. Then, in a very small voice, Chapman said, “I’m not denying it. But that was a long time ago. You’ve got to understand, I was bipolar. I had a chemical imbalance. I had to take medicine for years, but I’m over that now. I swear to God. Look, you can call my ex-wife. She’ll tell you.”

Janet thought, Can you believe this guy?

“Yeah, Kenny, old pal, I’m sure Kathleen will say whatever you tell her to say. Listen, I’ve got to run. The wedding’s off. I’ll put the ring in the mail. Do not call me. Do not come near me, or Kimberly, ever again. If you try to contact me in any way, for any reason, I’ll turn Donovan Creed loose on you. Believe me, you don’t want that. Again, if you don’t believe me, ask around.”

The third call Janet made was to her best friend, Amy. She got into it quickly. “Did you know about Ken?”

“Know what, sweetie?”

“Did you know?”

“Uh, you’re kind of weirding me out here, babe. Did I know what?”

“Did … you … know?”

Amy was silent a moment. “Oh, honey,” she sighed, “that was such a long time ago. And anyway, there are always two sides, you know?”

“I have a daughter! How could you not tell me?”

“Janet, I’m begging you, think it over before you rush to judgment. Please. Don’t screw this up.”

“Too late.”

“Let’s get together and talk about it.”

“Drop dead.”

CHAPTER 20

It had been two days since Cincinnati, when I’d made the offer about beating her up and Lauren had asked, “Just for the sake of argument, how much would you have paid?” When I told her, she decided to at least hear me out. So I handed her Kathleen Chapman’s police fi le and watched as she reviewed it. She took her time, studied all the photos carefully, read a portion of each page of the police reports. When at last she finished, she’d looked into my eyes and said, “If you know all this about her, and understand her pain, why would you want to physically assault me?”

I shrugged. “It’s not about hurting you. It’s about making my ex-wife happy. Happy in the long run, at least.”

She gave me an encouraging smile and said, “Sugar, you really are pitiful when it comes to explaining yourself to women.”

“That bad, huh?”

“World-class bad,” she said.

She took both my hands in hers and looked into my eyes. She seemed to be searching for something better inside me than what I’d shown her so far.

“You’ll have to explain how beating the shit out of me will make your ex-wife happy,” she said. “It frightens me to think there’s a woman out there who would appreciate that type of gesture, and it makes me wonder why you’d be attracted to her in the first place.”

I nodded and told Lauren I cared a great deal about Janet and Kimberly and wanted only the best for them. I told her I wasn’t interested in taking Ken’s place; I just didn’t want a man like him living in the same house with my family. I told her how horrified I’d been to learn that Janet was planning to marry a habitual wifebeater.

With that preamble out of the way, I explained my plan: Lauren would pretend to be Chapman’s ex-wife, Kathleen, and pretend Chapman had beaten her as a warning to keep her mouth shut about the abuse. I assured Lauren that I was a professional, meaning I would assault her very carefully, going for the maximum effect with the minimum pain. I reiterated there’d be no enjoyment in it for me and that I didn’t go around beating up women on a regular basis—but that I couldn’t think of any other way to discourage Janet from marrying Ken Chapman.

Then I gave her a handful of pain pills and told her if she decided to go through with it, she should take two now and one every four hours for two days. I told her the pills would make her feel so good she’d probably call to thank me for the beating.

“Whoa, cowboy,” Lauren said. “There you go again!”

I looked at her blankly. Then it registered. “Oh, right. Sorry.” I shook my head. “That was a figure of speech about thanking me for the beating. I just meant that the pills are incredibly effective. I really am an idiot with women.”

“I’ve had pain pills before,” she said.

“Not like these,” I said. “They’re laced with something that gives you a feeling of euphoria.”

Then I got out my duffel bag and handed her two bricks of money held together with rubber bands, each of which contained ten thousand dollars. She stared at the money. “It pains me to say this, but let’s see if I can help you save a few bucks. Why not just call Janet and tell her about Chapman? Or better yet, send her this folder and tell her you did a background check on her fiancé and this is what turned up.”

“She won’t believe me,” I said. “She knows my people can fabricate legal documents in a matter of hours. We can alter it, falsify it, destroy court records or create published testimony overnight. And don’t forget, she loves the bastard, and he’s persuasive. His last girlfriend still believes Kathleen beat herself up all those years to maintain control in the relationship.”

Lauren was running out of ideas. I knew the feeling. “What if you sent the information anonymously?” she asked.

“Janet would know I did it,” I said, “and she wouldn’t believe it anyway. She really hates me.”

“Honestly, sugar, if this is your best idea, I can see why she might feel that way.” Lauren gestured toward the photos on the bed. “I admit there’s a resemblance,” she said, “but we’re not even close to identical. Really, this whole thing is insane. Even if I agreed to do it, when Janet sees the real photographs, she’ll know I’m not Kathleen.”

“I’ll take photos of you before and after the beating, and my people will alter the police photos to match your face and body. They’ll even do an age regression on you to show the beatings over a period of years. Then they’ll superimpose Kathleen’s injuries on your photographs. The updated packet will be delivered to your home address by courier within eight hours.”

“You can’t possibly know where I live,” she said.

To her horror, I recited her address from memory. “So the story and paperwork will be real,” I continued. “Only the police photos will be doctored.”

Lauren said, “How do you know that Janet never met Kathleen?”

“There’s no way Ken would have let them meet. He wouldn’t want Janet to learn about the beatings.”

“Why can’t I just pay her a visit, pretend to be Kathleen, and tell her the truth about Ken?”

“I thought about that, but we have to make Janet want to protect Kathleen.”

“Why?”

“Because if Janet thinks Ken beat Kathleen half to death as a warning, she’d be putting Kathleen’s life in danger by implicating her.”

“You’re talking about later on, when Janet breaks off the wedding,” Lauren said.

“Exactly. If Kathleen just shows up on Janet’s doorstep without any injuries, Janet will tell him, and he’d either say Kathleen was crazy or that it all happened years ago and he’s cured. Remember, he can prove he’s been to anger management courses.”

“Required by the court.”

“Right, and also counseling.”

“Also a provision of his probation.”

“You know the drill.”

She nodded.

“He’ll claim he was bipolar,” I said, “and that he subsequently took drugs to alleviate his chemical imbalance.”

“All of which might be true.”

“It might be, but that’s not the issue. I don’t want this creep in my wife’s life—or my daughter’s.”

“Your ex-wife, you mean.”

“Right.”

“So, if I pretend to be Kathleen, show up all battered and bruised, and tell Janet he did this to me as a warning, you think she’ll buy it?”

“I know she will. He can’t claim to be cured if he did this to you. But you’ve got to play it a certain way. We’ll need to do a lot of rehearsing.”

“I charge a two-hour minimum.”

I smiled. “I thought the twenty grand might be enough.”

She smiled back. “That’ll help take away the sting,” she said, “but you said the twenty was for the beating. Anything else, such as rehearsing, that’s extra.”

She saw me frown.

“Don’t go cheap on me now, Donovan,” she said. “I’m obviously the only game in town, the only escort that matches Kathleen enough for this crazy scheme to work.”

“Fair enough,” I said, noting she’d called herself a hooker earlier. “But if I’m paying for your time I want your full attention.”

“Of course.”

I nodded. “Good. And, Lauren, I’ll make you a promise: if my ex breaks off the wedding, I’ll owe you a favor.”

“A favor,” she said.

I nodded.

“You mean like some kind of Mafi a thing?”

I didn’t say anything.

“Like what, you mean you’d kill someone if I asked you to?”

I shrugged. “It’s up to you how you use your favor.”

“Mister, you are some kind of twisted freak, anyone ever tell you that?”

“I hear that a lot, actually.”

She looked at me silently for a moment. “Well I intend to hold you to it,” she said, “cause I’ve got a Ken Chapman in my life, too.” Lauren tried to hand one of the envelopes back to me. She said, “Don’t you want to just give me half now, half later?”

“I trust you,” I said.

She nodded. “I guess if you’re willing to beat me up and kill my ex, you’re not the sort of person who gets double-crossed much, am I right?”

“You think you can pull this off convincingly?” I said.

“Are you kidding me?” She said her experience as a successful escort all these years made her a better actress than Meryl Streep.

The way she put it, “Every week, an eighty-year-old man thinks he gives me a screaming orgasm, okay? So this business with Janet’s a piece of cake.” Then she added, “Still, you need to prepare yourself for something.”

“What’s that?”

“She’s never going back to you.”

“I don’t want her back.”

“Then let me put it another way: she’s never going to forgive you.”

“You don’t think she’ll eventually thank me?”

“Not a chance.”

I thought about that a bit. “Okay,” I said. “It’s still worth it.”

In all, Lauren and I were together six hours. The first hour we rehearsed her lines, over and over. Then I ordered room service. We rehearsed another thirty minutes while waiting for the food. Lunch came and we ate it and chatted about life in general.