Maybe

45

“LOOK FOR TWELVE-forty-two,” I say, as we turn onto Vincent.

“You think he’s staying with his ex and her sister?”

“No, I think he’s stalking them.”

“You’re going to capture him, right? Then torture him?”

“Yes. You still want to be a part of it?”

“Yes.”

“You might want to re-think that.”

“Why?”

“I’m going to take my time,” I say. “He’s going to suffer.”

“I’ll watch as much as I can. But mostly I want to talk to him.”

“Then you shall. Okay, it should be somewhere on this block.”

“There’s twelve-twenty-eight,” Miranda says. “Slow down, it’s…okay, it’s two houses up, on the right.”

“The gray ranch? Red shutters?”

“Yes.”

“Keep your eyes peeled for a white Honda Accord.”

“Okay,” she says. “If we see one, I’ve got the license number in my purse.”

“You mean your handbag?” I say, trying to sound hip.

“Actually, I was referring to my coin purse.”

“The one you keep inside your hand bag?”

She gives me a strange look. “Where else would I keep it?”

I drive to the intersection, turn right, make the block.

No white Honda Accord.

This time when I pass the house I go two blocks.

“Bingo!” I say.

“Where?”

“Next block, left side.”

She digs in her handbag for her coin purse, opens it, and removes the notes she took back in Virginia.

“4XT167C,” she says.

I pass the car.

“Guy in the driver’s seat,” I say.

Miranda checks the license plate against her notes.

“Omigod!” she says. “It’s him!”

I drive another block, make a u-turn, and find a place to park where I can keep an eye on Miles.

“What happens next?” she says.

“We watch and wait.”

“How long?”

“Until he moves or it gets dark.”

“Donovan?”

“Yeah?”

“I need to use the bathroom.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Nope.”

“How long can you hold it?”

“Umm…ten, maybe fifteen minutes?”

I sigh. It’s three-fifteen, broad daylight. We’re in a residential area.

I reach across her, open the glove compartment, and pop the trunk.

“Hang on a second,” I say.

I get out of the car and remove my duffel from the trunk. Then come around to her side and open her door.

“What’s up?”

“You’re going to drive.”

“Where?”

“I’m going to walk along the sidewalk toward his car. When I get there, I need you to drive right up beside him, lower the passenger window, and ask him where the nearest fast food restaurant is.”

“Then what?”

“Try to engage him in conversation.”

“Then what?”

“Then drive to the fast food place and pee. Then drive back here and park the car. If you don’t see me, call my cell phone.”

“What if he drives away while I’m gone?”

“We’ll follow him.”

She says, “You’re going to put a tracking device on his car while I’m engaging him in conversation.”

“Thirty-eight hundred a week. That’s my final offer.”

She giggles. “Sorry, no.”

I shake my head. “I’ll talk you into it, eventually.”

“I don’t think so.”

As I walk down the sidewalk toward Gundy’s car, Lou Kelly calls to tell me two dozen kids and three adults were poisoned at a birthday party in Nashville two days ago.

“Sunday? Same day as the Derby City Fair?”

“Same day. One of the moms gave a description. Said a guy showed up at the party with a cookie cake, and there was something odd about him.”

“Odd how?”

“The way he stared at her gave her the creeps, so she followed him through the house and out the front door, and saw him drive away in a white Honda Accord.”

“The three adults?” I say.

“All Moms.”

“Damn it, Lou! Why did it take you two days to make the connection?”

“I just found out about it this minute.”

“How’s that possible?”

“The cookie cake was laced with ricin.”

Ricin poison takes two to four days to kill, depending on the age and health of the victim.

“They must’ve all gotten sick the same day. Why didn’t anyone report it?”

“It was a kids’ birthday party. The moms figured the kids ate too much, or maybe the potato salad was bad. They started calling each other last night to compare notes, but still didn’t want to offend the hosts.”

“But all that changed today?”

“Right.”

“How bad is it, Lou?”

“The kids are all dying or dead. The moms will probably survive.”

I’m closing in on Miles’s car.

“Son of a bitch!” I say.

Looking behind me, I see Miranda pulling out into the road. I press her number on my cell phone.

“Is this too soon?” she says.

“When you pull next to him, keep six feet of distance between the cars.”

“Okay.”

She passes me and pulls up alongside him, keeping a six-foot distance between their windows.

I’m directly behind his car now.

Miles is staring ahead so intently he hasn’t noticed Miranda’s car yet.

She taps her horn.

He looks up.

She motions him to lower his window.

He does.

She says, “I’m sorry to bother you, but can you tell me if there’s a fast food restaurant nearby?”

At that point I walk between the two cars, pull my.357 Magnum from my duffel, and blow his fucking head off.

Miranda screams.

I open the passenger door, climb in, and she speeds off down the street.

“Omigod! Omigod! Omigod!” she screams.

“Sorry,” I say. “Change of plans.”

“Omigod!” she screams again. “That was fantastic!”

“It was?”

“Omigod! I loved it!”

“Ten thousand dollars a week,” I say.

“Done!” she says.