The Best American Mystery Stories 2020

from Odd Partners

I March 13

“The meeting’s finished?”

“It is,” Bil Sheering said into his mobile. He was sitting in his rental car, your basic Ford, though with a variation: he’d fried out the GPS so he couldn’t be tracked.

“And you’re happy with the pro?”

“I am,” Bil said. The man on the other end of the line was Victor Brown, but there was no way in hell either of these two would utter their names aloud, despite the encryption. “We talked for close to a half hour. We’re good.”

“The payment terms acceptable?”

“Hundred thousand now, one-fifty when it’s done. Hold on.”

A customer walked out of Earl’s and headed to a dinged and dusty pickup, not glancing Bil’s way. The Silverado fired up and scattered gravel as it bounded onto the highway.

Another scan of the parking lot, crowded with trucks and cars but empty of people. The club, billed as an “exotic dance emporium,” had been a good choice for the meeting. The clientele tended to focus on the stage, not on serious, furtive discussions going on in a booth in the back.

Another customer left, though he too turned away from Bil and vanished into the shadows.

Bil, of medium build, was in his forties, with trim brown hair and a tanned complexion from hunting and fishing, mostly in a down-and-dirty part of West Virginia. “Bil” had nothing to do with “William.” It was a nickname that originated from where he was stationed in the service, near Biloxi, Mississippi. The moniker was only a problem when he wrote it down, B-I–L, and people wondered where the other L went.

“Just checking the lot,” Bil said. “Clear now.”

Victor: “So the pro’s on board. That was the most important thing. What’re the next steps?”

“The occurrence will be on May six. That’s two months for training, picking the equipment. A vehicle that’ll be helpful. Lotta homework.”

They were deep into euphemism. What equipment meant was rifle and ammunition. What vehicle meant was a car that would be impossible to trace. And occurrence was a laughably tame name for what would happen on that date.

There was silence for a moment. Victor broke it by asking, “You are having doubts?” A moment later the man’s slick voice continued, “You can back out, you want. But we take it a few steps further, we can’t.”

But Bil hadn’t been hesitating because of concerns; he’d just been scanning the parking lot for prying eyes again. All was good. He said firmly, “No doubts at all.”

Victor muttered, “I’m just saying we’re looking at a lotta shit and a really big fan.”

“This is what I do, my friend. The plan stands. We take this son of a bitch out.”

“Good, glad you feel that way. Just exercise extreme caution.”

Bil hardly needed the warning; extreme caution was pretty much the order of the day when the son of a bitch you were being paid to take out was a candidate for president of the United States.

II May 6

The Gun Shack was on Route 57, just outside Haleyville.

The owner of the well-worn establishment was a big man, tall and ruddy, plump with fat rolls, and he wore a .45 Glock 30 on his hip. He’d never been robbed, not in twenty-one years, but he was fully prepared — ​and half hoping — ​for the attempt.

Now, at 9:10 a.m., the shop was empty and the owner was having a second breakfast of coffee and a bear claw, enjoying the almond flavor almost as much as he enjoyed the aroma of Hoppe’s Gun Cleaner and Pledge polish from the rifle stocks. He grabbed the remote and clicked on ESPN. Later in the day, when customers were present, hunting shows would be on. Which, he believed, goaded them into buying more ammunition than they ordinarily would have.

The door opened, setting off a chime, and the owner looked up to see a man enter. He checked to see if the fellow was armed — ​no open carry was allowed in the store, and concealed weapons had to stay concealed. But it was clear the guy wasn’t carrying.

The man wasn’t big, but his shaved head, bushy mustache — ​in a horseshoe shape, out of the Vietnam War era — ​and emotionless face made the owner wary. He wore camouflaged hunting gear — ​green and black — ​which was odd, since no game was in season at the moment.

The man looked around and then walked slowly to the counter behind which the owner stood. Unlike most patrons, he ignored the well-lit display case of dozens of beckoning sinister and shiny handguns. There wasn’t a man in the world that came in here who didn’t glance down with interest and admiration at a collection of firepower like this. Say a few words about the Sig, ask about the Desert Eagle.

Not this guy.

The owner’s hand dropped to his side, where his pistol was.

The customer’s eyes dropped too. Fast. He’d noted the gesture and wasn’t the least bit intimidated. He looked back at the owner, who looked away, angry with himself for doing so.

“I called yesterday. You have Lapua rounds.” An eerie monotone.

The owner hadn’t taken the call. Maybe it’d been Stony.

“Yeah, we’ve got ’em.”

“I’ll take two boxes of twenty. Three-three-eights.”

Hm. Big sale for ammo. They were expensive, top of the line. The owner walked to the far end of the shelves and retrieved the heavy boxes. The .338 Lapua rounds weren’t the largest-caliber rifle bullets, but they were among the most powerful. The load of powder in the long casing could propel the slug accurately for a mile. People shooting rifles loaded with Lapuas for the first time were often unprepared for the punishing recoil and sometimes ended up with a “scope eye” bruise on their foreheads from the telescopic sight, a rite of passage among young soldiers.

Hunters tended not to shoot Lapuas — ​because they would blow most game to pieces. The highest-level competitive marksmen might fire them. But the main use was military; Lapua rounds were the bullet of choice for snipers. The owner believed the longest recorded sniper kill in history — ​more than a mile and a half — ​had been with a Lapua.

As he rang up the purchase the owner asked, “What’s your rifle?” Lapuas are a type of bullet; they can be fired from a number of rifles.

“Couple different,” he said.

“You compete?”

The man didn’t answer. He looked at the register screen and handed over a prepaid debit card, the kind you buy at Walmart or Target.

The owner rang up the sale and handed the card back. “I never fired one. Hell of a kick, I hear.”

Without a word, the sullen man grabbed his purchase and walked out.

Well, good day to you, too, buddy. The owner looked after the customer, who turned to the right outside the store, disappearing into the parking lot.

Funny, the owner thought. Why hadn’t he parked in front of the gun shop, where seven empty spaces beckoned? There’d be no reason to park to the right, in front of Ames Drugs, which’d closed two years ago.

Odd duck...

But then he forgot about the guy, noting that a rerun of a recent Brewers game was on the dusty TV. He waddled to a stool, sat down, and chewed more of the pastry as he silently cheered a team that he knew was going to lose, five to zip, in an hour and a half.

Secret Service Special Agent Art Tomson eyed the entrance to the Pittstown Convention Center.

He stood, in his typical ramrod posture, beside his black Suburban SUV and scanned the expansive entryway of the massive building, which had been constructed in the 1980s. The trim man, of pale skin, wore a gray suit and white shirt with a dark blue tie (which looked normal, but the portion behind the collar was cut in half and sewn together with a single piece of thread, so that if an attacker grabbed it in a fight, the tie would break away).

Tomson took in the structure once more. It had been swept earlier and only authorized personnel were present, but the place was so huge and featured so many entrances that it would be a security challenge throughout the nine and a half hours Searcher would be at the center for the press conference and rally. You could never scan a national special security event too much.

Adding to the challenge was the matter that Searcher — ​former governor Paul Ebbett — ​was a minor candidate at this point, so the personal protection detail guarding him was relatively small. That would change, however, given his increasing groundswell of support. He was pulling ahead of the other three candidates in the primary contest. Tomson believed that the flamboyant, blunt, tell-it-like-it-is politician would in fact become the party’s nominee. When that happened, a full detail would be assigned to nest around him. But until then Tomson would make do with his own federal staff of eight, supported by a number of officers from local law enforcement, as well as private security guards at the venues where Ebbett was speaking. In any case, whether there was a handful of men and women under him or scores, Tomson’s level of vigilance never flagged. In the eighteen years he’d been with the Secret Service, now part of Homeland Security, not a single person he’d been assigned to protect had been killed or injured.

He tilted his head as he touched his earpiece and listened to a transmission. There was a belief that agents did this, the touching, which happened frequently, to activate the switch. Nope. The damn things — ​forever uncomfortable — ​just kept coming loose.

The message was that Searcher and his three SUVs had left the airport and were ten minutes away.

The candidate had just started to receive Secret Service protection, having only recently met the criteria for a security detail established by Homeland, Congress, and other government agencies. Among these standards were competing in primaries in at least ten states, running for a party that has garnered at least 10 percent of the popular vote, raising or committing at least $10 million in campaign funds, and, of course, publicly declaring your candidacy.

Besides the normal standards, one of the more significant factors in assigning Ebbett a detail was the reality that the man’s brash statements and if-elected promises had made him extremely unpopular among certain groups. Social media was flooded with vicious verbal attacks and cruel comments, and the Secret Service had already responded to three assassination threats. None had turned out to be more than bluster. One woman had called for Ebbett to be drawn and quartered, apparently thinking that the phrase referred to a voodoo curse in which the governor’s likeness would be sketched on a sheet of paper, which was then cut into four pieces, not to an actual form of execution, and a very unpleasant one at that. Still, Tomson and his team had to take these threats, and the ones that he knew would be forthcoming, seriously. Adding to their burden was intel from the CIA that, more than any other primary candidate in history, Ebbett might be a target of foreign operatives, due to his firm stance against military buildups by countries in Europe and Asia.

Another visual sweep of the convention center, outside of which both protesters and supporters were already queuing. Attendance would be huge; Ebbett’s campaign committee had booked large venues for his events months ago, optimistically — ​and correctly — ​thinking that he would draw increasingly large crowds.

He glanced across the broad street, the lanes closed to handle the foot traffic. He noted his second in command, Don Ivers, close to the rope, surveying those present. Most of the men and women and a few youngsters had posters supporting the candidate, though there were plenty of protesters as well. Ivers and a half-dozen local cops, trained in event security, would not be looking the protesters over very closely, though. The true threats came from the quiet ones, without placards or banners or hats decorated with the candidate’s name or slogans. These folks would have all passed through metal detectors, but given the long lead time for the event, it would have been possible for somebody to hide a weapon inside the security perimeter — ​under a planter or even within a wall — ​and to access it now.

Tomson much preferred rallies to be announced at the last minute, but of course that meant lower attendance. And for most candidates — ​and especially fiery Ebbett — ​that was not an option.

“Agent Tomson.”

He turned to see a woman in her thirties wearing the dark blue uniform of the Pittstown Convention Center security staff. Kim Morton was slim but athletic. Her blond hair was pulled back in a tight bun, like that favored by policewomen and ballet dancers. Her face was pretty but severe. She wore no makeup or jewelry.

Tomson was unique among his fellow Secret Service agents; he believed in “partnering up” with a local officer or security guard at the venue where those under his protection would be appearing. No matter how much research the Secret Service detail did, it was best to have somebody on board who knew the territory personally. When he’d briefed the local team about how the rally would go, he’d asked if there were any issues about the convention center they should know about. Most of the guards and municipal police hemmed and hawed. But Morton had raised her hand and, when he called on her, pointed out there were three doors with locks that might easily be breached — ​adding that she’d been after management for weeks to fix them.

When he described the emergency escape route they would take in the event of an assassination attempt, she’d said to make sure that there hadn’t been a delivery of cleaning supplies, because the workers tended to leave the cartons blocking that corridor rather than put them away immediately.

Then she’d furrowed her brow and said, “Come to think of it, those cartons — ​they’re pretty big. There might be a way somebody, you know, an assassin, could hide in one. Kinda far-fetched, but you asked.”

“I did,” he’d said. “Anything else?”

“Yes, sir. If you have to get out fast, be careful on the curve on the back exit ramp that leads to the highway if it’s raining. Was an oil spill two years ago and nobody’s been able to clean it up proper.”

Tomson had known then that he had his local partner, as curious as the pairing seemed.

Morton now approached and said, “Everything’s secure at the west entrance. Your two men in place and three state police.”

Tomson had known this, but the key word in personal protection is redundancy.

He told her that the entourage would soon arrive. Her blue eyes scanned the crowd. Her hand absently dropped to her pepper spray, as if to make sure she knew where it was. That and walkie-talkies were the guards’ only equipment. No guns. That was an immutable rule for private security.

Then, flashing lights, blue and red and white, and the black Suburban SUVs sped up to the front entrance.

He and Morton, flanked by two city police officers, walked toward the vehicles, from which six Secret Service agents were disembarking, along with the candidate. Paul Ebbett was six feet tall but seemed larger, thanks to his broad shoulders. (He’d played football at Indiana.) His hair was an impressive mane of salt-and-pepper. His suit was typical of what he invariably wore: dark gray. His shirt was light blue, and in a nod to his individuality, it was open at the neck. He never wore a tie and swore he wouldn’t even don one at his inauguration.

Emerging from the last car was a tall, distinguished-looking African American, Tyler Quonn, Ebbett’s chief of staff. Tomson knew he’d been the director of a powerful think tank in D.C. and was absolutely brilliant.

The candidate turned to the crowd and waved, as Tomson and the other agents, cops, and security guards scanned the crowd, windows, and rooftops. Tomson would have preferred that he walk directly into the convention hall, but he knew that wasn’t the man’s way; he was a self-proclaimed “man of the American people,” and he plunged into crowds whenever he could, shaking hands, kissing cheeks, and tousling babies’ hair.

Tomson was looking east when he felt Morton’s firm hand on his elbow. He spun around. She said, “Man in front of the Subway. Tan raincoat. He was patting his pocket and just reached into it. Something about his eyes. He’s anticipating.”

In an instant he transmitted the description to Don Ivers, who was working that side of the street. The tall, bulky agent, a former Marine and state patrol officer, hurried up to the man and, taking his arms, led him quietly to the back of the crowd.

Tomson and Morton walked up to the candidate and the agent whispered, “May have an incident, sir. Could you go inside now?”

Ebbett hesitated, then he gave a final wave to the crowd and — ​infuriatingly slowly — ​headed into the convention center lobby.

A moment later Tomson heard in his headset: “Level four.”

A nonlethal threat.

Ivers explained, “Two ripe tomatoes. He claimed he’d been shopping, but they were loose in his pocket — ​no bag. And a couple of people next to him said he’d been ranting against Searcher all morning. He’s clean. No record. We’re escorting him out of the area.”

As they walked toward the elevator that would take them to the suites, Ebbett asked, “What was it?”

Tomson told him what had happened.

“You’ve got sharp eyes, Ms. Morton,” he said, reading her name badge.

“Just thought something seemed funny about him.”

He looked her over with a narrowed gaze. “Whatta you think, Artie? Should I appoint her head of the Justice Department after I’m elected?”

Morton blinked and Ebbett held a straight face for a moment, then broke into laughter.

It had taken Tomson a while to get used to the candidate’s humor.

“Let’s go to the suite,” Ebbett said. He glanced at Tomson. “My tea upstairs?”

“It is, sir.”

“Good.”

The entourage headed for the elevator, Tomson and Morton checking out every shadow, every door, every window.

Ten miles from Pittstown, in a small suburb called Prescott, the skinny boy behind the counter of Anderson’s Hardware was lost in a fantasy about Jennie Mathers, a cheerleader for the Daniel Webster High Tigers.

Jennie was thoughtfully wearing her tight-fitting uniform, orange and black, and was—​

“PVC. Where is it?” The gruff voice brought the daydream to a halt.

The kid’s narrow face, from which some tufts of silky hair grew in curious places, turned to the customer. He hadn’t heard the man come in.

He blinked, looking at the shaved head, weird mustache, eyes like black lasers — ​if lasers could be black, which maybe they couldn’t, but that was the thought that jumped into his head and wouldn’t leave.

“PVC pipe? ” the kid asked.

The man just stared.

Of course he meant PVC pipe. What else would he mean?

“Um, we don’t have such a great, you know, selection. Home Depot’s up the street.” He nodded out the window.

The man continued staring, and the clerk took this to mean If I’d wanted to go to Home Depot, I would’ve gone to Home Depot.

The clerk pointed. “Over there.”

The man turned and walked away. He strolled through the shelves for a while and then returned to the counter with a half-dozen six-foot-long pieces of three-quarter-inch pipe. He laid them on the counter.

The clerk said, “You want fittings too? And cement?”

He’d need those to join the pipes together or mount them to existing ones.

But the man didn’t answer. He squinted behind the clerk. “That too.” Pointing at a toolbox.

The kid handed it to him.

“That’s a good one. It’s got two little tray thingies you can put screws and bolts in. Washers too. Look inside.”

The man didn’t look inside. He dug into his pocket and pulled out a debit card.

Hitting the keys on the register, the boy said, “That’ll be thirty-two eighty.” He didn’t add, as he was supposed to, “Do you want to contribute a dollar to the Have a Heart children’s fund?”

He had a feeling that’d be a waste of time.

The hallway of the suite tower’s penthouse floor was pretty nice.

During his advance work — ​to check out the security here — ​Art Tomson had learned that in an effort to draw the best entertainers and corporate CEOs for events here, the owners of the convention center had added a tower of upscale suites, where the performers, celebrities, and top corporate players would be treated like royalty. Why go to Madison or Milwaukee and sit in a stodgy greenroom when you could go to Pittstown and kick back in serious luxury?

Paul Ebbett was presently in the best of these, Suite A. (“When I’m back after November,” he’d exclaimed with a sparkle in his eyes, “let’s make sure they rename it the Presidential Suite.”) It was 1,300 square feet, with four bedrooms, three baths, a living room, a dining room, a fair-to-middling kitchen, and a separate room and bathroom actually labeled MAID’S QUARTERS. The view of the city was panoramic, but that was taken on faith; the shutters and curtains were all closed, as they were in the entire row of suites, so snipers couldn’t deduce which room Ebbett was in.

In lieu of the view, however, one could indulge in channel surfing on four massive TVs, ultra-high-def. Tomson was especially partial to TVs because when he got home — ​every two weeks or so — ​he and the wife and kids would pile onto a sofa and binge on the latest Disney movies and eat popcorn and corn dogs until they could eat no more.

Special Agent Art Tomson was a very different man at home.

Only the candidate was inside at the moment. Chief of Staff Quonn was on the convention center floor, testing microphones and soundboards and teleprompters, and Tomson and Morton now sat in the hallway outside the double doors to Suite A. Tomson looked up and down the corridor, whose walls were beige and whose carpet was rich gray. He noted that the agents at each of the stairway doors and the elevator looked attentive. They didn’t appear armed, but each had an FN P90 submachine gun under his or her jacket, in addition to a sidearm and plenty of magazines. Although armed assaults were extremely rare, in the personal protection business you always planned for a gunfight at the O.K. Corral.

Kim Morton said, “Wanted to mention: acoustic tile’s hung six inches below the concrete. Nobody can crawl through.”

Tomson knew. He’d checked. He thanked her anyway and cocked his head once more as transmissions about security status at various locations came in.

All was clear.

He told this to Morton.

She said, “Guess we can relax for a bit.” Eyeing him closely. “Except you don’t, do you?”

“No.”

“Never.”

“No.”

Silence eased in like an expected snow.

Morton broke it by asking, “You want some gum?”

Tomson didn’t believe he’d chewed gum since he was in college.

She added, “Doublemint.”

“No. Thank you.”

“I stopped smoking four years and three months ago. I needed a habit. I’m like, ‘Gum or meth? Gum or meth?’”

Tomson said nothing.

She opened the gum, unwrapped a piece, and slipped it into her mouth. “You ever wonder what the double mints were? Are there really two? They might use just one and tell us it’s two. Who’d know?”

“Hm.”

“You don’t joke much in your line of work, do you?”

“I suppose we don’t.”

“Maybe I’ll get you to smile.”

“I smile. I just don’t joke.”

Morton said, “Haven’t seen you smile yet.”

“Haven’t seen anything to smile about.”

“The two-mint thing? That didn’t cut it?”

“It was funny.”

“You don’t really think so.”

Tomson paused. “No. It wasn’t that funny.”

“Almost got you to smile there.”

Morton’s phone hummed with a call. She grimaced.

Tomson was immediately attentive. Maybe one of the other security guards had seen something concerning.

She said into the phone, “If Maria tells you to go to bed, you go to bed. She’s Mommy when Mommy’s not there. She’s a substitute mommy. Like the time Ms. Wilson got arrested for protesting, remember? When they pulled down the Robert E. Lee statue? And you had that substitute teacher? Well, that’s Maria. Are we clear on that...? Good, and I do not want to find the lizard out when I get home... No, it was not an accident. Lizards do not climb into purses of their own accord. Okay? Love you, Pumpkie. Put Sam on...”

Morton had a brief conversation with another son, presumably younger — ​her voice grew more singsongy.

She disconnected and noticed Tomson’s eyes on her. “Iguana. Small one. In the babysitter’s purse. I stopped them before they uploaded the video to YouTube. Maria’s scream was impressive, man, oh, man. The boys would’ve had ten thousand hits easy. But you’ve got to draw the line somewhere. You have children, Agent Tomson?”

He hesitated. “Maybe we can go with first names at this point.”

“Art. And I’m Kim. By the way, it meant a lot when I met you. You didn’t hit the ground running with my first name. Lotta people do.”

“The world’s changing.”

“Like molasses,” she said. “So, Art. I’m looking at that ring on your finger. You have children? Unless that is a terrible, terrible question to ask, because they all wasted away with bad diseases.”

Finally a smile.

“No diseases. Two. Boy and girl.”

“They learned about lizard pranks yet?”

“They’re a little young for that. And the only nonhuman in the household is a turtle.”

“Don’t let your guard down. Turtles can raise hell too. Just takes ’em a bit longer to do it.”

More silence in the hall. But now the sort of silence that’s a comfort.

Inside the suite he could hear Ebbett had turned on the news — ​every set, it seemed. The candidate was obsessed with the media and watched everything, right and left and in between. He took voluminous notes, often without looking down from the screen at his pad of paper.

Morton nodded to the door and said, “He’s quite a story, isn’t he?”

“Story?”

“His road to the White House. Reinventing himself. He went through that bad patch, the drinking and the women. His wife leaving him. But then he turned it around.”

Ebbett had indeed. He’d done rehab, gotten back together with his wife. He’d been frank and apologetic about his transgressions and he’d had successful campaigns for state representative and then governor. He’d burst onto the presidential scene last year.

Morton said, “I heard he came up with that campaign slogan himself: ‘America. Making a Great Country Greater.’ I like that, don’t you? I know his positions’re a little different and he’s got kind of a mouth on him. Blunt, you know what I’m saying? But I’ll tell you, I’m voting for him.”

Tomson said nothing.

“Hm, did I just cross a line?”

“The thing is, in protection detail we don’t express any opinion about the people we look after. Good, bad, politics, personal lives. Democrats or Republicans, it’s irrelevant.”

She was nodding. “I get it. Keeps you focused. Nothing ex — ​what’s the word? Extraneous?”

“That’s right.”

“Extraneous... I help the boys with their homework some. I’m the go-to girl for math, but for English and vocabulary? Forget it.”

He asked, “You always been in security?”

“No,” she answered. A smile blossomed, softening her face. She was really quite pretty, high cheekbones, upturned nose, clear complexion. “I always wanted to be a cop. Can’t tell you why. Maybe from a TV show I saw when I was a kid. Walker, Texas Ranger. Law & Order. NYPD Blue. But that didn’t work out. This’s the next best thing.”

She sounded wistful.

“You could still join up, go to the state police or city academy. You’re young.”

Her eyes rolled. “And I thought you agents had to be sooooo observant.”

Another smile appeared.

“Anyway, can’t afford to take the time off. Single-mom thing.”

Tomson saw Don Ivers approaching quickly. Tomson and the younger agent had worked together for about five years; he knew instantly there was a problem. Noting the man’s expression, Kim Morton tensed too.

“What?” Tomson asked.

“We’ve got word from CAD. Possible threat triad.”

Tomson explained to Morton, “Our Central Analytics Division. You know, data miners. Supercomputers analyze public and law enforcement information and algorithms to spot potential risks.”

She nodded. “Computer game stuff.”

“Pretty much, that’s right.”

Ivers continued, “About an hour ago there was an anonymous call about a white male in a red Toyota sedan. Plate was covered with mud. The driver was standing outside the car and making a cell-phone call. The citizen who called 911 heard this guy mention Ebbett and rally. That’s all he could hear. But he saw there was a long gun in the backseat. It was outside a strip mall in Avery.”

“About five miles south of here,” Morton said.

Ivers continued, “That put all red Toyota sedans on a watch list.”

“The caller say anything more about the driver?”

“He was in combat or camo, medium build, bald with an old-timey mustache. Droopy, like gunslingers wore. The computers started to scan every CCTV — ​public, and the private ones that make their data available to law enforcement. There were two hits on the target vehicles. At nine this morning one was spotted in a parking lot near a gun shop in Haleyville.”

Tomson turned to Morton, his eyebrow raised.

She said, “Twenty miles south.”

“He parked in front of a closed-up drugstore in a strip mall,” Ivers said. “The closest active store was the gun shop. We got their security video. The first customer of the day was a bald white male, thirties to forties, with a drooping mustache.” Ivers sighed. “He bought forty .338 Lapua rounds. Prepaid debit card he paid cash for. Owner said he was a scary guy.”

“Brother,” Tomson said, sighing. He added to Morton, “Lapuas are high-powered sniper rounds.”

“And he didn’t park in front of the shop,” she said, “to avoid the camera in the gun shop.”

“Probably.”

Ivers added, “Then another hit. Two hours ago the Toyota was videoed parked near — ​but not in front of, again — ​a hardware store in Prescott, twelve miles away. He bought a toolbox and six three-quarter-inch PVC pipes. No CCTV inside, but the clerk’s description was the same as the others. Same debit card as before.”

“Where’d he buy the card?” Tomson asked.

“A Target in Omaha a month ago.”

“Been planning this for a while.”

Morton grimaced. “Those towns? That’s a straight line to where we are now: Haleyville, Prescott, Avery.”

Tomson asked, “Status of vehicle?”

“Nothing since then. He’s taking his time, sticking to back roads.”

“What would he want the pipes for?” Morton asked. “To make bombs?”

Tomson said, “Probably not. That’s pretty thin. You couldn’t get much explosive in them.”

“A tripod for his gun?” she suggested.

An interesting idea. But when he considered it, that didn’t seem likely. “Doubt it. Anybody with a gun that fires Lapua rounds would have professional accessories to go along with it. And in an urban shooting situation like here, he could just use a windowsill or box to support the weapon for a distance shot.”

Tomson said, “Put out the info on the wire. Let’s advise Searcher.”

He knocked on the suite door. “Sir. It’s Art.”

A voice commanded, “Come on in.”

The candidate was jotting notes on a yellow pad. Presumably for his speech that night. He’d do this until the last moment. A transcriptionist was on staff, and she would pound the keys of the computer attached to the teleprompter until just before the candidate took the stage. Open on the table was Barbara Tuchman’s brilliant — ​and disturbing — ​book about the First World War, The Guns of August. One of the first items on Ebbett’s agenda as president would be to revitalize the U.S. military — ​“make a great army even greater!” — ​and stand up to foreign aggression.

Tomson said, “Sir, we’ve received some information about a possible threat.” He explained what they’d discovered.

The candidate took the details without any show of emotion. “Credible?”

“It’s not hunting season, but he could be a competitive marksman, buying those rounds for the range. The camo? A lot of men wear it as everyday clothing. But the license plate was obscured. And he’s headed this way. I’m inclined to take it seriously.”

The candidate leaned back and sipped his iced tea. After he’d reinvented himself, this was the strongest thing he imbibed.

“Well, well, well... hm. And what do you say, Ms. Morton?”

“Me? Oh, I’m just a girl who spots tomato-throwers. These men know all the fancy stuff.”

“But what’s your gut tell you?”

She cocked her head. “My gut tells me that with any other candidate this’d probably be a bunch of coincidences. But you’re not any other candidate. You speak your mind and tell the truth and some people don’t like that — ​or what you have planned when you take office. I’d say take it seriously.”

“She’s good, Artie.” A smile crinkled his face. “And I like that she said when I take office. Okay. We’ll assume it’s a credible threat. What do we do?”

“Move the press conference inside,” Tomson said. “The location’s been in the news and a shooter would know that’s where you’ll be.”

The conference, planned for a half hour before the candidate’s speech at the rally, was to be held in an open-air plaza connected to the convention center. The candidate had wanted to hold it there because clearly visible from the podium was a factory that had gone out of business after losing jobs overseas. Ebbett was going to point to the dilapidated building and talk about his criticism of the present administration’s economic policies.

Tomson had never been in favor of the plaza; it was a real security challenge, being so open. The choice had been Tyler Quonn’s, but Ebbett had liked it immediately. Now, though, he reluctantly acquiesced to moving the conference inside. “But I’m not changing one thing about the rally tonight.”

“No need, sir; the center itself is completely secure.”

“The press’ll probably like it better anyway,” Ebbett conceded. “Not the best weather to be sitting outside, listening to me spout off — ​as brilliant as my bon mots are.”

Tomson noticed that while Kim Morton got the gist of what he was saying, she didn’t know the French expression, and this seemed to bother her.

English and vocabulary? Forget it...

He felt bad that his partner was troubled.

Tomson called Tyler Quonn and explained about moving the press conference. The chief of staff apparently wasn’t crazy about the idea but agreed to follow Tomson’s direction. Then Ivers opened his tablet and they studied the area, setting the iPad on the coffee table. Tomson explained to Morton and Ebbett, “Assuming he was going to try a shot at the press conference, we’ll locate where a good vantage point would be. Get undercover agents and police there to spot him.”

Then Ivers added, “I keep coming back to the pipes. The PVC. And the toolbox.”

“He could slip into a construction site, fronting as a worker. You know, bundle the gun up with the pipes.” Tomson shrugged. “But there’s no job site with a view of the plaza.”

“There’s construction going on there,” Morton said, her unpolished nail hovering over the screen. She was indicating a city block about a mile from the convention center.

“What is it?” Ivers asked her.

“A high-rise of some kind, about half completed. All I know is the trucks screw up traffic making deliveries. We avoid that road commuting here.”

Tomson picked up the tablet and went to 3-D view. He moved his fingers over the screen, zooming and sweeping from one view to another. He grimaced. “Bingo.”

“Whatcha got, Artie?” Ebbett asked.

“You’ll be inside the convention center for the rally. But the only way to get into the hall itself is along the corridor behind this wall.” He zoomed in on a fifty-foot wall, with small windows at about head height. The windows faced the job site.

Ebbett chuckled. “Artie, come on. It’s nearly a mile away. At dusk. Who the hell could make that shot?”

“A pro. And shooting a Lapua round? It’s so powerful, what’d just be a wound with another gun would be fatal with a slug like that. Sir, this is a level-two threat. I’m going to ask you to cancel.”

Ebbett was shaking his head. “Artie, just let me say this: my enemies, and the enemies of this country, want to make us afraid, want to make us run and hide. I can’t do that. I won’t do that. I know it makes your job tougher. But I’m going to say no. The rally goes on as planned. Move the press conference inside, okay. That’s as far as I’ll go. Final word.”

Without hesitation the agent said, “Yes, sir.” Then, given his orders, he turned immediately to the task at hand. “Don, you get a team together. I want eyes on every CCTV from here to that job site, looking for that Toyota. And I want two dozen tactical officers inside and outside the job site. And I need to come up with a different route to get Governor Ebbett into the hall, one that doesn’t involve any outside exposure. Not even a square foot.”

Ivers said, “I’m on it. I’ll call in when I’m in position.” He hurried down the corridor.

Tomson said, “I’ll find a covered route to get you to the hall, sir.”

As he and Morton turned to leave, Tomson glanced down once more at the coffee table, where The Guns of August sat. It hadn’t occurred to him earlier, but now he remembered something; the cause of the First World War, in which nearly twenty million people died, could be traced to one simple act — ​a political assassination.

In conclusion, my fellow Americans:

This country was founded on the principles of freedom and fairness. And I would add to those another principle: that of fostering. You may remember someone in your youth who fostered you. Oh, I don’t mean officially, like a foster parent. I mean a teacher, a neighbor, a priest or minister, who took you under his wing and saw within you your inner talent, your inner good, your inner spirit.

And nurtured your gifts.

Freedom, fairness, fostering...

Together, you and I will invoke those three principles to make our nation shine even brighter.

To make our strong nation stronger.

To make our great nation greater!

God bless you all, God bless our future, and God bless the United States of America.

Governor Paul Ebbett looked over his notes and rose from the couch. He practiced this passage a few more times, then revised other parts of the speech. Little by little he was closing in on the final version. He still had a couple of hours until showtime.

He smiled to himself.

Little by little.

Which was exactly the way he was creeping up on the presidential nomination. So many people had said he couldn’t do it. That he was too brash, too blunt. Too honest — ​as if there was such a thing.

A knock on the door. “Sir?” It was Artie Tomson.

“Yes?”

“Your dinner’s here.”

He entered, along with the woman who had saved him from tomato target practice. He liked her and was sorry she was only a security guard and not on his full-time staff. They were accompanied by a white-jacketed server, a slim Latino, who was wheeling in the dinner cart. Under the silver cover would be his favorite meal: hamburger on brioche bread, lettuce, tomato, and, since the first-lady-to-be was not present, red onion — ​the sandwich accessorized with Thousand Island dressing and a side of fries.

And his beloved sweet tea.

The man opened the wings of the table and set out the food.

“Enjoy your meal, sir.” He turned to leave.

“Wait,” the candidate commanded.

The convention center employee turned. “Sir?” His eyes grew wide as Ebbett pulled his wallet from his hip pocket, extracted a twenty, and handed it to him.

“I... oh, thank you, sir!”

Ebbett thought about asking, as a joke, if the man was going to vote for him. But he didn’t seem the sort who would get humor and he worried the server might actually think it was a bribe.

The slight man scurried off, clutching the money, which Ebbett bet he was going to frame rather than spend.

Artie Tomson was giving him an update about the potential assassin, which really was no update at all. They hadn’t learned anything from the state police about local threats, or from the NRO, NSA, or CIA about foreign operatives. There was a full complement of tactical officers — ​some undercover in construction worker outfits — ​in and around the job site. But there was no sign of the bald, mustachioed suspect or the red Toyota.

As they spoke, Ebbett glanced across the living room and noted Kim Morton on her phone, head down, lost in a serious conversation.

Tomson received a call and excused himself to take it.

Ebbett strolled casually to the table and plucked a fry from the basket. Nice and hot. He dunked it in ketchup and, salivating already, lifted the morsel to his lips as he turned to the TV to check the weather and see if the predicted storm would possibly keep people away. No, it looked like—​

Then a crash of china and glass, and with a sharp pain in his back, Ebbett tumbled forward onto the carpet. He realized just before he hit the floor that he’d been facing away from the curtained window, and he wondered, with eerie calm, how the assassin, who was apparently across the street, nowhere near the job site, had known exactly where he would be standing.

Art Tomson was in the hall, surrounded by a half-dozen other Secret Service agents and local police, all facing him as he gave them calm, clear instructions on how to proceed.

One by one, or two by two, the agents and cops turned toward the elevator and headed off for their respective tasks.

Ivers walked up to him and Kim Morton, who stood silently beside the senior agent. Ivers’s face was even paler than normal as he displayed his phone. “Here’s the answer.”

Tomson was staring at the words on the screen. Then he nodded to the door of Suite A. “Let’s go.”

They walked into the hotel room, Kim Morton behind them.

Searcher, Governor Ebbett, was sitting on the couch, a heating pad on his back.

That was the only medical attention he’d needed after being tackled while about to take a bite of French fry, dipped in what they suspected might be poisoned ketchup.

Tomson said, “Sir, we’re awaiting the analysis of the food. But the substance in question is zinc phosphide.”

“The hell’s that?”

“Highly toxic rodenticide, used to kill rats mostly. Ingest some and it mixes with stomach acid and a poisonous gas is released.”

“What’s going on, Artie?”

He nodded to Kim Morton and said, “I’ll let my partner here explain. She’s the one who thought of it.”

With her eyes on Ebbett’s, she said, “Well, sir. I was thinking that this guy... perp, you say perp?”

“We say perp,” Tomson said.

“I was thinking if this perp really was some brilliant assassin, well, he didn’t seem to be acting so smart. Conspicuous, you know. Parking suspiciously. Talking about the rally in public while he had a rifle in the back of his car, and he wasn’t too concerned if anybody heard him. Wearing camouflage. Buying the PVC pipes and toolbox so we’d think he’d be in a job site... I mean, it just seemed too obvious that he was planning to shoot you. And I looked at those windows in the hallway again. I mean, even if he was a pro, that’d be a hell of a shot.

“So what might other possibilities be? I thought I’d call the places we know he’d been: the gun shop and the hardware store. We know what he bought, but what if he’d shoplifted something that could be used as a weapon — ​a tool or a knife or a can of propane to make into a bomb? Nothing was missing at the gun shop, but at the hardware store — ​where there weren’t any video cameras — ​I asked the clerk if anything was missing. They did an inventory. Two cans of rat poison had been stolen.

“When I saw you go for that fry, sir, I just panicked,” Morton said. “I thought whatever I said, you might still take a bite, so I just reacted. I’m sorry.”

He chuckled. “No worries. It’s not every day a beautiful woman launches herself into me... and saves my life at the same time.”

Tomson said, “We’ve closed down the kitchen and concession stands and analyzed the HVAC system. No sign of poison yet. But all of your food and beverages will come in from outside, vetted sources.”

“Don’t have much of an appetite at this point.” He grimaced. “Had to be the fucking Russians. They love their poisons. Look at Litvinenko.” The Russian expat murdered in London by Moscow agents, who slipped polonium into his tea. “And the Skripal poisoning in Salisbury — ​that Novichok toxin... Jesus.”

“There was no chatter about it in the intel community,” Ivers pointed out. “Washington’s been monitoring.”

“Of course there’s no chatter,” Ebbett muttered. “They’re not talking about it overseas — ​the communications would be picked up. No, they hired some locals to handle the operation — ​where the CIA can’t legally monitor phones and computers without a FISA warrant. Tell the attorney general I want the bureau and the CIA to check out the known Russian cells and anyone with a connection to them. I want them to use a proctoscope.”

“Yes, sir. They’ve been alerted.”

“And the car? That Toyota?”

Ivers said, “Never got close to the job site. Like Officer Morton was saying, it was a diversion, we think. A CCTV in Bronson, about thirty miles east, spotted it, headed out of the state. We’re still looking, but after that sighting, it’s disappeared. I’ve got one team going through the hardware store, looking for trace evidence and prints. Other teams are going over the convention center service entrance, kitchen, the suppliers, and onsite staff. We’re looking at the tea in particular.”

“Bastard messing with my sweet tea?” Ebbett grumbled in mock rage. Then his eyes slid to Kim Morton. “A local security guard took on a pro assassin... and kicked his ass.”

“I just had some thoughts. It was Agent Tomson and Agent Ivers who did everything.”

“Don’t play down your role.” He looked her over for a moment. “Artie was telling me a few things about you. How you always wanted to be a police officer.”

“Oh,” she said, looking down. “I guess. That didn’t work out. But I’m happy with my life now.”

“That’s good. Sure... But you know my campaign slogan.”

She said, “Making a great country greater.”

“So what if I could make your happy life happier? ”

“I’m not sure what you mean, sir.”

“What I mean is, you did something for me; now I’d like to do something for you. Artie, leave us alone for a few minutes. There’s something I’d like to discuss with Ms. ... I mean, with Officer Morton.”

“I’ll be outside, sir.”

At exactly 10:20 that night Governor Paul Ebbett’s speech concluded with “And God bless the United States of America.” The last word vanished in the tide of screams, whistles, and thunderous applause. Thirty thousand people were on their feet, waving banners and tossing aloft fake straw hats.

Art Tomson, who’d been onstage for the full event, now walked down the steps and joined Kim Morton, who was standing guard at the doorway that led to the underground passage through which Governor Ebbett would exit in a moment.

The evening had gone off without a hitch. In a few minutes Searcher would be in the SUV and speeding to the airport.

“Good speech,” she said.

Tomson, who’d heard it or variations of it scores of times, simply nodded noncommittally.

Then she lowered her voice and said, “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“Did the governor tell you what he’s going to do for me?”

“No.”

Morton explained what the candidate had said in their private meeting. “He’s going to get me into the state police academy here. He’s a friend of our governor, who owes him for something or another.” Her face broke into a smile. “And he arranged for a stipend — ​almost as much as I’m making here. He said one favor deserves another. He did that all because you told him I wanted to be a cop.”

“He was asking about you. He thought you were sharper than some of the people working for him.” Tomson added with gravity in his voice, “And the fact is, none of us came up with that idea about the poison.”

“Just a theory is all.”

“Still, in this line of work, better safe than sorry.”

Thomson tapped his earpiece and heard: “Searcher’s on the move.”

Into his sleeve mike he said, “Roger. Exit is clear.”

Tomson shook Morton’s hand. She gave him a fast embrace. Never in his years of being an agent had he hugged a fellow personal protection officer. He was startled. Then he hugged her back and peeled away to join the candidate and his escort hurrying to the waiting SUV.

III May 24

The main room at Earl’s wasn’t smoky, hadn’t been for years. Even vaping was prohibited.

But the aroma of tobacco persisted, as the owners of the place had made no effort to clean the smell away. Because men, alcohol, and semiclad women somehow demanded the scent of cigarette smoke — ​if not the fumes themselves.

Bil Sheering was at the bar, nursing a Jack and Coke, looking at the scruffy audience sitting by the low stage and at unsteady round bistro tables. While he knew they all could figure out “Exotic Dance,” he was wondering how many had a clue what an “Emporium” was. He wondered too why Earl — ​if there was, or had been, an Earl — ​had decided to affix the name to his strip joint.

Then his attention turned back to Starlight, the woman on center stage at the moment. Some of the dancers who performed here were bored gyrators. Some offered crude poses and outsized flirtatious glances. And some were uneasy and modest. But Starlight was into dancing with both elegance and sensuality.

He was enjoying her performance when his attention slipped to the TV, where an announcement was interrupting the game. On the screen was a red graphic: BREAKING NEWS.

Somebody beside him chuckled drunkenly. “Don’tcha love it? ‘Breaking news’ used to be a world war or plane crash. Now it’s a thunderstorm, vandals at a 7-Eleven. Media’s full of shit.”

Bil said nothing but kept his attention on the grimy TV. A blond anchorwoman appeared. She seemed to have been caught unprepared by what was coming next. “We now bring you breaking news from Washington, D.C. We’re live at the campaign headquarters of Governor Paul Ebbett for what he has said is an important announcement.”

Bil watched the man stride to the front of the room. Cameras fired away, the thirty-shots-per-second mode, sounding like silenced machine guns in a movie.

At Ebbett’s side was his wife, a tall, handsome woman on whose severe face was propped a stony smile.

“My fellow Americans, I am here tonight to announce that I am withdrawing from the campaign for president of the United States.” Gasps from the crowd. “In my months on the campaign trail, I have come to realize that the most important work in governing this country is on the grassroots level rather than inside the Beltway. And it’s in those local offices that I feel I can be of most benefit to my party and to the American people. Accordingly, I will be ceasing my efforts to run for president and returning to my great home state, where I’ll be running” — ​he swallowed hard — ​“for supervisor of Calloway County.” A long pause. “I’m also urging all of my electoral delegates and other supporters to back a man I feel exhibits the best qualities of leadership for America, Senator Mark Todd.”

Another collective gasp, more buzzing of the cameras.

Ebbett took his wife’s hand. Bil noted she didn’t squeeze it but let him grip the digits the way you might pick up a gutted fish in a tray of shaved ice to examine it for freshness.

“Senator Todd is just the man to lead our party to victory and” — ​Ebbett’s voice caught — ​“make a great nation greater. Thank you, my fellow citizens. God bless you. And God bless the United States of America.”

No applause. Just a torrent of questions from the floor. Ebbett ignored them and walked from the room, his wife beside him, their hands no longer entwined.

The scene switched back to the brightly lit newsroom and the anchorwoman saying, “That was Governor Paul Ebbett, who just yesterday seemed unstoppable on his route to his party’s candidacy. But there you heard it: his shocking news that he is dropping out of the race. And his equally stunning endorsement of Senator Mark Todd. Todd, considered a far more moderate and bipartisan politician than Ebbett, has been the governor’s main rival on the primary campaign trail. Although Todd avoided personal attacks, Ebbett rarely missed the chance to belittle and mock the senator.”

Reading from what had to be hastily scribbled notes on the teleprompter, the blond anchor said, “A lot of people were surprised by the success Ebbett enjoyed in the primary campaign, which played to the darker side of American society. His positions were controversial. Many in both parties thought his nationalist-charged rhetoric was divisive. He openly admitted that his campaign phrase, ‘Make a Great Country Greater,’ meant greater for people like him, white and Christian. He promised to slash social spending on education and the poor.

“He alarmed those both in this country and abroad by stating that one of his first acts in office would be to mass American troops along Russia’s borders. Some pundits have said that Ebbett might have targeted Russia not for any political or ideological reason, but because he believed a common enemy would solidify support around him.

“We now have in the studio and via Skype hookup our national presidential campaign panel for an analysis of this unexpected announcement—”

“Hey, Bil,” came the woman’s voice behind him.

Bil turned to see the dancer who’d just been up onstage sidling up to him, pulling a shawl over her ample breasts. Bil wasn’t completely happy she’d donned the garment.

He knew she went by Starlight at Earl’s, but he couldn’t help but think of her by her real name: Kim Morton.

She smiled to the bartender, who brought her a scotch on the rocks. The headline dancer began to pull bills out of her G-string. As tawdry as Earl’s was, it looked like she had been tipped close to two hundred dollars — ​for twenty minutes at the pole. She sipped her drink and nodded at the screen. “You did it.”

“Me?” Bil asked, smiling. “We did it.”

She cocked her head. “Guess I can’t really argue with that one.”

We did it...

They sure as hell had.

Six months ago the National Party Committee had become alarmed, then panicked, that Paul Ebbett was picking up a significant number of delegates in the primary contests, beating out their preferred candidate, Senator Mark Todd. They were astonished that Governor Ebbett’s bigoted and militant rhetoric was stirring up a groundswell of support.

The committee knew Ebbett was lose-lose. If elected, he would destroy not only the party but probably the economy and perhaps even the nation itself — ​if he managed to start World War III, which seemed more than a little possible.

Committee chairman Victor Brown wanted Ebbett out. But backroom attempts to negotiate with him to drop out were futile. In fact, the effort incensed him and fueled his resolve to win... and purge the ranks of those who had questioned his ability to lead the country.

So extreme measures were required.

Last March Victor had called in Bil Sheering, who ran a ruthless political consulting company in Washington, D.C. Bil had hurried back from his hunting lodge in West Virginia to his M Street office and got to work.

For the plan Bil came up with, he needed a pro — ​by which he meant a call girl based in the region of the midwestern state where Governor Ebbett would be holding a big rally in May. After some research he’d settled on Kim Morton, aka Starlight, a dancer at Earl’s with an escort business on the side. He’d found her to be smart, well-spoken, and without a criminal history. She also had a particular contempt for Ebbett, since her husband had been killed in Afghanistan, which she considered an unnecessary war, just like the one Ebbett seemed to be planning.

Victor had given Bil a generous budget; he offered Morton a quarter million dollars to take a hiatus from dancing for two months and get a job as a security guard at the Pittstown Convention Center. She used her charm and intelligence to talk her way onto the security team working with the Secret Service at the rally, earning the trust of the senior agent, Art Tomson.

The day of the rally, Bil, who’d grown an impressive mustache and shaved his head, dressed in combat gear and smeared mud on the license plate of an old hulk of a Toyota he’d bought at a junkyard. He’d made his way toward the convention center from Haleyville to Prescott to Avery, making intentionally suspicious purchases: sniper bullets and PVC pipes and hardware. He’d also made the anonymous call about a man having a phone conversation about Ebbett and the rally with a rifle in the backseat of his car.

Meanwhile, Kim Morton continued to ingratiate herself into the Secret Service operation... and get the attention of Ebbett himself. She’d spotted the suspicious man in the crowd, armed with two rotten tomatoes (the kid was an intern from National Party headquarters given a bonus to play the role). Finally she’d offered her insights about the sniper attack being a diversion — ​poisoning might be the real form of assassination. (There never was any toxin; at the hardware store Bil had not stolen the rodenticide but had merely hidden the cans in another aisle; when they were later discovered, the Secret Service would conclude the attack was a product of the security guard’s overactive imagination.)

The script called for Morton to tackle Ebbett to “save his life.” Following that intimate and icebreaking moment, Kim Morton had fired enough flirtatious glances his way to ignite latent flames of infidelity. After he’d asked her to stay and Art Tomson had left the suite, Ebbett slipped his arm around her and whispered, “I know you want a slot at the police academy. An hour in bed with me and I’ll make it happen.”

She’d looked shocked at first, as the role called for, but soon “gave in.”

The ensuing liaison was energetic and slightly kinky, as Morton told him she was a bit of a voyeur and wanted the lights on. Ebbett was all for it. This proved helpful, since the tiny high-def video camera hidden in her uniform jacket, hanging strategically on the bedroom doorknob, required good illumination.

She’d delivered the video to Bil, who uploaded the encrypted file to Victor Brown. The head of the national committee had called Ebbett last week and given him an ultimatum: withdraw or the tape would go to every media outlet in the world.

After a bit of debate, in which Ebbett had apparently confessed to his wife what had happened (the fish-hand thing suggested this), the man had reluctantly agreed.

Eyes now on the screen, Morton said to Bil, “He’s actually running for county supervisor?”

“That’s the only bone they’d throw him. He’s up against a twenty-two-year-old manager at Farmer’s Trust and Savings. The polls aren’t in Ebbett’s favor.” Bil leaned close and whispered, “I have the rest of your fee.”

“I’ve got one more show. I’ll get it after.”

Bil had an amusing image of himself sitting in the front row and, as Starlight danced close to him, tucking $150,000 into her G-string.

“This worked out well. You interested in any more work?” he asked.

“You’ve got my number.”

Bil nodded. Then he lifted his drink. “Here’s to us — ​unlikely partners.”

She smiled and tapped her glass to his. Then she shrugged the silky wrap off her shoulders into his lap and walked back to the stage.