As I turned left, my heart skipped a beat. "Someone like that?"
Jack followed my gaze to see silver-haired man cutting briskly through the smoking crowd. He checked his watch, as if hurrying off to do something before the intermission ended.
"Son of a bitch," Quinn said. "What do you want to bet...?"
"I don't," Jack said. "Watch, Dee. Don't react."
"I know."
He held out the cigarette again, and this time, I'll admit, thinking of Quinn's reaction, I hesitated before taking it. But I did take it, if only for the nicotine hit.
The man crossed the road, walked past us on the other side and ducked into an alley.
"Felix?" Jack said under his breath.
"I know, Jack, but we can't. If Quinn and I cross that road, we're going to be seen. We can try looping around--"
"Do that." Jack retrieved the cigarette and stubbed it out on the wall, then dropped it into his pocket and took my arm. "Let's go."
We walked about fifty feet farther down the road, bringing us past the alley. Jack was curbside, so he looked down it.
"Still there," he said. "Walking."
We crossed, jogging between cars, then backtracked.
Jack's arm tightened around my waist, getting my attention. "Your turn."
I looked down the alley. It was dark, but I could see the silver-haired man had passed through into a well-lit parking lot on the other side. I swallowed the urge to tear after him and told Jack. He only nodded, still moving.
"Find another way," he murmured. "Lane up here."
"And, judging by that parking sign, it leads right where we want. Can--" I stopped and rephrased. "Should we turn down it?"
Jack hesitated, then nodded. As I passed the lane, I started veering that way, my gaze fixed on the entrance, a tunnel that would lead me to--
"What the fuck is this?" a man's voice echoed. "I was taking a piss, okay? You try getting to the bathroom in there."
There, partway down, two cops had a guy spread-eagled against the wall. He was beefy, with a crew cut, no older than me, wearing a rented ill-fitting tux.
"You guys had better explain to my date why I'm not in there, 'cause if she thinks I cut out on her, after I blew five hundred bucks..."
One of the officers saw me watching and gave a "move along" wave.
"Fuck," Jack muttered as we continued past. "You see another route?"
"No, and I'll bet you Mr. Silver Hair didn't get stopped by the cops. Too old to fit their damned profile."
Jack stopped and exhaled, pretending to watch traffic for a break to cross.
"Maybe if we walked back and took the same alley he did. It's not the safest move, but we need to go after--" I stopped as I turned in the direction of the alley. "Or maybe not."
There was the silver-haired man, jogging across the road, a cashmere cardigan in his hand. His wife, waiting on the other side, took it and pecked his cheek. Then they headed into the opera.
"Fuck."
I took a deep breath, working past the sharp disappointment. "I second that. So should we--?"
The intermission buzzer sounded.
"Head back in," Jack said. "Try afterward."
Our postshow plan was to get outside ahead of the crowd and watch for any middle-aged men exiting alone. Sounded great. Failed miserably. We even split up, and each of the four of us followed a lone man over forty-five...only to discover he was just bringing the car around for his wife or girlfriend.
Chances were that the killer wouldn't walk back alone to his car. He'd follow someone as far as he could. So when our first idea failed, we tried hanging out in the main lot, looking for men veering off from a group. Again, abject failure.
Finally, as the last of the opera-goers dispersed and we started looking obvious standing around, we admitted defeat and headed back to the motel.
* * *
THIRTY-FIVE
Earlier this evening I'd envisioned two possible scenarios. One, the killer would see he had no chance at success, and cut his losses. Two, he'd try, fail and be caught. Even when I'd considered the possibility that he'd kill someone, I'd been certain he'd be caught before he could escape. To succeed, and so easily, without a single apparent slip...I'm an optimist, but there's a point at which realism and optimism collide, and we'd reached it. Tonight only proved that we were in over our heads and it was starting to seem that nothing short of handing over two hundred million would stop the killings.
I didn't remember the trip to the motel or the walk to the room. The next thing I knew I was sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at myself in the mirror. I'd run my hands through my hair so many times I must have looked like Medusa--all snaky curls and jutting bobby pins. I'd caught my dress in the car door and dragged the hem over ten miles of wet road. I looked like bedraggled alley cat. And I didn't care.
Fixing my wig and my dress wasn't going to change what had happened tonight and would happen tomorrow and every day after that because all our running around solving the puzzle was for nothing if we couldn't stop this bastard. I'd been right there, less than a hundred feet away when he'd killed that man, and there hadn't been a damn thing I could do about it.
Failure. Complete, abject failure.
A rustle across the room. Then a cigarette package appeared, hovering over my lap. I shook my head and it vanished.
"You want a drink?" Jack asked.
I wanted to say no, but I knew he was trying to be considerate, so I nodded. I thought he'd meant he'd grab something from the minibar--assuming there was one. When the door clicked and I turned to see him leaving, my mouth opened to say "Please don't go." But before I could get the first word out, he'd left. And the room got very, very quiet.
Just me. Alone with my thoughts when I so desperately didn't want to be.
Someone rapped at the door. I didn't even check the peephole, just yanked it open, thinking Jack had forgotten something. Heart tripping with relief that he'd returned.
Quinn stood there, deep lines etched between his brows.
"I thought you'd left," I said.
"I have a bit of a drive and I'm...not ready to make it. I circled back, and I saw Jack leaving as I was pulling in. I thought maybe you could--we could--use some company."
"Yes." The word flew out before I could think about it. When I did, I considered my options, and the risks of each. "Let's head out, but I'll need to leave a note for Jack and stay close."
He stepped in, but left the door cracked open.
"Is Felix in the car?" I asked as I found paper.
He shook his head. "I dropped him off at a motel. We don't...I stay somewhere else."
"Makes sense. Safer, I suppose."
"Nah, that's not it. Well, I suspect Felix is happier splitting up, but I--with my job--I can't just take off for parts unknown even when I'm on vacation. I need a base. Any one checks up on me, I need an alibi, even if it's just a hotel clerk saying he saw me that morning."
"Sorry. I didn't mean to pry."
A small smile. "You didn't. I explained of my own free will. Not exactly top secret." He leaned back against the wall. "I don't usually have this problem. My jobs, I keep them closer to home, work around my schedule. This?" He shook his head as I finished the note. "Major finagling. When Jack called, I'd finished a big case, hadn't really started anything new, and had vacation time banked so I was able to take off on short notice."
He went quiet then, gaze moving away, fingers tapping the dresser.
"I'm going to guess it's not an open-ended vacation," I said. "How much time do you have left?"
"Not enough." He exhaled softly. "That's one reason I was really counting on..."
"Finishing this tonight."
He nodded. "A few more days and I'm out of here. And once I'm gone, I don't know how much help I can be, even with information."
Without Quinn's FBI sources--and Quinn himself--our investigation would be in trouble. I put the note where Jack would see it, then followed Quinn out.
Beside the parking lot was a pool. The sign said Closed for the Season, but judging by the moss-lined cracks in the concrete walls, it had been closed for a lot of seasons. Of the surrounding security lights, three were dead and two were flickering with their last breaths, but the last still held on. I walked under that one. Close enough for Jack to find me easily, and the angle let us keep an eye on the parking lot and anyone approaching.
I lowered myself to the cement, legs dangling over the pool's edge. Quinn sat beside me.
For a minute, we just gazed at the pool and the layer of trash that blanketed the bottom. Pizza boxes, pop bottles, beer cans, a running shoe...whatever people or the wind had dumped inside.
Quinn pointed at the sneaker. "Whenever I see that, I always wonder how the shoe got there. A pair, I can see. Maybe you take them off to swim or go barefoot and forget where you left them. But how do you lose one shoe? Wouldn't you notice?"
Using my toes, I worked the strap off the back of my opposite heel, and let my left shoe fall into the darkness below. Quinn gave a soft laugh, and tugged his off. It hit the bottom with a squishy thump.
"One high heel and two unmatched sneakers," he said. "Now that's a mystery."
I managed a smile and glanced over at him. His gaze met mine, and I saw something in it that sent a slow burn through me. I was suddenly aware of how close he was sitting, almost brushing me, close enough to feel the heat from his body, and I remembered sitting in that opera house, Jack beside me, my body telling me the perfect substitute for a thwarted hunt. A way to chase the shadows from tonight and still the thoughts pinging through my brain. Something I could cling to, a warm body and a dip into the mindlessly physical.
I could use this. In every way, I could use this.
The attraction was there, and I didn't need to worry about either of us expecting anything. One night. No strings. I looked at him, and felt the hunger burn through me. Then I looked away.
Too risky. I told myself Jack would worry if I disappeared for a few hours with Quinn, but that wasn't the risk I was thinking of. I couldn't trust Quinn. Didn't want to trust him. Even for a night.
When I looked away, I expected Quinn to find an excuse to go inside. Instead, his hand slid into mine. I glanced over at him, but he was staring into the depths of the pool.
"They should have closed the handicapped washroom," he murmured, not looking up.
"They couldn't. Not both of them--not without causing an uproar. In some places you could, and no one would complain, might not even notice. But that place was 50 percent retirees." I gazed out into the night. "They should have posted a guard. Maybe closed one and watched the other. There were guards at the end of the hall and in the main bathrooms, but it would have been easy for him to slip into a handicapped one, unlock the door after a minute and have no one notice he didn't leave."
I glanced over at him. "Do you think he did that on purpose? Targeting someone who was handicapped? Or was it just the easiest way?"
"Maybe one of the easiest, but I'm sure he thought about it. Probably has a whole goddamned list drawn up--little tick boxes to make sure he doesn't overlook any target group."
There was an anger and bitterness in his voice that made me squeeze his hand.
"You get it, don't you?" he said softly. "They don't. Jack and Felix--" He shook his head. "Jack, cutting out on you the second he can get away. And Felix, calm as can be. To them, this is just business. Got a hitman causing trouble, that's bad for business, so you take him out. Doesn't matter how many people get killed in the meantime."
"I think they care," I said. "In their way. Maybe Jack doesn't show it but--"
"You know what kind of work Jack does, don't you? What kind of hitman he is?"
"Sure, I've--"
"You pay him, he whacks someone. No questions asked."
"Isn't that what most hitmen do? I mean, that's the job description, right? Hired killer."
"And is that what you do? Take money to kill anyone, anytime, any way? Like hell. Now, I have no idea how you operate, but that's not it, and it doesn't take a genius to see that. Someone handed you fifty grand to off some random guy in a handicapped washroom, you'd tell him to go fuck himself. Hell, if someone offered me fifty grand to do it, I'd be tempted to put the gun in his--" He stopped. "You know what I mean."
I gave a half-shrug, knowing he was heading into territory where I didn't dare follow.
He leaned down to catch my eye. "You do know what I do, don't you?" A small laugh. "No, I guess that's a stupid question. The only way you'd know is if Jack told you and he sure isn't about to tell you, because he doesn't approve."
"Approve of what?"
"You know I'm a cop. Not exactly a state secret. And you probably wonder how I justify playing both sides. Maybe I'm just a corrupt son-of-a-bitch who gets off on doing exactly what I'm supposed to be fighting. The truth is, being a cop is what got me into this business, seeing the crap that--"
He stopped. A figure had rounded the front corner of the pool, emerging from between two minivans. It was Jack, his white dress shirt bright against the darkness, his jacket open, tie off, bottle dangling from one hand.
"Dee?" He stopped in the gateway and lifted the bottle.
"She'll be right there," Quinn said. "Just give us a--"
"What're you back for?" Jack said as he approached. "Forgot something?" He looked down at our hands, face unreadable. As I pulled my hand back, his gaze lifted to Quinn's. "Forgot to say good-bye? Think Dee's a bit old for a good-night kiss."
Quinn pushed to his feet. "Maybe, but I figured one thing she could use, after tonight, was someone to talk to. Someone who might even talk back."
"Playing Boy Scout again?"
Quinn's mouth tightened. "Don't call me that."
"Then don't act the part." Jack turned to me, bottle raised. "Coming?"
Quinn met my gaze. "You don't have to."
"I should," I murmured as I stood. "I'll see you later."
He hesitated, then nodded. When Jack turned back to the motel, I reached for Quinn's hand and gave it a quick squeeze before hurrying after Jack.
Back in the motel room, I waited for the door to close, then turned to Jack, hands raised in defense.
"Before you say anything, let me point out that I was on the grounds, in a public place, under a spotlight, where you could see me and I could see anyone approaching. Plus I left you a note. If that's not safe, I don't know what is."
"Staying in your room? Alone?"
"He was upset about tonight and he wanted someone to talk to. Is that a crime?"
He answered by pouring shots of whiskey into plastic glasses.
"What about Felix?" he said as he handed me one.
"What about Felix?"
"Quinn wanted to talk? Could talk to Felix." He paused. "Couldn't hold his hand, though. Felix might complain. But maybe not. You never know."
"He wasn't--" I shook my head. "It wasn't like that."
"Looked like that."
"He was upset, Jack. When people are upset, sometimes they just need someone around, some human contact."
"So that's what he wanted. Contact."
I felt myself blush and covered it by gulping my whiskey. Big mistake. The second it scorched my throat, I coughed, sputtering whiskey everywhere.
Jack shook his head and handed me a tissue. "Not much of a drinker, huh?"
"It went down wrong."
"Huh."
"Not like this dress wasn't a write-off to begin with. If it's okay with you, I'm getting out of this thing and taking a shower--"
I got halfway to the bathroom before his fingers closed lightly around my wrist.
"Maybe Quinn was upset. Maybe he was lonely. But give him the chance? He'd do the same tomorrow night. And the next night. He's interested. He's going to make sure you know it. Staring at you. Complimenting you. Holding your hand. It's inappropriate." He paused. "Quinn can be careless. Not with work. He's good at that. But other stuff? Personal
stuff? Shows too much. Lets his guard down. Careless."
Don't you ever want to be careless, Jack? I wanted to ask.
He continued, "You're here on a job, Nadia. Both of you. He should respect that. Hitting on a colleague--"
"--is inappropriate. I get it. Don't worry. I'm not giving him my phone number until all this is over."
From the look on Jack's face, you'd think I'd suggested taking up a third career as a street whore.
"I'm kidding," I said. "Please. You think I'm here to widen my dating pool? A hitman boyfriend--exactly what my life needs."
He grunted "good"--or something like that--then downed his drink and gestured at the bathroom. "Shower's yours."
I laid my drink down and walked into the bathroom.
After we both showered and retired, I lay there, eyes open in the dark, afraid to close them, knowing those dark dreams waited.
I could hear Jack across the room, his breathing slowing, hitting the rhythm of sleep. Or so I thought until a half hour passed and, without a hitch in that steady breathing, his polyester comforter whispered, pushed back. A crackle of joints. A soft sigh. The muffled thump of his feet hitting the carpet. I feigned sleep and listened to his footfalls as they rounded his bed, then paused at the end of mine.
I peeked just enough to see his faint silhouette in the near-dark room. It hovered there, at the foot of the bed, then moved on to the bathroom. The creak of the door shutting. The click of the light--turned on only after the door was closed, always considerate. I lay on my side, watching that glowing rectangle under the bathroom door. The toilet flushed. His feet passed through the rectangle. The gurgle of water finding its way up the pipes. Then the light went out, door opened.
He started past my bed, hesitated and came back, walking up to the side. As I lay there, eyes shut, I could hear him breathing, only feet away. Watching me. I knew this should concern me--a man standing by my bedside when I'm supposed to be asleep--but I didn't feel concern. Couldn't. Just lay there and listened to him breathing.
A catch in the rhythm, then the muffled sound of footsteps as he moved closer. I cracked open my eyes to see him bending over, still keeping a respectable distance, but getting a closer look.
"I'm not asleep," I said.
The sound of my voice didn't seem to startle him. He just grunted, "Yeah. Thought so. Wasn't sure."
Exit Strategy Page 24
