Perfect Victim
Author: Kelley Armstrong
Date: 2017-11-02 04:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Mystery; Romance; Thriller; Short Stories; Fiction; Novella; Suspense; Mystery Thriller; Contemporary; Canada
Description: Nadia Stafford Novella Fifteen years ago, hit man Tyrone Cypher disappeared into the wilderness. Now he’s back with a job for his old “friend” Jack. While Jack doesn’t consider Cypher much of a friend, the job is ideal for Nadia. There’s a killer in Honolulu, targeting those involved in the family court system. When no one else would take one victim’s cases, lawyer Angela Kamaka did, putting herself squarely in the killer’s cross-sights. For Nadia, Angela is the perfect victim—an innocent person in danger for doing the right thing. So Nadia and Jack get an all-expenses paid trip to Hawaii cour
Publisher: Traverse Press
Rights: Copyright &#x00A9; 2017 by KLA Fricke Inc

Copyright © 2017 KLA Fricke Inc.

All rights reserved.

ISBN: 978-1-62274-164-9

Author’s Note

Perfect Victim, includes a character from my Rockton series—yes, it’s my first crossover story! For those who haven’t read that series, Tyrone Cypher is introduced in book 2 (A Darkness Absolute.) At the back, you’ll find the first seven chapters from the first book in the series, City of the Lost.

Also by Kelley
Armstrong

Nadia Stafford trilogy
Exit Strategy
Made to be Broken
Wild Justice

Rockton series
City of the Lost
A Darkness Absolute
This Fallen Prey

The Masked Truth
Missing

Cainsville series

Otherworld series

Age of Legends trilogy

Darkness Rising trilogy

Darkest Powers trilogy

The Blackwell Pages trilogy
(co-written with Melissa Marr)

Perfect Victim

Chapter One

Nadia

Running a wilderness lodge meant that, occasionally, there were guests I’d like to kill. The fact that I subsidized my income as a hitman made that option so much more viable. Yet in the decade since I opened the Red Oak Lodge, I had never been as tempted as I was today.

I was out at the back of my property, a gorgeous chunk of wilderness northwest of Toronto. A perfect June evening, with a fully booked lodge, and a quartet of eager New Yorkers joining me for a lesson in distance shooting on my range. Four eager New Yorkers . . . and Tyrone Cypress.

“What exactly is the point of this?” Cypress said as I instructed guests at the shooting range.

He didn’t mutter the words under his breath or murmur them to himself. Cypress had only arrived this morning, but I’d already concluded that his vocal cords were permanently cranked to ten. He wasn’t just loud—he boomed every word as if making a vital pronouncement. When he boomed this, my students all jumped . . . four guests who’d never handled a gun in their lives, jumping while holding loaded ones.

I quickly told them to practice unloading. As I walked to Cypress, the other guests sidled away from him. The man stood almost a foot above my five-six, with a thick, sturdy build. Grizzled brown hair hung to his shoulders, and a thick beard hid half his face.

“If you aren’t interested in shooting—” I began.

“I’m just asking why you’re doing this.”

“I’m teaching my guests the proper use—”

“Not you,” he said with a dismissive wave. “I know why you’re here. Making a few bucks off folks who want to experience the great outdoors but don’t actually know the first fucking thing about it.”

“Mr—”

“It’s Ty. For you, anyway. These yahoos can call me Mr. Cypress. My question was why they’re doing this? Do any of them actually plan to hunt? If they do, are they going to eat what they kill, or just take pictures to hang in their high-rise condos?”

“We don’t offer hunting at the Red Oak,” I said. “But for those guests who wish to do so, we subcontract with an outfit that donates the meat to charity. What I teach here is marksmanship.”

He snorted. “And what’s the point of that?”

I kept my voice calm. “Sport. We also offer white-water rafting and rock climbing. I do both of those in my free time, too, with absolutely no plans to ever be lost in the Alaskan wilderness and need to raft or climb my way to safety.”

He peered at me. “You ever been to Alaska?”

“Once.”

“You like it?”

I waved at the surrounding forest. “Oddly, yes, I seem to be a fan of nature.”

“You’re Canadian, though, right?”

“We are in Canada, and yes, I am Canadian.”

“Then you should be going to the Yukon, not Alaska. Fewer people. Fewer”—he peered at the quartet—“Americans.”

“I’m quite fond of people,” I said. “Including Americans. But I appreciate the travel advice. Now, either you’re here to shoot—”

“I don’t use guns.”

“All right, so you’re not a hunter, either. Perhaps you’d rather—”

“I am a hunter. I just don’t use guns. It’s unsporting.”

“If you like bows, we have a few of those.”

“Don’t mind bows. Prefer the hands-on approach, though.”

“Uh-huh.”

I really had to start screening guests. We’d picked up business enough in the last few years that I could afford to do that.

I continued, “Well, should you happen to encounter our local black bears, I’d strongly suggest you not try the ‘hands-on’ approach. Just run.”

He chuckled. “If you think I can outrun any bear, you have a generous opinion of a big man’s agility level. Nah, black bears aren’t a problem. I’ve fought them off before. It’s the browns that are trouble.”

“We don’t have any grizzlies here, so you’re safe.” I turned to the others. “Let’s reload—”

“One more question,” Cypress said.

I tensed. “Uh-huh.”

“You’ve got a guy, right? Boyfriend?”

“Yeah,” one of the Americans said. “She’s definitely got a boyfriend. Sorry.”

The others tittered, but Cypress wasn’t hitting on me. Whatever vibes he gave off, that wasn’t one of them.

Either Cypress didn’t realize that the Americans were mocking him, or he just didn’t care. He continued with, “You’ve got a boyfriend who runs this place with you, right?”

“I have a boyfriend who works for me, yes.”

“But he’s not around. That’s what I heard. One of the other guests asked your housekeeper about fishing, and evidently, that’s more his thing.”

Well, no, Jack’s “thing” was staying as far from the guests as possible. And for once, I really didn’t blame him. However, he did handle the group excursions that bored me to tears, like fishing.

“Yes,” I said. “John’s in charge of the fishing trips, but he’s not here. If you’d like, Owen can—”

“John, huh? When are you expecting ‘John’ back?”

“Probably not this weekend,” I said. “So if you want to try fishing—”

“Oh, I know how to fish,” he said as he walked off in the direction of the lodge. “I’ll go when he’s back. I’m booked here for the whole week.”

Jack was away on a job. The same “job” that I did part-time. For him, though, it was a career, one he was easing out of. Not retiring. That implied reaching a point where he would never take another hit, and I couldn’t see that happening. No more than I was ready to give up the occasional one now that I could make ends meet without the extra income.

“Making ends meet” was what got me into the business of part-time assassination. Well, no, it really started when I screwed up my career as a cop by shooting a serial killer . . . after he’d been arrested. After a very public shaming, I’d bought the lodge with my severance money and my mother’s “please go away” early inheritance cash. One day, a regular discovered I was in danger of bankruptcy and offered me some side work. The regular happened to be part of a New York crime family, and his “side work” involved taking out a traitor. That became my part-time job, and I’d gained a reputation for two kinds of hits: criminal-on-criminal and what I must call vigilantism, as uncomfortable as the word made me.

I met Jack a few years later, when his mentor, Evelyn, heard of a new woman in our male-dominated field and sent Jack to investigate. He returned and suggested I wouldn’t be a good student for her . . . and then proceeded to mentor me himself.

In the last few years, Jack had begun whittling down his clientele to those he couldn’t afford to cut loose. Not “couldn’t afford” financially—he was set for life there. But in a career like ours, there are clients you don’t refuse, for the sake of your continued health. With the current job, a desperate former client had called him in after two hitmen failed to kill their target. Jack had done the job and was just tidying up loose ends, expected home soon . . . I hoped.

Chapter Two

Jack

When Jack told Nadia that he’d be late tidying up, she’d hesitated, and he knew she was thinking that his work—like hers—didn’t need tidying.

“Something with the client?” she’d asked.

“Yeah,” he’d said, which was true, but he wasn’t going into detail until he got home. She’d be furious, and he wanted to be there for that, to watch her curse out the Sabatos in a way he could not.

The Sabatos had fucked him over. It happened. Except it never used to happen with a family like this. Which made him feel like an old man, whining about the good old days, and what was the world coming to. Nadia would roll her eyes and say that fifty-three was hardly old. Sometimes he felt like it, though, when he was out here in the world with Nadia back home at the lodge. An old man too far from the fire, chilled to the bone and world-weary.

Truth was that this job had always been full of clients like the Sabatos. Sometimes betrayal was situational; other times it was generational—the new family members disrespecting the customs of the old. And sometimes, well, fuck, sometimes you had to face the fact that being a hitman meant you worked for people who solved their problems with bullet holes and shallow graves.

If Jack was cranky about the whole thing, it wasn’t even that he was genuinely upset by the betrayal so much as that he’d find it inconvenient to resolve. He should be home with Nadia by now. Instead, he had to deal with this shit.

Jack sat in Ross Sabato’s night-dark living room and waited. He didn’t smoke a cigarette. Didn’t go into the kitchen and grab a beer. Didn’t put his feet up on the furniture. Because some people understood the concept of respect.

At 12:30 a.m., keys sounded in the lock, and Ross Sabato walked in, talking to his nephew. A series of fast beeps as one disarmed the security system. The two men headed to the kitchen. Opened the fridge. Popped a couple of beers. And then stepped into the living room.

“Holy—” Ross began. Then he went for his gun.

“Don’t,” Jack said.

Ross hesitated, but his nephew continued fumbling to pull his weapon.

“Don’t,” Jack repeated.

Ross motioned for his nephew to stop.

“Jack. How the hell did you get past . . . ?” Ross trailed off with a strained laugh. “Stupid question, huh?”

Jack said nothing.

“The guy who sold me that security system guaranteed it,” Ross said. “Guess I’ll be asking for a refund.”

Jack remained silent. Ross shifted from one foot to the other. Then he straightened, and the fake hearty note returned to his voice.

“David? You guys haven’t met. This is Jack.”

The young man started forward with his hand extended, but a headshake from Ross stopped him.

David motioned to the light switch. “Mind if I . . . ?”

Another headshake from his uncle. Then Ross cleared his throat.

“I heard you solved our problem. Not that I ever doubted it.” Ross chuckled. “So I guess you’re here to collect.”

“No.”

Three seconds of silence. Jack swore he heard Ross swallow.

“Well, uh,” Ross began, “as long as you are here . . . David? Go grab two-fifty from the safe. No, make it three. A bonus for efficiency.”

When David left, Jack said, “You’ve got a problem.”

“Hmm?”

“Staffing issue. Three guys for one job?”

Ross gave a forced chuckle. “Right. Well, that’s what I told the family—you get what you pay for. But with you not taking on more work, they didn’t want to pay top dollar for an unknown. So they went cheap and hired internally.”

“Internal’s fine. Boys just need training. Let me talk to them.”

Another chuckle. “I doubt we can afford your rates for that, Jack. They’ll be fine.”

“It’s a freebie. Me and you? Worked together a long time. Built up a trust. Now I won’t take your jobs? Leave you in the lurch? Bad form. Give me two days with your guys. No charge.”

Sweat trickled down Sabato’s cheek. Jack waited. As he did, his phone nudged his hip with the soft vibrate of an incoming call. His first instinct was to look at the clock. It’d be nearly three a.m. back home, and Nadia would only ever call at that hour for an emergency.

Time to get this over with. Fast.

Jack rose.

Ross started to back up and then stopped himself. “What’s this about, Jack? I consider myself a man of some sensitivity, and I can tell something’s wrong.”

“Call your two guys. Now.”

Ross swallowed. “All right. Let me go in the other room and—”

“Here. Now.” Jack stepped forward. “Don’t text. Call. Where I can hear.”

“David will go get them. They’ll be here in twenty minutes.”

“Ghosts move fast,” Jack said.

“Wh-what?”

“They’re dead. The mark killed them. You told me they couldn’t get a shot. Never even got past the setup. I asked if the mark saw either. You said, no. Never got that close. Just, apparently, close enough to get shot by him. You set me up.”

Ross’s eyes rounded. “I’d never—”

“You weren’t trying to kill me. You aren’t that stupid. But if you’d told me two men died pulling this job? I’d have said no. Wouldn’t do it.”

“Sure, it was a bit more dangerous than usual, but you’re careful. You weren’t in any—”

“Danger? No. Because I did my homework. I always do my homework. Knew your men were dead. Still did the job ’cause I gave my word. The problem? The mark expected a hit. If I didn’t do my homework? Took you at your word? Could have ended up like your boys.”

David appeared in the doorway. He looked from Jack to his uncle.

“How much will it take to fix this, Jack?” Ross said. “You’re right. I withheld vital information, and that was unfair. So, name your price. David can bring more.”

Jack took the bag from the younger man, set it on the coffee table and counted bundles. “Two hundred grand for the job. That’s what we agreed.” He took that and added another two bundles. “One extra day to sort this shit. Twenty grand.” He put the money into his satchel and left the rest in David’s bag.

“Take that, Jack,” Sabato said, waving at the extra. “Please.”

“Twenty a day overtime. That’s my rate. The price for your fuck-up?” He turned to Sabato. “Don’t ever contact me again.”

“I—”

“Not for a job. Not for anything. Don’t even mention my name. I hear you did . . . ?”

Jack shrugged. That was all he did. Given his occupation, spelling it out was a waste of breath.

He hefted his satchel, walked past the two men and continued out the rear door.

Jack checked his phone as soon as he was outside. It hadn’t been Nadia who called. Hadn’t been an emergency of any kind, but simply a returned call from Felix, another hitman and one of the very few who had Jack’s direct number. Also one of the few who Jack would consider a friend.

He waited until he was at his motel and then called back.

“It’s me,” he said.

“You rang?” Felix said.

“Yeah. Ross Sabato. Blacklist him.”

“Dare I ask for details?”

Jack said nothing.

Felix sighed. “Blacklisting works so much better when pros know what a client has done to deserve it.”

“Just say it’s from me. That’s enough.”

“True, but still . . . Sharing a few details helps.”

“Doesn’t help me. I don’t give details. That’s why I’m still alive.”

“So am I.”

“Yeah. Proof of miracles.” He ignored Felix’s protest and said, “Sabato misrepresented a job. The kind of misrepresentation that puts us in a grave. Or behind bars.”

“Ah, got it. See? That wasn’t so difficult. So, how’s Dee?”

“Home.”

“I asked how she was, not where.” A deep sigh. “Clearly, we haven’t spoken in quite some time if I actually expect you to carry on a conversation. But I must still make a token effort. Do you remember Cypher?”

Jack tensed but only gave a laconic, “Yeah.”

“He was one of Evelyn’s, wasn’t he? Which hardly narrows it down, so I suppose you might have forgotten.”

“Not him.”

Felix chuckled. “Yes, it would be difficult to forget our Mr. Cypher, once met. It’s been what, ten years? Fifteen? Perhaps even twenty? Last I heard, he got into some trouble on a job, pulled a kiss-and-tell.”

In other words, Cypher had warned the mark . . . probably after sleeping with her. Felix was being careful with his wording. It didn’t matter how secure their phones might be or that Felix himself was the tech expert who secured them. You never said more than you needed, though sometimes, Felix struggled with that concept.

“Heard that,” Jack said.

“Then you also heard the rumor that he didn’t survive the encounter. Our Mr. Cypher was never heard from again. Until now. He’s been in contact.”

Jack grunted a non-response.

“He called me asking after you.”

Jack tensed again but still kept his “Yeah?” casual.

“I never got the impression you two were close,” Felix said.

That was one way of putting it. Another was that Cypher had screwed Jack over on a job, and Jack had gotten him back, which should have been the end of the matter. Only Cypher seemed to think Jack’s response had been disproportionate to his crime, and he’d told everyone who’d listen that he was going to kick Jack’s ass “for good.” There were exactly three pros in the world who could say that and make Jack start looking over his shoulder. Cypher was one of them.

“What’d he want?” Jack asked.

“Nothing. Just asked about you, how you were doing, what you’d been up to.”

“And you said . . . ?”

“Nothing incriminating. You know that.”

But he’d said something. Felix always did.

“What exactly did you tell him?” Jack said.

“Just that you were semi-retired, had left the country, that sort of thing. Do you actually remember Cypher? If you did, then you’d know I could practically hand him your address, and he still wouldn’t find you. Mr. Cypher is not exactly a mental giant.”

That was Felix’s mistake. Cypher might not be a certifiable genius—most pros weren’t. Sure, there were indeed guys who could barely write their names . . . but then there were the ones who acted that way because it was a convenient fiction. That was Cypher. And if he’d been asking after Jack, then it didn’t matter how little Felix gave him—it would be enough.

Jack needed to get home. Now.

Chapter Three

Nadia

By the next morning, I’d decided that the best way—the only way, really—to deal with Tyrone Cypress was to quarantine him from other guests and bear the weight of his company alone. Given the choice between solo hikes and dealing with Cypress, they seemed quite happy to amuse themselves.

Cypress seemed equally happy to have me all to himself. I did take two others on our hike, though: our dogs, Scout and Rex.

We were heading up the ridge when Scout raced across the path in a blur of white.

“You know that’s not a special breed,” Cypress said.

“Hmm?”

“White German shepherds. Some fucking idiots think it’s a separate breed.”

“Well, fortunately—given that characterization—it’s a recessive gene that people breed for, which is how new types of dogs are created. Selective breeding.”

“Also leads to genetic problems. I hope you were careful picking her out.”

“She was a gift, but yes, I’m sure John was careful. She’s fine, as you can see.”

“Seems to be. I still don’t see the point in making them white. I notice you got a regular black-and-tan for the other one.” He nodded at Rex.

“Yes, we like variety.”

“Stupid name, though.” He shook his head. “John pick it?”

“No, I did.”

Which was true, but it’d been a joke. I used to tease Jack that in a world of creative noms de guerre he had to be contrary and pick the most boring one imaginable. It wasn’t even really a nom de guerre—John was his real name, and his family used to call him Jack. Of course, as I’d learned later, the truth went much deeper than that. Calling himself Jack professionally was a constant reminder of what happened to his family and the role he’d unwittingly played in that. When I got him a dog, I’d jokingly suggested calling him Rex—the most boring canine name imaginable. And Jack kept it.

“So I’ve got a question,” Cypress said as we walked along the ridge top.

“Uh-huh.”

“How the hell do you do this? You seem smart enough. Someone said you used to be a cop.”

I tensed. “Yes . . .”

“So why do a shitty job like this? Playing babysitter to fucking morons from the city.”

“I like the wilderness . . . and I like people. Strange concept, I know. But I became a cop because I enjoyed working with people.”

“Really?” He looked at me in genuine bewilderment. “I did some law enforcement shit myself, but . . .”

“You didn’t do it to help others?”

His belly laugh startled Rex. “Fuck, no. I did it to help me.”

Well, I had to give him points for honesty. As the path veered toward the forest, Rex’s nose shot up, catching the wind. He gave a happy bark and tore off. In the distance, Scout crashed through the forest after him.

“Seems your pups found themselves a rabbit,” Cypress said.

I nodded, but I knew it wasn’t a rabbit, not with that bark, and I had to plant my feet to keep from tearing off after them, my imaginary tail wagging.

The only person they’d bark like that for was Jack.

Unfortunately, as soon as Jack spotted Cypress, he’d detour to our private chalet. Living where we also conduct business meant we had to keep a firm line between the personal and the professional, and having the guide pause a hike to hug her returning boyfriend crossed that line. Jack would back off, after making sure I knew he was home. Disappointing, but I could ask Emma to chaperone Cypress post-hike—feed him her famous cinnamon rolls—while I enjoyed my reunion.

While I didn’t gape about for Jack, I’ll admit I listened for him. Which was pointless. It was an old game—a training exercise for both of us, him sneaking up on me, seeing whether he could manage it. In the city, he always could, but the forest had been a new environment, one he’d been determined to master. I stood no chance of hearing him unless he wanted to be heard, and the forest remained a soft symphony of birdcalls and wind-rustled leaves.

Then something thumped to Cypress’s right. He wheeled that way . . . and I looked the other, that thump very clearly being a stone thrown as a distraction. Sure enough, Jack stepped out right behind Cypress. Cypress’s head jerked up as a gun pressed into his back.

“Hey, Jack,” Cypress said. “Long time, no see.”

I withdrew the concealed gun I carry for this exact reason: in case someone came around who didn’t call Jack ‘John.’

“You wanna lower that gun?” Cypress said when Jack didn’t respond to his greeting.

“No.”

“Getting jumpy in your old age?”

“No,” Jack said. “Nerves are fine. Memory is, too. You hoping I’d forgotten?”

“Forgot . . . ? Really?” Cypress shook his head. “I was playing with you.”

“Playing?”

Cypress shrugged. “Job gets boring. Not nearly enough playmates on our level, you know what I mean?”

“No.”

“That was always your problem. You took yourself too seriously. If I wanted to come at you, I’d have come at you. I was playing. Ask Evie. That’s my idea of play.” He paused. “Nah, better not ask Evie. She might give you a whole other definition, and that’s more than you need to hear.”

“What do you want?”

“To hire you.”

“No.”

Cypress tried glancing over his shoulder, but Jack pressed the gun barrel in harder.

“You sure your memory’s fine?” Cypress said. “You do know I’ve seen what you look like. I also know what your girl here looks like. Dee, right?”

“That a threat?” Jack said.

Cypress threw up his hands. “Fuck, you are impossible to talk to. Everything’s a threat. Everything’s personal. I meant you might as well let me turn around since I’ve seen you both already. I’m here because I want to hire you, okay? That’s it.”

“No.”

“Jack is in the process of retiring,” I said, because at this rate, we’d be here all morning, Jack refusing to give an explanation that required more than three words.

I walked in front of Cypress. “That means he isn’t taking on any new clients, and he’s doing jobs for very few of his old ones. If you wanted to ask, though, the correct protocol would be to call.”

“I don’t have a phone.”

I gave him a look.

“I don’t. Been living up north for fifteen years, out where a phone is as useful as a rock. Even if I could find a pay phone around here—and these days, they’re scarce as hen’s teeth—any number I have for Jack wouldn’t work. No one in the biz keeps a number that long.”

“You mentioned Evelyn, who is much easier to contact and who could pass along a message.”

“Yeah, no. It’s harder for Jack to refuse when I’m out here, in his face. I’m good at getting in faces. Good at getting people’s attention.”

“By taking Jack’s girlfriend hostage until he agrees to your job?”

Cypress’s broad forehead screwed up. “What? Hell, no. That’d be a fucking stupid idea, considering your alternate line of employment.”

“It’s been tried.”

He snorted. “Like I said, fucking idiots are everywhere. Let me guess. Moron never even managed to catch you, right?”

True enough, but I only shrugged. “This might be different. I’m at home. My guard’s lowered. You’re a big guy. It’s possible.”

“If I’d planned that, I’d at least have pretended I was allergic to dogs. Get you to leave your pooches behind. You think those two would let me take you?” He shook his head. “I’m here to ask you to do a job. Both of you.”

“Do it yourself,” Jack said.

“I can’t. It’s not my kind of thing. Too much investigation. I gotta find the mark first. That isn’t my talent. I’m a point-and-shoot guy. You point ’em out. I shoot ’em. Well, without actually shooting.”

“Because that isn’t sporting?” I said.

He only shrugged. “Either way, Jack’s always done a helluva lot more research than me, and now I hear he’s with a girl who’s good at that stuff, too. I didn’t know you’d been a cop, but now that makes sense. You’ve got the skills.”

“You said you’d done law enforcement.”

“I was the sheriff in a very, very, very small town. Only thing they needed was someone to kick ass and keep folks in line, which I do very well. But now a woman I care about is in trouble, and someone’s gotta die to keep her safe, and finding that someone is way above my pay scale. So I’m coming to you. If you’ll let me explain—”

“An hour,” Jack said.

“Fine, give me an hour.”

“No. Give us an hour. Alone. Then we’ll talk.”

Chapter Four

Nadia

Ikicked myself for not realizing Cypress was more than a regular guest. Jack often said that the average hitman was just a thug who didn’t mind killing people. Guys low on the IQ scale and high on the sociopathy one. Which seemed to fit Cypress.

Except those hitmen weren’t “pros” like Jack or me or Evelyn. If guys like that knew of Jack, it was by reputation only. And those hitmen weren’t still walking around at Cypress’s age. That breed wasn’t big on planning—they just walked up to a guy and shot him, and then repeated the process until they were caught or killed, which rarely took long. Disposable hired killers. That wasn’t Cypress. Nor was I sure he fit “low on the IQ scale.” He acted it, but I can, too, having learned the value of a good “dumb chick” disguise.

Cypress’s cover story had made sense. “Fucking business in Toronto,” he’d said. “But that doesn’t mean I gotta stay in the damned city all weekend.” I had regulars like him—those who didn’t want to spend their off-time in hotel bars with the rest of the solo business travelers. I’ve even promoted to that crowd at trade shows. Stuck in Toronto for the weekend? We’re just an hour’s drive away!

And, honestly, if anyone came to the lodge for Jack, they weren’t going to check in as a guest. So I understood why I hadn’t suspected Cypress . . . but that wouldn’t stop me from cursing myself now.

Lost in my thoughts, I walked to our chalet in silence, but I barely had the door closed before Jack pulled me into a kiss that made me forget Cypress. When we separated, I traced my fingers down his shirtfront.

“I hate it when you go away,” I said. “But I really like it when you come back.”

“Timing sucks.”

“Next time you see me with someone from your past? Don’t say anything. Just call me back to the chalet so I can get sex before we need to fix the problem.”

He chuckled. “Good plan. Trouble is . . .” He waved, and I picked up the sound of guests laughing as they passed close to our house.

“Mmm, yes. Strike that. Only come home between midnight and six, when I can guarantee stray guests won’t come knocking on our door. Well, almost guarantee it.”

He shook his head and headed into the kitchen. “Need a fence. Electrified.”

“If I thought that would stop them, I might actually agree.”

Despite warning all guests that the chalet was private property—and erecting discreet signs—we found nose prints on the glass almost daily. People just can’t resist the allure of a cabin in the woods. We used to keep the door unlocked until we found a couple succumbing to that allure in front of our fireplace.

Jack started the coffee machine and opened a fresh gift from the pie fairy.

“Emma’s welcome home present,” I said. “Though I could point out it’s still morning.”

“Fruit, pastry, it’s breakfast food. Just gotta eat it with coffee.”

“So Tyrone Cypress . . .” I said as I settled at the table.

“That what he’s going by?”

“What’s his work name?”

“Cypher.”

I arched my brows. “Okay, I hate to give him credit, but that’s kind of awesome. Much better than—”

“Yeah, yeah.” He handed me a slice of pie. “Better than Jack.”

“I was going to say better than Dee.”

“You can change it anytime.”

“Rebranding’s a bitch.”

He slid into the chair across from mine. “Evelyn named him.”

“Ah. He’s one of hers, I take it. Lover and student?”

“Mostly the former. Some training but . . .” He shrugged. “She never understood him.”

“Hence the moniker.”

“Yeah. At first? What makes him different was what got her attention. But then she wanted to fix him. He said ‘fuck that.’ They’d still hook up. But nothing more.”

A common story in relationships, one person trying to change the other. That was one reason Jack had kept me away from Evelyn. He’d been able to accept her training while refusing her plan to turn him into a slick assassin. He’d also never ended up in her bed.

As the coffee brewed, I nibbled my pie and listened to Jack explain how Cypher found him. Through Felix, apparently, who’d been quick to buy Cypher’s dumb hick routine and divulged just enough information to send Cypher in our direction.

“And there’s bad blood between you two?” I said as I got up to pour the coffee.

“Screwed me over. Stole a job. So I did the same.” He paused. “Well . . . not exactly the same.”

“You hit back harder.”

He shrugged. “Don’t care for one-upmanship. But sometimes you gotta. He undercut my price. So I shot his mark.”

“That’s one-upmanship?”

“Shot him while Cypher was strangling him. Pissed him off.” Another pause. “Really pissed him off. If he claimed the hit, he had to say he used a gun. Which he wouldn’t do.”

“He joked about hunting with his bare hands. That wasn’t actually a joke, was it?”

“Nah. Like I said, he’s a little . . . different.”

“Uh-huh. So you literally shot his mark out from under him in retaliation for him stealing a job. Fair enough. But he struck back, didn’t he?”

“Tried to. Failed. Disappeared before he could try again.”

I sipped my coffee. “Playing devil’s advocate here. Is it possible he really was playing with you? I’d never disrespect the job by turning it into a game, but he seems the type.”

“Maybe. Still don’t trust him.”

“More than you don’t trust everyone else?”

He toyed with a piece of piecrust. “We’ll hear him out.”

Chapter Five

Nadia

Cypher had to wait until after lunch to talk to us. Guests paid for access to the host, which meant there was a limit to how much time I could be unavailable. Until Jack and I built the chalet, I’d lived in the lodge, partly to avoid any temptation to retreat for a little me-time. Jack had helped me see there was an unhealthy side to that, the side that felt I didn’t deserve me-time. The truth was that guests didn’t really expect me on call 24/7, and any debt I owed the world could not be paid off by providing an impromptu canoe trip.

We told Cypher that we’d hear him out after lunch, which kept him from breathing down our necks. He took his meal to go and said he’d be over by some ramshackle cabins on the far edge of the property.

Jack and I ate with our guests. I regaled them with life-in-the-lodge anecdotes while Jack . . . well, Jack ate. Most of what he did around the lodge was behind the scenes, slowly taking over for my aging caretaker, Owen. Jack interacted with guests for the activities I hated but otherwise kept to himself. No one bothered him. Some people just have that air about them—the one that says they won’t bite your head off if you speak to them, but they don’t encourage it either.

After lunch, I reminded guests about the twilight canoe excursion. Then Jack and I left to speak to Cypher.

It was a good twenty-minute hike to that part of the property. Up until a few months ago, it belonged to a neighbor. When they’d been preparing to move, Jack had approached them with an offer: he’d pay for over a hundred acres of their lot, leaving them to sell the house with five acres, which was all most people wanted—just enough to feel like they’re living in the wilderness.

The ramshackle cabins had once been rental units. That was before my time, and I’d always grumbled about them being both an eyesore and a safety hazard. Guests couldn’t resist wandering over to explore or photograph the cabins, which was dangerous. So Jack bought the land. We’d tear the shacks down soon and erect small cottages, expanding the business.

When we arrived, Cypher was poking around a ruined cabin.

“Careful,” I called. “We’ve had one collapse.”

“Kind of a safety hazard, don’t you think?”

“We just bought the land,” I said. “We haven’t gotten to the demolition part.”

He grunted. “Good. I was afraid you were renting them like this.”

“I should hope not.”

“Never know. Where I’m from, sometimes, this is what you get.”

I walked over, Jack beside me, the dogs trailing along.

“Speaking of where you’re from . . .” I said. “You want us to help someone you know. But you also suggested you live someplace without easy access to the outside world. So how’d you know your friend was in trouble?”

“I have ways. It’s not exactly regular contact. She’s been dealing with this shit for months, and I just found out.”

“And ‘she’ is . . . ?” I said.

Cypher settled on a log pulled over by an ancient fire pit.

“It’s a woman,” he said.

“I guessed that from the pronoun.”

“That’s really all there is to say. It’s a woman. Someone from my past, from when I was young and stupid. Someone . . .” He shrugged. “Sometimes sticking around isn’t an option, and as much as you might want to, you realize that the right thing to do is walk away. Doesn’t mean I stopped caring. So I keep tabs on her.”

“And she’s in trouble.”

“Yeah. You hear about that family court shit in Honolulu?”

“Hawaii?”

“Is there another one?” He planted his feet farther apart. “That’s where she lives, and I’m guessing by your answer that you haven’t heard of the case. Some sicko has been targeting people who work for the family courts.”

“Didn’t something like that happen in Australia? Years ago?”

“I don’t doubt it. In our job, we get asked to do some ugly shit. To me, though, there’s nothing uglier than the guys—and gals—who want us to off their exes. Not because the ex is a nasty piece of shit. Not even because they want revenge. But because of the divorce. Kill your wife so you don’t have to pay alimony. Kill your husband so you don’t have to sell your home. And the absolute fucking worst: kill your partner so you get the kids.”

“All of which is handled by family courts,” I said. “They make a ruling, and one party is bound to be unhappy with it. So that’s what this is. Someone’s taking it out on the court representatives.”

He nodded. “Three people are dead. All had a connection to the family courts. This woman I’m worried about? She’s a family court lawyer.”

“You’re afraid she’ll be targeted?” I asked.

“No, she is being targeted. The damn fool—” He shook his head. “She’s put herself right in the middle of this. A lawyer’s kid got killed, so he quit his cases. No one would take them except her. Then her dog . . .” He glanced at Scout and Rex and lowered his voice as if they could hear. “Bastard killed her dog and put a bomb in her car. Pretty soon her boyfriend—asshole coward—lit out, deciding he wasn’t taking the risk. So she’s lost her dog, her boyfriend, nearly lost her life, and you think she’ll give up those cases? Fuck no.”

“You talk to her?” Jack said, his first words since we got here.

Cypher shook his head. “It’s . . . complicated. Stuff like that, when you leave, you can’t make contact again. It isn’t safe. Or that’s the excuse you give yourself, when the truth is that you know if you do call, she’ll hang up. Better to say you’re keeping her safe by staying away. You know how it is.”

Jack grunted as if he did. When Jack and I got together, though, he’d admitted that he hadn’t had a relationship since he was sixteen . . . right before he signed up with Irish resistance fighters, who made the IRA look like Greenpeace. After that—and the fallout from his exit a few years later—he wouldn’t let anyone take the risk that came with being part of a hitman’s life. Even for me, being with Jack put a target on my back, and it’d taken a long time to convince him that I was okay with that.

Right now, though, someone else wore a target, for an entirely different reason—a good and brave and righteous one.

“So this woman . . .” I said.

“Angela. Her name’s Angela.”

“Angela took on these cases, and now she’s determined to keep them, despite the fact it endangers her life.”

“Fucking stupid, huh?” Even as he shook his head, his voice swelled with pride.

“Not exactly a wise survival strategy,” I said. “But she does deserve help.”

“That’s what I hoped you’d say. So here’s the deal. I’ll fly you both to Hawaii. First class, round trip, best fucking hotels they got, all expenses paid. And that’s on top of the hit, which will be double your usual rate, for the inconvenience of a rush job.”

Jack glanced at me. When he started to nod, I cut in with, “We’ll think about it.”

Jack’s brows arched. He knew this was exactly the sort of job I’d want. But so did anyone who knew my professional reputation.

“One more hour,” I said. “You’ll have your answer in an hour.”

Chapter Six

Nadia

“You want to research it first,” Jack said as we headed to our chalet.

“I do.”

He nodded. “Yeah, you’re right. Shouldn’t have jumped like that.”

I looped my arm through his. “You knew I’d want it.”

“You do, right?”

“All-expenses-paid first-class trip to Hawaii? Hell, yeah.”

His look said I could get that anytime. I would argue that having someone else foot the bill eased the voice that fretted about how much of “his” money we spent. But I knew what he meant.

“Yes,” I said. “This woman is taking personal risk to help others when no one else will. Like I said, that deserves help. And someone is killing people for doing their damned jobs? That deserves stopping—permanently, if necessary. But I’m still worried.”

“That Cypher’s bullshitting. That it’s a trap.”

“We all have our weaknesses. We expose them with every choice we make. Anyone who’s done basic research on ‘Dee’ knows she’d drool over this one. So there’s no way I’m going to say yes until I’ve done some basic research myself.”

Cypher hadn’t been lying. There was a killer stalking representatives of the Honolulu family court system.

It began a year ago with the apparent suicide of a social worker. Fifty-year-old Mindy Lang had been found dead in her carbon-monoxide-filled car. The profession suffered from one of the highest incidences of burnout and depression, and Mindy had recently gone through a divorce herself, so no one questioned the initial findings.

Three months later, Albert Kim, a family court judge died in what looked like another suicide, this one death-by-gunshot. That case, though, gave the authorities pause. The deceased was a very successful judge, who’d been about to buy his dream home. Suicide didn’t fit. That led to deeper investigation and the discovery that it’d been a staged murder. The police then took another look at Mindy Lang, who had often worked with the murdered judge. An exhumation and secondary examination found bruises on her neck, plus signs that she’d been unconscious when she went into the car. That meant murder.

At this point, the killer must have realized that disguising the deaths as suicides was pointless. If anyone working in family law died under suspicious circumstances, the police were going to investigate.

The next target was a lawyer, Charles Atom. The killer booby-trapped the family grill with an explosive device. Atom’s teenage daughter had been the one to open it. She’d been killed instantly. Atom, who’d been standing nearby, suffered head injuries, including the loss of an eye.

Atom’s injuries meant he wasn’t able to handle his clients’ cases. When no one at his firm would take them, Angela Kamaka stepped forward. That, as Cypher said, made her a target. Six weeks ago, she came home to find her dog dead, poisoned. A week later, someone planted a bomb in her car, but by that point, she was already checking it before she turned the ignition. She’d found the device. Then someone had fired shots into her backyard, shattering the glass tumbler her live-in boyfriend was holding. He’d packed his bags and left, while she stood her ground, living under nightly police protection.

I was surfing through articles, making notes, when Jack came in and walked up behind me.

“Pack my sunscreen?” he said.

I craned my neck to look back at him. “I think so. Is that okay?”

“As long as you don’t make me wear Hawaiian shirts.”

“I won’t make you wear any shirt at all.” I stood and gave him a quick kiss. “Let’s go talk to our new client.”

Chapter Seven

Nadia

Cypher caught the next flight out. He was heading to Honolulu, which wasn’t quite what I’d expected—or hoped—but that wasn’t up for discussion. He would stay out of our way, but he wanted to be there. I supposed it didn’t hurt to have an extra pro on hand, though I suspected I’d come to regret that.

Our guests were all weekenders, meaning they’d be checked out by noon tomorrow. They had the option of using the property until the end of the day, but with no Sunday night guests, there were no scheduled afternoon or evening events. That meant I could take off after breakfast, leaving Emma to handle checkouts.

Jack and I were on a plane Sunday afternoon. We hopped from Toronto to Vancouver and then down to Hawaii. Two long hauls, but as Cypher promised, we went first class, which helped, considering that one of us was flight-phobic. Jack could manage—flying was unavoidable for overseas jobs—but if he could drive, he did.

The time difference meant it wasn’t even nine p.m. when we touched down. We’d both managed to get some shut-eye on the flight, so we were wide awake when Cypher met us at the airport.

My first impression of Honolulu was lights. Endless lights stretching up the volcanic mountain range. That wasn’t quite what I expected. Every image I’d seen of the islands featured sand, surf, sun and the kind of empty paradise that I suspected was tough to find these days. The weather was gorgeous, even after dark, and I marveled at the partly open-air terminal until I realized that they didn’t need to worry about winter cold, let alone snow and ice.

I put my window down as Cypher drove, and if I squinted, I could make out the ocean to my right. Soon Cypher left the highway and headed up a winding road.

“Angela lives out here?” Jack said.

“Yeah,” Cypher grumbled.

I could see their concern. When I twisted to look down the mountain behind us, the view was incredible, but this wasn’t some condo apartment in the city. That made it easier for a killer to get access to her. The neighborhood was residential enough, though—a proper subdivision.

“I’ll drive past her house,” Cypher said. “Cops are out front in a unmarked black Jeep. Dee? Keep your window down.”

I didn’t ask why. The police would be on the lookout for unfamiliar vehicles. One with a woman in the passenger seat—her window down and arm out—would seem a lot more innocent than an SUV with rolled-up tinted windows.

“On your side,” Cypher said. “The little gray house.”

The speed limit was low enough for him to roll past slowly. I snapped shots with my camera held low. The officers in the Jeep glanced over. Cypress had his window down, too, and he lifted his fingers in casual greeting. The officers nodded, and we continued along the road.

“We should do it at night,” Cypher said. “But those cops mean it’d be tricky. Daytime’s always tricky, though.”

“For what?” I said.

“Taking Angela.”

“What?”

He spoke slower. “Taking Angela into protective custody while you guys find the asshole who’s trying to kill her.”

“I think the word you actually want there is kidnapping, Cypher,” I said. “And the answer is: hell, no.”

“Ty.”

“What?”

Again, that slowed speech. “Call me Ty.”

“How about I just call you crazy motherfucker? Does that work?”

Jack snorted from the back seat.

Cypher chuckled. “Sure. Wouldn’t be the first time. Or the second. Or the—”

“We are not kidnapping Angela. That wasn’t part of the deal.”

“Because I figured it was obvious. How else are you going to keep her safe? We’ll take her into protective custody for a few days. She won’t be happy about it, but she’ll be safe, and we’ll make sure she’s comfortable and—”

“And no. Hell, no.” I twisted to look at Jack. “What do you say?”

“Yeah. It’s problematic.”

“That’s one way of putting it.” I glanced at Cypher. “There will be no kidnapping the woman we’re here to protect. You want to know how we’ll keep her safe? By watching out for her. And by catching this bastard. She’s been smart enough to survive so far. She’ll be fine for a few more days. I’ll make sure of it.”

“How the hell do you plan to do that?”

I told him.

Jack and I spent the next morning enjoying the truly spectacular lodgings Cypher had booked for us. We were outside Honolulu proper, at a five-star hotel with all the sand, surf and sun I’d imagined.

We slept soundly and woke before dawn, our internal schedules completely screwed up by the six-hour time difference. I jogged while Jack hunted down Kona coffee and macadamia nut buns, which we enjoyed on a dock, our bare feet dangling in the clear, warm water. Afterward we walked the empty beach, talking. Back to our room, with the salt-scented wind blowing in from the ocean, the sheers billowing as we took full advantage of our king-sized bed. Then, appetite renewed, it was off to breakfast, dining on a balcony as surfers headed out below.

After breakfast, we shopped. Not exactly our thing, but there was a row of high-end boutiques just outside the resort, and any good walk needs a destination. Jack insisted on buying me a pair of designer sunglasses, and I bought him a watch that I caught him admiring. Well, I tried to buy it. He distracted me at the till and traded credit cards, and while I’d have loved to insist on paying, the truth was that the watch would have gobbled up my entire line of credit.

They were real credit cards. “Real” in the sense that we would pay them off. They were also “not real” in the sense that they had fake names and were attached to fake addresses. It might seem tempting to just get fake cards altogether, but neither of us wanted to be the hitman brought down by defrauding the credit card company for a few grand.

A morning well spent. And, despite what it might seem, not a morning wasted in leisure. I worked my ass off. Or, more correctly, I worked my mouth off.

Being a sociable person meant that I found it easy to start conversations with strangers, and strangers found it easy to start them with me. It didn’t hurt that I gave off that kind of vibe. I looked approachable. Thirty-five years old, dark auburn hair to my shoulders, hair with a tendency to curl, and skin with a tendency to freckle. People told me I had an open face, very genuine, very girl-next-door. Which meant that I intimidated absolutely no one. Extremely useful in my line of work. I was the person most likely to be asked for directions or just asked for the time. Also the person most likely to be asked to give up my window seat to a fellow traveler, or the person most likely to be cut off in a lineup. Those last two did not go so well. I am friendly. I am approachable. I am not a pushover.

So I found it extremely easy to get information from total strangers. And that was how I spent my morning, whether it was jogging on the beach or eating breakfast on the balcony or browsing in the shops. I worked through every part except, well, the sex, for obvious reasons, but I figured I’d done enough by that point to take a little time off.

Wherever we went, Jack and I talked about Angela and the murders. Sometimes I’d use that as an opening to ask questions, like to our breakfast server. My husband just told me about those horrible murders. Is it true? Other times, locals would overhear us and interject a comment or an opinion. When it came to high-profile crimes, everyone had an opinion.

While Honolulu was a city of three hundred thousand, being on an island two thousand miles from the mainland made it feel as insular as a small town. It seemed as if half the people I talked to knew someone involved in the case. And they were all happy to chat. Tourism is Hawaii’s number one industry, and I was right in the heart of it, which meant that the staff probably got a little tired of dispensing alohas and island charm. They seemed happy to discuss a side of their city that didn’t arise in their usual tourist chatter.

Most of what I got was wild conjecture, mixed with rumor and innuendo and a liberal smattering of conspiracy theory. But there would be some truth in there, too, and I filed it all away for the next stage of my investigation, which I launched right after lunch.

Chapter Eight

Jack

“Are you fucking nuts?”

That was what Cypher had said about Jack’s afternoon plans. He’d said more than that, too, ranting about how Nadia called him a crazy motherfucker, and if Jack screwed this up—or endangered Angela in any way—he’d nail Jack’s balls to the nearest coconut tree.

Jack had let him rant. Then he’d looked at Nadia, who’d considered the suggestion. She’d opened her mouth and started, “Can you—?” and then stopped herself and said, “Sure. That’s a good idea.”

Can you pull it off?

That was what she’d been about to say. She hadn’t finished because she knew Jack didn’t take chances. He’d never been what one might call a natural risk-taker like Nadia, with her love of extreme sports. She’d taken chances on the job, too, leading to their first real fight. He’d been furious, a shock to her, who’d never even heard him raise his voice. She’d taken an unnecessary risk, putting herself in extreme danger to catch a killer. Part of that fury—a large part—had been the mirror it reflected back on him. On his past. He saw Nadia take that risk, and he knew why she was taking it because he’d been there himself.

He had taken chances, early in his career. Huge ones that had paid off, but at the time, he hadn’t really given a shit if they did or not. Hadn’t given a shit if his choices landed him in a body bag. He’d gotten his family killed, and so he didn’t particularly feel he deserved to keep walking around.

Nadia hadn’t been suicidal—not since he’d met her, at least—but there were always threads of that in her professional risk-taking. The feeling that she owed a debt. And she could say it was because she’d shot a serial killer, but that was bullshit. Sure, there was shame and grief for the loss of a career she’d loved. But her true guilt went back to her murdered cousin, the fact that she’d failed to stop it, failed to get help in time. It didn’t matter if no one else would ever hold her accountable; that kind of guilt never goes away, as Jack knew very well.

Jack’s plan for today was a calculated risk that wasn’t much of a risk at all. He didn’t take chances these days because he wasn’t just taking them for himself. He had Nadia to think about, and sure, there was the fear of her getting picked up if he was arrested, but there was also a far more selfish reason to play it safe: he was happy in his new life, and he damned well intended to keep it.

His task that day? Breaking into Angela Kamaka’s house. All attacks against her—the dog, the car bomb, the shots fired—had happened at home. While he did want to get a look inside her house, he held some hope that he wouldn’t be able to break in, which would mean she was safe. That was, unfortunately, not the case.

Angela lived in a neighborhood of small, older homes on large lots, and she had no neighbor to the rear. A gate at the back of her fence suggested she appreciated that openness and used the walking trails. The fence also made it easy to approach her house without being spotted.

A security camera watched the gate, but there was no reason to enter that way when the fence itself was more boundary marker than security perimeter. He hopped it easily. All right, he climbed it easily, being about a decade past hopping, which he’d finally admitted a few years ago when he fucked up his damn ankle on just such a jump.

Two more security cameras monitored the rear yard. They were well placed, difficult to spot, but Jack had a device that picked up their signatures. It was easy enough to slip up alongside the house and get the back door open without being spotted. Inside, he found an impressive security system, one that rivaled the Sabatos’. He disabled it and then set about tracking the camera feed to a computer in the main room. An old computer without even password protection. Jack reviewed the security video and confirmed he wasn’t on it.

He took a minute to check the computer for data. That wasn’t really his thing, but Nadia had been teaching him. From what he could tell, this was a basic terminal, mostly just for the security system cameras. Angela must keep her personal and professional files elsewhere, probably on a laptop.

As Jack prowled the house, he made mental notes of all the security enhancements needed to make it safer. He had to admit someone had done a decent job. If the killer was, as they expected, a disgruntled client, then he wasn’t going to have Jack’s skill set. Still, Jack wasn’t betting a woman’s life on that. The best scenario would be the one Cypher wanted—getting Angela to a safe place in the city. If she insisted on staying here, though, these security gaps had to be fixed.

As Jack walked through the house, he didn’t snoop—this was already an invasion of a victim’s privacy—but he couldn’t help forming a fuller picture of Angela Kamaka. A visual picture, for one thing, from the photographs. Photos of a woman with her parents, with friends, with lovers. One figure featured in enough pictures to tell him this was Angela. She looked mid-thirties. Brown skin. Average height. Sturdy build. Always with a smile, one that lit up an otherwise plain face.

He focused his attention in her office, particularly on the filing cabinet. It was one you could buy at any business supply store, with a lock that only took a hairpin to open. He sprang that and looked inside.

The top drawer held personal information, and he flipped through that, skimming the carefully marked file folders to see whether there was anything that caught his eye. He checked the one for her mortgage papers and her income tax. A person’s financial situation often suggested alternative answers. Like the woman who’d tried to hire him to kill her supposedly abusive husband . . . and it turned out she was neck-deep in gambling debt, and her husband wasn’t eager to empty their 401(k) to pay off her bookies.

In the second drawer, he found Angela’s legal files. Not the full files—those would be in her office. Here she only kept copies of the most pertinent information, presumably in case she needed it while working evenings or weekends. Past clients took up the rear three-quarters of the drawer. She kept the current ones in front. Those were the files he lifted out.

As he pulled the files, he dislodged a legal pad. On it, Angela had been making notes, doing a little detective work of her own. Jack set the files down and leafed through the notes.

Angela had made a list of all the cases she’d taken over from Charles Atom—the injured lawyer. Then she’d cross-referenced that list with another one, presumably the names of people who also had some connection to the murdered social worker and judge. Three suspects arose. Jack pulled those files. As he took pictures of the pages, he skimmed them.

Suspect number one—Steve Forrest—was what Jack would call a classic angry white man. A middle-aged guy who ran a successful local electronics business, only to have his wife object to his sleeping around. Not only did she leave him, but she also expected half the money he’d earned while she’d stayed home to raise their kids. The social worker—Mindy Lang—had gotten involved when their seventeen-year-old didn’t want to visit Forrest anymore. Then the judge—Albert Kim—had forced Forrest to divulge details of investments he’d tried to hide. Charles Atom had been the opposing lawyer in Forrest’s divorce case. Last month, Forrest had shown up at his ex-wife’s house and told her that if she didn’t want to be responsible for more deaths, she should agree to his divorce terms. She’d captured that threat on tape, which bumped Forrest to the top of the suspect list.

Next was Louis Stanton, an engineer whose wife had left him, claiming “irreconcilable differences.” Just a breakdown of the marriage. It had started amicably enough—a fair division of assets and joint custody of the kids. Then Stanton got a job offer in California, and his wife wasn’t willing to leave Hawaii—she ran a business in Honolulu—so Judge Kim ordered that if Stanton wanted to retain joint custody, he had to remain here. Stanton tried taking the kids to California anyway. He lost joint custody and started having all his visits monitored by Mindy Lang. Clearly the problem was that the family courts favored women, Stanton decided, and he launched a men’s rights group, dedicated to dismantling the current system—“by force if necessary.”

Suspect number three was a woman who’d been denied joint custody of her children based on prescription drug dependence. Sheila Walling had a run-in with Mindy Lang over visitation: she’d been late returning her kids, and on the urging of Atom, Mindy had advised the judge to reprimand Walling, which he had. Unlike the other two, Jack saw no indication that Walling had threatened anyone involved, either directly or obliquely. While Walling was a chemist by trade—which might help with the bombs—she seemed an odd choice of suspects . . . until Jack found a note deeper in her file. Six months ago, Walling had been the prime suspect in the murder of her ex-husband’s new girlfriend, who’d been killed with a gift-wrapped IED. The police hadn’t found enough evidence to charge Walling, but it was obvious that they’d taken this into consideration when looking for a person committing grudge murders . . . using IEDs.

Jack flipped through the other cases that Angela had taken from Atom. Nothing else stuck out, but he knew Nadia would want to be thorough, so he snapped shots of those pages, too. Then he went back to the three prime suspects.

The cops would be investigating all of them—looking for the missing evidence that would let them lay charges. Which was a perfectly rational way to go about it, but Jack wasn’t a cop, and really, he preferred a more direct approach.

Time to go and see a man about a grudge.

Chapter Nine

Nadia

Angela Kamaka was a partner at a downtown Honolulu law firm. In this case, “partner” just meant she was one of the two lawyers who worked there along with a support staff.

When I first walked in, the front desk was empty, but I’d barely crossed the floor before a young man zipped out from a side room and ducked behind the desk.

“I’d like to speak to Ms. Kamaka,” I said.

“Do you have an appointment?”

“No, but I’m hoping she’ll have a few moments to speak to me.”

He gave me a quick once-over, and his lips tightened. “If you are a reporter—”

“I’m not here looking for a story. A mutual friend sent me. I just need a moment of her time.”

He picked up the phone and turned away for a brief murmured conversation. Then, with an abrupt wave, he walked off down the hall, leaving me to follow. When we reached a closed door, he stopped and said, “I have security on speed dial.”

“Under the circumstances, I’m glad to hear it.”

The door opened before he could knock, and Angela stood there, one hand on her hip.

“You do know I can hear you, right, Richard?”

“As I have said before, we need to invest in better soundproofing.” He walked away, raising his watch as he did, a reminder he’d be watching how much of his boss’s time I consumed.

“Ignore him,” Angela said as she closed the door behind me. “Everyone here is a bit overprotective these days.”

“Better than the alternative.” I turned to face her. “And because I know you’re busy, I’m going to use that as a segue to get straight to the point. It’s not just your office staff that’s feeling protective. I’m a personal bodyguard, hired by a concerned third party.”

She eyed me, her head tilted. I waited for her to say I didn’t look much like a bodyguard, but after that assessment, she nodded, walked to her chair and waved for me to sit.

“The fact that you aren’t naming my benefactor tells me it’s anonymous.”

“It is. I’m a former police officer, living in the Detroit area, currently working part-time as both a bodyguard and investigator.” I took a sheet from my bag and set it on her desk. “My credentials and references.”

They were all fake. Or fake in the sense that I’d never done bodyguard work, and my private investigations weren’t something I’d put on a resume. But like the credit cards, they were real numbers. If she called them, she’d get glowing references from Quinn, Felix and Evelyn. Well, maybe not “glowing” from Evelyn, but she’d confirm I was competent enough.

Angela drummed her fingers on the paper, her lips pursed. Then she looked up at me.

“Private benefactor, huh?”

“Someone who is concerned about your situation. All my expenses have been paid. I’ll be mostly acting as a bodyguard and security consultant, but I’ll do some investigating as well while being careful not to interfere with the police.”

She nodded. “And this benefactor . . .”

“Is paying me very well, meaning this isn’t a scam where I’ll later charge you for ‘additional’ expenses. I’ll sign anything you need to that effect.”

“That isn’t my concern. It’s . . . the benefactor. Any chance he’s . . . Oh, I don’t know. Male? Late fifties? Six foot five? Built like a Mack truck? Swears like a sailor? Works in the . . . extermination biz, you might say.”

Oh, hell, no.

I’d run this scenario past Cypher, asking if there was any chance she’d realize it was him.

“Fuck, no,” he’d said. “Been too long.”

Maybe so, but Cypher was a man who left a lasting impression.

I kept my expression under control, only my eyebrows shooting up. “That definitely doesn’t sound like my client. Not unless he’s had a sex change since you last saw him. And even if he had, given those stats, I think he—she—would stand out.”

“Hmm.”

She eyed me, her gaze boring in. Then she leaned back in her chair. “So you’re here to keep me safe.”

“That’s what I was hired for.”

“Qualifications? Besides being a former law officer?”

“I know some martial arts. No black belts, but I can hold my own. I’m an investigator and something of an expert in private security, so I can assess your current setup. I’m also a crack shot.”

“Hmm.”

A long stretch as she continued to study me, and I tried not to squirm under that stare.

“All right,” she said. “Tell me . . .” She looked at my fake resume with my fake name. “Nancy Cooper. What is your plan here? Assess my situation.”

“You face the most danger at home. That’s where the perpetrator likes to strike. You’ve avoided attack there, though, so he—or she—may have to branch out and get more creative. Your office seems good, though I’d suggest you tell your receptionist to stay at his post—he wasn’t there when I walked in. I’m sure you’ve instructed him not to accept parcels. I would also tell him not to let someone off the street into your office. He thought I was safe because I don’t look like a threat. That’s a problem.”

“I would agree.”

“With some adjustments, you’ll be safe here. Same as at home. I won’t hover in either place. I can stay the night if you like—”

“I’d rather you didn’t. The police are outside all night. That’s enough.”

“Then my main job will be shadowing you when you’re not at home or here in your office. When you’re safely in one of those places, I’ll be investigating. I’d like to speak to the detective in charge—Lee—so she understands that I won’t interfere with her work.”

“Also agreed.”

“Today, when you have time, I’d like to go over your client roster, see if I can find any suspects.”

“Oh, I already have a few.” She reached for a drawer.

As Angela gave me the rundown on the primary suspects, I received a text from Jack, who was checking out Angela’s house.

Got SF. Will get LS later.

Yes, Jack texted like he talked, which was great for privacy. Not so helpful for clarity.

SF and LS? Initials? That was the first thing that came to mind. Then my gaze flicked to the stack of files on Angela’s desk . . . and my own notes.

Steve Forrest.

Louis Stanton.

So Jack was one step ahead of me.

I turned my attention back to Angela, sorting through the files and taking pages she could show me without breaching confidentiality. The suspects were all former spouses of her clients, and those clients had to be protected.

“These are the three who worked with Mindy, Judge Kim and Charles,” she said.

“Did you take over all of Mr. Atom—Charles’s—cases?”

“All his family court ones, but these are the three who’ve been questioned, so I feel comfortable giving you their information. Not the others.”

“Understood.”

“You’ll also want to talk to Mindy’s ex, Howard Lang.”

“He’s a suspect?”

She looked up in surprise, and it took a moment for her to answer. When she did, she gave a soft laugh. “No, not Howard. Sorry—I see how that sounded. I meant you’ll want to speak to him about the case. He’s a retired police officer. He took early retirement and started a security business. He’s been investigating her murder.”

I lifted my brows.

“Yes,” she said. “The police usually frown on that, but Howard knows what he’s doing, and he doesn’t interfere. He still loved Mindy. It was an amicable split. No children, assets divided fifty-fifty. He was still part of her life, and her death hit him hard. So he’s been investigating and sharing his information with the police. You’ll want to talk to them, of course, but you should also speak to Howard.”

A rap on the door. It opened, and Richard poked his head in. “Victor Walling is here for his appointment.”

When he withdrew, I said, “Is that . . . ?”

She nodded. “Sheila Walling’s ex-husband. It’s a mediation meeting.” She lifted the pages she’d taken from the files. “I’ll have Richard copy these and call Detective Lee. She’s lead on the case. Richard will introduce you.”

As soon as we stepped into the hall, a woman barreled through the main office door. Late thirties. Well dressed. Purposeful stride. Her gaze flicked my way. Caught me. Dismissed me. Kept moving . . . and landed on the man standing beside Richard’s desk. He was about her age. Thin. Balding. As soon as her gaze lit on him, he shrank back.

“Victor,” she said.

“Sheila.” His gaze only made it to her neck level, and he seemed to be using all his willpower not to turn and flee.

“Let’s get this over with,” Sheila said. “Where is—?” She turned just as another man walked through. “Good, both lawyers present and accounted for. On with the show.”

She headed into a side room, leaving everyone else trailing after her. Richard rolled his eyes and mouthed something. Angela shook her head before following.

“I’ll just read those pages out here if that’s okay,” I said to Richard once Angela was gone. I nodded to the chairs . . . right outside the meeting room door.

“Actually, I think you’ll find the acoustics better in there.” He pointed to an office beside the meeting room.

“Thanks,” I said with a smile.

“Don’t thank me. Just stop this killer before he hurts Angela.”

Chapter Ten

Jack

Men never checked the back seat of their cars before getting in. Some women did. Not all, mind you, but the percentage was vastly higher than with men. Women had heard too many stories of attackers lurking in the back seat. Men heard the same tales—and figured it didn’t apply to them. Which Jack had always found very convenient.

He’d been surveilling Forrest for the past hour, and when the man headed for the parking garage, there was little doubt of his destination. Jack had already located Forrest’s SUV and broken in, searching for clues, so he hurried around and got in position.

He waited until Forrest backed the vehicle from its spot. Then he put a gun to his head. Forrest jumped clear off his seat. Didn’t hit the horn, though. They never did, the shock of that gun barrel blasting through common sense.

“Drive,” Jack said.

“T-take the truck. Just let me out—”

“Drive.”

Forrest glanced in his rearview mirror. His gaze went straight to the gun, lowered but still pointed at his head.

Forrest let the vehicle roll through the dark covered parking lot. “Whatever this is about—”

“Mindy Lang. Albert Kim. Sara Atom.”

“W-what? Did someone hire you—?”

“No one hires me, Mr. Forrest. Now drive.”

Jack directed Forrest to a densely wooded spot. Tropical jungle, Jack guessed, and any other time, he’d have admired the beauty. Right now, though, he was kinda busy.

He ordered Forrest out of the SUV and made him walk into the dark jungle. Jack wore a disguise, but if he could add shadows, he always did. When they were far enough in, Jack walked in front of Forrest.

The man’s gaze tripped over Jack and stuck on his biceps, which weren’t overly intimidating, but they were a helluva lot bigger than Forrest’s. Jack suspected, though, that it wasn’t the muscles that gave Forrest pause. It was the scars. They were fake. Jack had scars, but he’d added more impressive ones to fit his look of the day. He’d blackened and gelled his hair. Bought jeans that were really too tight for comfort. The mustache might be overdoing it. The fake gold rings definitely were. It was a caricature of a middle-aged mobster. But a guy like Forrest, though—with his low-end luxury SUV and ill-fitting expensive suit—wasn’t likely to have much contact with actual organized crime, and the look on his face said Jack’s outfit worked just fine.

“L-look,” Forrest said, his hands going up. “Whoever hired you, I can pay more.”

“Hired me?” Jack let a Russian accent underscore his words. “Hired me to do what?”

“I—I don’t know.”

“I said, no one hires me, Mr. Forrest.”

“O-okay . . .”

“Do I look like I am for sale?”

Forrest hesitated and then gave a wary, “No?”

“I am the person who hires men who are for sale. And I want to hire you.”

“Wh-what?”

“I need to take care of some . . . pests. Preferably with explosives. I have heard you are the man to see.”

Forrest’s eyes bugged. “I don’t know what you’re—”

“I would prefer explosives. Yet I can be flexible, and I have heard you are a very flexible man. Cars, bullets, things that go boom . . . Such talents are valuable in my business.”

“N-no. You’ve made a mistake.”

“Do not play this game. It does not become business men like ourselves.” Jack took a wad of bills from his pocket. “Haggling is a waste of my time. The rate is, I believe, fifty thousand per pest. I have one I need taken care of. I will give you five thousand now, as a measure of goodwill.”

“Fifty thousand dollars? To kill—”

Jack cut him off with a frown. “Please do not use that word, Mr. Forrest. It is unseemly.”

“Who the hell told you I do that?”

“Shall I repeat the names? Yes, I know that was not work—it was personal. But you have been very clear that it was you, and yet you have not been charged. We are impressed. We wish to hire you.”

“I don’t—I don’t do that. At all.”

Jack narrowed his eyes. “Who have you been speaking to? Is it Wilhelm? Has he snatched you from under my nose?”

“No.” Forrest backed up, both hands raised. “You have the wrong guy. Totally wrong. I’ve never . . . gotten rid of anyone. I just said that to scare my ex.”

“It was a joke?”

“Sure, yeah.” A ragged laugh. “A joke.”

“It is not funny.” Jack looked over Forrest’s shoulder. “Do you think it is funny, Bruno?”

Forrest glanced back and saw Cypher standing right there behind him. Forrest let out a yelp . . . and a wet spot spread across the front of his trousers.

Jack didn’t let Forrest go quite that easily. He tried to bribe him. He tried to threaten. One way or the other, if Forrest were capable of doing what Jack asked, he would have agreed. He didn’t.

On to Louis Stanton, which meant a change of both clothes and persona. Wash out the temporary black and add more gray. Hawaiian shirt. Chino shorts. Sandals . . . with socks, of course. Sunglasses. No scars, but a hint of a tattoo showing below his neckline. Scars and tattoos provided “distinguishing features” that people remembered for the cops. “I have no idea what the guy looked like, but he had a Mickey Mouse tattoo on his hand—that’s gotta help, right?” Not if that tattoo washed off with soap and water . . .

Stanton was easy to get in touch with. He wanted to be in touch. He’d splashed his name across the Internet and invited men to join his crusade against the “tyranny” of the family law system and its “bias” toward women. Men were encouraged to contact him and share their stories. So Jack called and offered to buy him a coffee. Stanton readily accepted, which might have had something to do with Jack name-dropping a few leaders of national men’s rights organizations. To be honest, Jack hadn’t known there were men’s rights organizations—and he was still a little fuzzy on the concept—but twenty minutes on the Internet had given him what he needed to know.

He picked up Stanton in a rented Jaguar.

Stanton whistled as he climbed in. “Nice ride.”

Jack shrugged. “It’ll do. They didn’t have much selection.”

The coffee shop was within easy walking distance, but Jack hadn’t suggested they do that. In his current persona, he was not the kind of man who walked.

Stanton filled the five-minute drive with meaningless chatter, growing increasingly nervous when Jack remained silent. Stanton waited until they were seated in the shop, coffees in hand, before he said, “So, tell me about your situation.”

“My ex is a bitch.”

Stanton laughed, relaxing into his booth seat. “Aren’t they all?”

“Not until you serve the divorce papers.” Jack paused. “Nah, it starts with the wedding. You get little hints of it after that, but the sweet’s still mixed with the sour. That’s how they keep you on your toes. One minute, it’s all about how you’re traveling too much, and she’s tired from looking after the kids, and who’s that woman calling all the time. Then the next minute, she’s making your favorite meal and running out to buy you beer and showing off her new lingerie.”

Stanton chuckled. “That’s not just how they keep you on your toes. It’s how they keep you. At least until they’ve locked you in with kids.”

Jack nodded. “And then they’re a lot more worried about that woman’s number on your phone, and the next thing you know, here’s a private eye’s report, proving you’ve been screwing around, and oh, yeah, she wants a divorce and the kids and half of everything you made. Worst fucking thing? Whose money do you think paid for the goddamn private eye?”

“I hear ya.”

Jack let this go on for a while. It was easy enough to pull it off. In the old days, he’d met plenty of guys like Stanton, guys who wanted their wives killed for no reason other than these petty outrages. Guys who mistook their marriages for ones from the nineteenth century, where they could do as they pleased, so long as they paid the bills.

Jack wished that he could say he’d never taken one of those contracts. There were many contracts he wished he could say that about. Sometimes, he’d only taken one, and it bothered him too much to take another like it, but even one was an indelible smudge on his conscience.

That’s why he’d insisted Nadia research every job. Clients lied, and it only took one hit to lose the high ground of saying, “I’ve never done that.” So, yeah, he’d pulled a few spousal hits back in the earliest days when he was too numb, too dead inside to give a shit. Then came the one where he’d found his mark in a playground, swinging alongside her kids, laughing and teasing, and he’d looked at her and seen his mother, and he’d thrown up in the bushes.

That marked the first time he actually stopped to think about what he was doing. Actually allowed himself to think about it. There’d been no spousal jobs after that, but it didn’t keep him from wishing there’d never even been one.

Listening to Stanton, all he could think was “I’m glad your wife got away, asshole.” That, however, was not the role he needed to inhabit today. So he played along and whined about his own imaginary ex, and then he got down to business.

“I like your platform,” Jack said.

“Plat . . . ? Oh, uh, right.”

“You aren’t like some of those pussies, think they can change things by talking. Wimps who expect the system to work. It never works for guys like us. Not anymore. It’s all about the women and the gays and the ‘minorities.’” Jack’s gaze swept over the brown faces in the coffee shop. “Well, you know what? I’m starting to feel like we are the minority.”

“I hear ya,” Stanton said, though he was careful to keep his voice lowered.

“It’s time to take back what’s ours. To fight for our birthright.”

“It is.”

“So what I’m proposing—” Jack leaned forward and lowered his own voice—“is that you help me turn your efforts here into a national campaign.”

“Campaign? Oh, you mean politically.”

“You could say that. The politics of force.” Jack met and held his gaze. “The politics of terror.”

“Terror . . . ?”

“What you’re doing here. Fighting your own private war.”

Stanton only blinked.

Jack sighed, leaning forward again. “With the court system. Blowing it to hell, if you know what I mean.”

The lightbulb flicked on, and Stanton pulled back, hands wrapping around his mug.

“I can’t really discuss—” he began.

“You don’t need to. I’m just here to say I’m all in, and I have others who are, too. We’re talking serious financial support. Whatever you need to take the next step.”

“Next step?”

“Two words.” Jack leaned forward and dropped his voice. “Courthouse. Bomb.”

Stanton jerked back, whiplash-fast. “I don’t—”

“Just tell me what you need. All eyes are on you now, Louis.”

“Wh-what?”

“Big eyes. Big names. The biggest. They’re watching, and they’re waiting. You can stop worrying about how much your wife will get. You won’t need that money anyway. You’ll get your kids, too, and if your wife tries to interfere?” He shrugged. “Either she can be convinced or she can’t. Her choice.”

“No. No.” Stanton moved back. “You’ve got the wrong guy. What happened to those people? I didn’t do any of it.”

“Sure, you did. You admitted to it.”

“I lied, okay?”

Jack frowned. “Is that cold feet I’m hearing? Look, you don’t need to worry about being caught. You won’t be. I’m taking care of all that. Just tell me what you need for the device—”

“I have no idea how to set up a device.”

“You’re an engineer.”

“A mechanical engineer. I know nothing about . . . those. Whatever I’ve said, whatever I’ve hinted, it’s bullshit. It’s . . .” He waved. “Grandstanding. Promotion for the cause.”

Jack leaned back. “Yeah? Well, you’re not going to have a cause if you go to jail.”

“Are you threatening me?”

“I’m just saying—”

“If I’m arrested, I have an alibi. For the night that judge died and the night someone shot at the lawyer chick. I was at a club. A private club. With lots of people who can tell you, beyond any doubt, that I was there, and I was . . . busy. Very busy.”

“Name?”

“I can’t give you names of people—”

“The club.”

Stanton hesitated. Then he gave it, saying, “You’re not going to find it in the Yellow Pages. But if you search online, you’ll see it’s real. It’s very, very exclusive. And that’s where I was. If the police arrest me, I have an alibi.”

Chapter Eleven

Nadia

Sheila Walling was abrasive, assertive, arrogant and angry. Add up those a’s, and people started using a word that started with the next letter of the alphabet.

Yes, as I listened to her through that wall, she sounded like a world-class bitch, but in an honest way, one that was tough and forthright, and I saw nothing wrong with that.

Sheila Walling wanted a divorce. She just wanted the damn thing done and over with. Forget alimony, forget child support, forget the fact that she’d brought their family home into the marriage. She’d happily agree to an equal division of assets. The only thing she wanted? Joint custody of their two kids.

Two doctors had confirmed she’d kicked the prescription drug habit. She’d been clean for months. So I didn’t see what the issue was.

That was when they mentioned Cherise Hale.

When the Wallings left the office, I followed, as if I’d just happened to be departing at the same time. Sheila got onto the elevator. Victor and his lawyer busied themselves in conversation, as if they were too busy talking to notice that the elevator had arrived. I got on with Sheila, and the doors closed behind me.

“Bodyguard, huh?” she said as the elevator began its descent.

I looked over at her.

“I have ears,” she said. “If you’re here to threaten me, go ahead and get it out of your system. I need to get back to work.”

“Should I threaten you?” I asked.

She gave a harsh laugh and then shook her head. “No, I’m not the bitch you’re looking for.”

The doors opened, and we stepped off. I walked alongside Sheila as she kept talking.

“I’m no threat to Angela Kamaka,” she said. “I’d never poison a dog. That’s just wrong.”

She rounded the corner. “I probably wouldn’t kill a person, either. Not unless I had to, and certainly not over a divorce. I’ll get joint custody. I’m clean, and there’s no other reason to deny me.”

I said nothing, just kept walking alongside her heading for the parking lot.

“I didn’t kill Cherise,” she said. “I know that’s the real reason for the custody concern, and the only reason I’m a suspect in the rest. But I was never charged, and by point of law, they can’t use ‘suspicion’ against me.”

“True.”

“Do you know why they investigated me? Because I’m a chemist, so I know how to make explosions. That’s it. Oh, and because clearly if a man’s young new girlfriend dies, it was the nasty old wife who did it.”

She turned to face me. “Let’s just get this out of the way. My husband left me because of my addiction. I suspect he’d already been seeing Cherise. Did he use the addiction as an excuse? Or was my addiction what drove him to an affair? Frankly, I don’t give a damn. When Victor said he was leaving, I threw every plate in the kitchen. At the walls—not at him. Then I flushed out my pills, checked into rehab, and realized he’d done me a favor. I allowed myself to get addicted to pain meds because I was miserable. The oxy made me feel good. You know what makes me feel even better? Getting out of a shitty marriage.”

She resumed walking, still talking. “I had no strong feelings about Cherise one way or the other. I thought she played the silly innocent, but there was a cunning there, too, and I had to admire that. I used my brains to get where I am. She used her pretty face. I didn’t particularly want her playing Mommy to my kids, but only because she wasn’t much more than a kid herself. Victor is a good dad, though, and he’d more than balance a less competent stepmom. So I didn’t have any reason to kill Cherise. But no one sees that. They just see the ball-busting ex-wife and the sweet young girlfriend.”

We reached a dark blue BMW. She unlocked the door. Then she turned to face me.

“Whoever sent that device to Cherise could have killed my kids. I would never have risked that. Ever.”

She reached into her pocket and took out a card.

“If you have questions, call me. I’m happy to answer. But I’m not your killer.”

I met with Jillian Lee—the detective in charge of the case, and I got exactly the response I expected, the same one I would have given in her situation.

I explained that my primary role was as Angela’s bodyguard, but that I had private investigating experience and would be delving into the case from that perspective. I would not—however—be approaching any of the suspects or witnesses. I had spoken to Sheila, but she’d been the one talking to me. In no way would I interfere with the investigation, and if Detective Lee had any concerns, she could contact me at any time, and if I had new information, I’d contact her.

Yes. That was what Detective Lee said: yes to all of that.

Yes, she was fine with Angela having a bodyguard. She wasn’t thrilled that the bodyguard would also play private investigator, but she accepted it on my other conditions: that I wouldn’t approach suspects or witnesses, and that any new leads would get back to her, promptly.

So we knew where we stood. She did, however, impart one last warning.

“Stay out of Howard’s way.”

“Howard Lang, right? Former police officer. Now private security. He’s investigating, too. I’m having coffee with him in an hour.”

“Good. Normally, I don’t encourage private citizens to help on cases, but Howie is an exception. He’s a good guy, and he’s been through a lot. He loved Mindy. He’s taking this hard. We all are—she was an amazing person. For Howie, dealing with her death means investigating her murder. He’s turned up solid leads. I would prefer it if you two worked together. That’s up to him, of course.”

“If he’s game, I am. He’s lead investigator, though. I understand that.”

“Good.”

Chapter Twelve

Nadia

Coffee with Howard Lang. I suspected he’d been in touch with Detective Lee after I left her, and by the time I arrived, he was relaxed, friendly, ready to talk. Which I hoped meant I’d gotten a thumbs-up from Lee.

For me, making contact with those in charge of the case was an odd way of going about an investigation but . . . well, to be honest, I wasn’t sure Cypher would get what he was hoping for here. He wanted the death sentence. Yet this was an active case. Usually, I was the person called in when the police gave up or when justice failed or, sometimes, when the police just weren’t convinced there was a case.

Jack and I were still being careful here. Nothing we provided could be traced back to anyone. I wore a disguise. I used a burner phone and a fake name. All the numbers I gave as references were untraceable and would go dead after this investigation. I wasn’t averse to ending the life of this multiple murderer. I just wasn’t sure that was where this would lead. Where it could or should lead.

I was outside my comfort zone but making the best of it. This was a real case with a truly innocent person in serious jeopardy, and while I knew the police were doing all they could, they acted under restrictions that didn’t apply to me.

I chatted with Howard Lang for a while. We circled each other, assessing in the most friendly way possible, which was what I preferred. Leave the stiff-legged, growling-dog approach to the guys.

Howard liked Sheila Walling for the murders, and I had to struggle not to leap to her defense. I wasn’t as impartial here as I wanted to be. I saw how others reacted to Sheila, and I couldn’t help feeling that her demeanor was the key strike against her. They saw a tough, blunt, assertive woman and said, “Sure, she could kill somebody.” Those very people would probably never think the same about me. So I got my back up in Sheila’s defense, and I had to be aware of that. My sympathy was as blinding as their prejudice.

“What was your impression of her?” Lang asked.

“Intimidating.”

He laughed as he eased back in his chair. “That’s a nice way of putting it. Sheila Walling scares the ever-loving shit out of me. I don’t know how she ever got together with a sweet guy like Victor. Proof that opposites do attract. Thing is . . . ,” he said, straightening, “I like Sheila. She’s honest, and she’s tough, and she reminds me of some of the best women I worked with on the force. Take no prisoners, and take no bullshit. I wish . . .”

He pulled at his lower lip and then shook his head. “I wish she wasn’t such a damned good suspect for this.”

“Is she? I got the feeling the two men were better ones.”

“Between us?” He lowered his voice. “That’s only because they’re men. Okay, yes, it’s also because they’re idiotic enough to hint that they’re responsible. But they’re both blowhards. They don’t have the brains to pull this off. Certainly not to build that device.”

“Forrest runs an electronics business, doesn’t he?”

“Yeah, so the theory is that he had an employee build the bomb, but then I’d expect that guy to blab to someone. No one has. Stanton, on the other hand, is an engineer. Sure, this isn’t his exact area of interest, but I can see him making a bomb. Problem is that he’s even more full of hot air than Forrest. Stanton’s a loser who wants people to think he’s a tough guy, and how does he prove it? By whining about his rights . . . his right to take his kids along to his new job, and to hell with his wife’s career.”

He shook his head. “Both guys are all talk, which is what they’re doing now. Talking.”

“And Sheila isn’t saying anything.”

“Because for her, it’s not about showing how tough she is. We know she’s tough. This is about fixing problems.”

“Like getting rid of Victor’s new girlfriend, so he’ll come back to her.”

Howard laughed. “Hell, no. That was totally between Cherise and Sheila. Cherise saw an opportunity in Victor. Nice guy with some money and a wife who’s not exactly a sweet-natured cover model. So Cherise swoops in. Only problem? The money isn’t Victor’s. Sheila is the one with the high-powered job. So Cherise hit Sheila in the only place she’s vulnerable: her kids. She pushed Victor to take full custody, which would mean Sheila would pay child support. Sheila doesn’t give a shit about the money, but you don’t come between a mama bear and her cubs. So she took care of the problem.”

“Sounds like you don’t blame Sheila too much for that.”

Howard made a face and sipped his coffee. “Killing Cherise was wrong. Especially . . . that way.” Another face, more serious. “But I don’t think Sheila meant to kill her. Did you hear how it happened?”

I did—I looked it up—but I shook my head.

“The IED was in a gift, delivered to the condo Cherise shared with Victor. An anonymous gift, complete with wrapping paper and a bow. Now, anybody in their right mind would call the bomb squad. Cherise wasn’t that bright. Still, the experts said it was a miracle the IED went off. Well, I guess miracle is the wrong word, but you know what I mean. The device was flawed.”

“You think it was a warning.”

He jabbed a finger at me. “Exactly. Sheila was warning her. Instead . . .” He exhaled. “It was bad.”

“And then you think Sheila did the same to Charles Atom? Sent a warning that inadvertently killed his daughter?”

“It was the same kind of device. That’s the critical part. Whoever built one almost certainly built the other.”

After leaving Howard, I met up with Jack and Cypher. We strolled along the marina docks, snaking past tourists waiting for boat trips.

As we walked, Cypher regaled me with the grand tale of taking Mr. Forrest into the forest.

“Jungle,” Jack said.

Cypher rolled his eyes. “You have no sense of humor.”

“Set that shit-show up, didn’t I?”

Cypher laughed at that, a boom of a laugh that startled a nearby plover. “I’m just glad the guy didn’t really shit. Did piss his pants, though.” He shook his head. “Can’t believe he bought the B-movie-mobster routine.”

“Usually do,” Jack said with a shrug.

I cut in. “So it seems unlikely that Forrest is our guy. Considering how much you were offering—and threatening—he would have agreed if he didn’t mind committing murder. How about Stanton?”

“Jack made me skip that performance,” Cypher said.

“Required a bit more acting,” Jack said.

Cypher glowered. “You implying I couldn’t have pulled it off?”

Jack looked at me and continued, “Same end result. Not ruling him out completely. But, yeah. Unlikely. Asshole bragging. Like Forrest. Thought it made him look tough. Call Stanton on it? Backs down fast. Says he has an alibi, too. Sex club.”

“A . . .” I began.

“Sex club,” Cypher said. “It’s a club where people—”

“Yes, I get the idea. I was just making sure I heard right.”

“You did,” Jack said. “If he’s arrested, he has an alibi. Now you? Walling?”

I told them about my afternoon.

Cypher nodded. “This Howard guy is on the money. Sheila Walling looks good for it. She’s had enough of this Cherise girl, so she tries to spook her. Only her warning shot kills. Sheila starts thinking that wasn’t so bad. She got away with it. So she goes after everyone else standing between her and her babies.”

“But why? She’s convinced she has a good custody case.”

“That’s what she says.”

I glanced at Jack. He caught my eye and shrugged, which meant he didn’t have strong feelings either way. We’d discuss it later when we were alone.

Chapter Thirteen

Nadia

Iwas with Angela again. It was early evening, and while I suspected her workday didn’t usually end until later, she’d agreed to let me escort her home and give her house a security check. I’d assured her it’d be quick. And it would because Jack had already performed the assessment.

I had suggested Angela invite a friend to meet us there so she’d be comfortable letting a stranger into her home, but she’d brushed that off.

“I know who you’re working for,” she said. “And I know he hasn’t hired you to kill me. No more than I’d hire another lawyer to prepare my case.” She gave me a meaningful look.

I didn’t respond.

“I know who it is,” she continued. “He’s an overprotective pain in the ass, but I’m not in any danger from him. He’s sent you to take care of me . . . and not in the way he usually ‘takes care’ of people.”

She pulled her car into the drive and hit the garage door opener. “Is there any chance I can see him while he’s here?”

I didn’t respond.

“Is he here?” she asked. “In Honolulu?”

“I’m glad to see you’re using the garage,” I said. “In your work lot, always try to park between smaller vehicles, so there’s no opportunity for your attacker to slip in beside a big SUV and tamper with your car.”

She sighed. “I’m not getting an answer to my question, am I?”

“If you have a message you’d like conveyed to my client, I can do that.”

“Okay. For now, business. You saw the checks I performed before I got into the car. That’s what Detective Lee advised. Good?”

“Yes. I’d also like you to talk to your building manager about fixing the card reader lock on the stairwell. I noticed it wasn’t working.”

“It hasn’t been since we moved in last year, and I’ve been complaining since then. Even before this, though, I lock the door if I’m there at night.”

“Good. Now for here, I’d like more outward security, starting with a motion sensor light at the garage door. I brought supplies.”

We exited the car.

“We want to establish a standard route,” I said as we walked through the garage. “You’ll use one door and only one door and go the same way every time. You won’t open any other doors or any windows while you’re in the house.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She locked the garage door behind us. I scoped out the area and said, “Good, you have a side door right here,” as if I hadn’t already known that from Jack. “This is the door you’ll use. Only this one. You’ll stay out of the backyard. I know that will be inconvenient.”

She gave a wan smile. “I haven’t used the yard since Dexter.”

“Your ex. I heard someone fired a shot at him in the yard.”

“Actually, Dexter was my dog. I miss him more.” She glanced over. “Is that an awful thing to say?”

“Considering your ex’s asshole move? Not at all.”

“Having Cliff—that was the boyfriend—walk out just showed what I already suspected. That he wasn’t the one.”

“Does Cliff have your keys? Security codes?”

She shook her head. “I couldn’t get those changed fast enough.”

She pushed open the side door and led me in.

“I’m sorry about your dog,” I said. “I have two.”

“Better than a boyfriend?”

I chuckled. “No, I have one of those. A good guy.”

“Lucky girl.” She shut the door. “That will be my new dating test. If a psychotic client threatened me, would you (a) offer moral support or (b) say ‘Sorry babe, I’m outta here’?”

“The correct answer is both a and c.”

“C?”

“Offer to buy me a gun and offer to escort me to work, but don’t be offended if I say no to either.”

She grinned. “Exactly. I do have the gun.”

“And now you have the escort.”

During my fake walk-through, I made suggestions, like telling her to keep the blinds shut at all times and have multiple lights on at night so she didn’t leave a trail of illumination, showing where she was in the house.

As we walked into the kitchen, I said, “The killer seems to like explosive devices, which is, unfortunately, the most frightening scenario. It could be anything you open. A door, a box . . .”

“A backyard grill . . .”

“Exactly. Plus there’s the possibility of tripwires. I’m sure you’ve been told not to accept packages, here or at the office.”

“All my mail goes through the police.”

“Perfect. But while bombs seem to be the new modus operandi, we know it’s not the only way this killer operates. He did fire those shots at your ex. So I have a few suggestions for home security. Yours is good—it’s not foolproof.”

“Just tell me what I need.”

“I will. And while home security is great, the best defense against break-ins is your neighbors. I’m guessing they’re on high alert? Told to report suspicious activity?”

She nodded. “They’ve been great.”

“Good. Your backyard, though, is another matter. May I see it?”

She took me outside. I pretended to poke around while I called her attention to the issues Jack had already observed.

“Motion sensors are the big one,” I said as we walked to the back fence. “There’s no way to stop people from coming into your yard, no matter how high your fence, and backing onto unused property makes security tough. If you can’t stop them, the next best thing is to know when someone’s there. You have sensors already but . . .” I waved toward the rear deck. “Would you stand over there, please? I’m going to hop the back fence and try to get in without activating those sensors.”

I climbed the fence and started experimenting. After about five minutes, she said, “Okay, I see the problem.”

“Yep. If we’re dealing with a total amateur, he’s likely to stumble into range of your sensors. But if he can see them, like I do, and”—I started toward her—“he can get all the way to—”

Something whizzed past Angela.

“Down!” I shouted.

She didn’t question. Didn’t even look around. She dropped to the ground. I raced over just as another projectile flew past and hit the dirt by my feet. Then I bustled her inside.

“What was it?” she said.

I caught my breath. I knew what I’d seen—a bullet in the dirt—but I didn’t tell her that. I didn’t want to panic her when I had a strong suspicion panic wasn’t required.

“I’m . . . not sure,” I said. “I saw something fly past you. Did you see it?”

She shook her head.

“I’m going to take a look around.” I squinted at the treetops. “It might have just been a squirrel dropping a nut or something silly like that.”

“We don’t have squirrels, but there is a mongoose.”

I nodded. “That might be it. I’m going to be paranoid, though, and do a walk around. I’d like you to stay inside. Find a room without windows. Lock the door behind me. When I come back, I’ll text, so you’ll know it’s me.”

Chapter Fourteen

Nadia

From the angle of the bullet, I knew the direction of the shooter. I also knew the shot had been taken from an elevated position. Not surprisingly, that angle led me to the empty lot behind Angela’s house.

I skirted her yard, coming out about a hundred meters away, in thick woods . . . or jungle . . . or rainforest. I hadn’t exactly done my geographic research, so I could only say that the tree cover was dense, the ground choked with thick vegetation.

I was looking for a shooting perch. The trees here weren’t sturdy enough for that, though, which meant that the shooter must have been on a rock along the mountainside. A rock that would provide a clear shot into Angela’s backyard. After a sweep of the area, I found the one I wanted.

That’s when I heard someone in the forest.

Someone fleeing the forest.

I ducked behind a bush. Heavy footsteps thudded off to my left. Angela’s house was behind me on the right. The shooter must have waited a few moments to avoid being spotted fleeing right after the shots.

I took an educated guess about my target’s flight path. Then I retreated to the street and ran along the sidewalk. I passed an elderly couple, gardening in their front yard, but they only looked over idly, as if accustomed to joggers.

When I reached the corner, I veered toward the forest. An SUV sat at the end of the road. I raced to it and hopped onto the hood.

Two minutes later, a figure emerged from the forest. He saw me sitting on the hood and stopped short.

“Nice night for a walk,” I said. “You mind giving me a lift back to my hotel?”

Cypher dug keys from his pocket and resumed his approach. “I was finding a place for tonight. I’ve decided to stand guard.”

“Uh-huh. Well, you dropped this.” I held out the bullet I’d retrieved.

“Where’d that come from?”

I gave him a hard look. “You fired it into Angela’s yard.”

“What? Fuck no.” He turned around, his hands raised. “You see a gun?”

“Where’d you stash it?”

“I don’t carry a gun. And I don’t lie. Ever.”

“Must make things tricky, in our occupation.”

He shrugged. “It adds challenge.”

“You are so full of shit.”

“Ask Jack. Ask Evie. I don’t lie. Now, if you’re asking whether I’ve ever used a gun, yes, I have. That’s unavoidable. But the last time I picked one up was yesterday, when I got yours and Jack’s. I haven’t touched a firearm since.”

“There is no possible way you just happened to be behind Angela’s yard when someone fired a shot at her.”

“It’s not the first time that’s happened, right? He’s probably been out there, waiting for another chance.” Cypher met my gaze. “There’s a psycho who wants Angela dead, Dee. That’s who you need to focus on. The person who just tried to kill her.”

“No one tried . . .”

I trailed off. Then I looked down at the bullet in my hand. It was ice-cold. Had been since I scooped it up.

“This bullet has never been fired from a gun.”

Cypher squinted at it. “You sure?”

“Oh for God’s sake. You really don’t know firearms, do you? What did you do? Throw it at her?”

“That’d be kinda weird.”

I glowered up at him. “Did you throw this bullet at Angela, Tyrone?”

He met my gaze. “No, I did not.”

Jack walked out of the forest, holding something aloft.

“Is that a . . . slingshot?” I said as I took it. I turned to Cypher. “Seriously, Tyrone? You slingshot bullets? Are you crazy?”

“Probably. That’s the general opinion, anyhow.”

I thrust the slingshot at Cypher. “Take your bullshit and go. We’re done.” I started walking away.

“Whoa, wait!” Cypher lumbered in front of me. A look from Jack made him lift his hands and move aside a little. “Just hold on. When you say done . . .”

“Job terminated,” I said. “We’ll repay you for expenses if you want to press the point, but I wouldn’t recommend it.” I advanced on him. “I came here in good faith, to protect a woman who deserves protecting, and who am I protecting her from? The asshole who hired me.”

“I slingshot a bullet. At your feet.”

“Sending us into a panic—”

“Panic? Angela never even noticed, and from the way you marched out here, you already figured it was me.”

“I don’t know what your game is, Tyrone, but I’m not playing it. Angela is actually in danger and—”

“And that’s my point. She’s in danger, and she’s too damned stubborn to leave her house and go somewhere safe. You’re supposed to talk her into that.”

“No, I’m supposed to stop whoever is trying to kill her. That’s objective number two. Number one, obviously, is keeping her alive.”

“Yeah, and how about we increase those odds by getting her out of that goddamned house?”

“No point,” Jack said.

Cypher glanced over, as if he’d forgotten Jack was there.

“Where you gonna put her?” Jack said. “In a cell?”

“I’d like to,” Cypher muttered.

“Can’t. So what’s the alternative? A hotel room? An apartment? Someplace we can’t control access?”

“Her house is a known quantity,” I said. “We have complete control over it, and we can do anything we want to it, which we can’t with a rented room. Honestly, with the police here at night, the chance of her being targeted at home again is minimal. It’s much higher at work.”

Cypher glowered at me. “That does not make me feel better.”

“You know what will make you feel better? Catching this bastard. Which is what I’m trying to do . . . when I’m not dealing with idiots throwing bullets at us.”

“Slingshot. Throwing it would be stupid. It’d just bounce off the ground.”

I pitched the bullet at him and walked away.

Chapter Fifteen

Jack

They were on their second drink. Mai tais, which Jack had never had before, not being much of a drinker, and definitely not one inclined to anything that came with an umbrella. He’d been missing out. These were good. Strong, too. Which meant Nadia had relaxed and was no longer muttering about new places to shove Cypher’s slingshot.

They sat on their hotel room balcony, overlooking the beach, Jack having grabbed the drinks from the poolside bar and then gone for seconds when they finished those. Nadia had hesitated—both of them knowing not to drink too much on the job. But Cypher was watching over Angela tonight as were the cops, and Nadia’s only “work” involved a laptop and pages from Angela’s office. So she’d accepted the second drink along with a bowl of macadamia nuts.

She’d also changed into her bikini, a new purchase from this morning. They’d popped into a store, and he might have said, “Those are nice.” She’d hesitated. Nadia really wasn’t the bikini type. But then she’d said, “What the hell” and tried on a few, and while he doubted she’d wear it farther than this balcony, he was just fine with that.

Hawaii had never been on his list of post-retirement trips. Lazing around the beach wasn’t his style. It wasn’t Nadia’s either. They liked doing things, exploring, discovering. But he had to admit, this was pretty damned close to perfect. Warm evening, a strong drink, Nadia lying beside him in a bikini while he enjoyed the scenery, his new sunglasses ensuring she didn’t notice exactly where his attention lay.

When she reached over absently for more nuts, he caught her hand and squeezed it, and she smiled at him. Then he twisted the cheap gold band on her finger.

“I like this,” he said.

Her smile returned. “You do, huh?”

“I do.”

She opened her mouth, as if to say something, and then stopped short, and he knew she’d been on the verge of teasing him about getting a real one, and that wasn’t possible. He hadn’t used his real name in years, no longer had any ID under it, couldn’t risk getting it. Which meant marriage wasn’t an option. So she just squeezed his hand with a softer smile, before saying, “It’s past dinner time. You getting hungry?”

“Soon. Got any feelings about room service?”

“I am very fond of room service, especially if it means I don’t have to dress and go out.”

“Then we’re eating in. Find anything there?” He pointed at the pages.

“I’m working on it. Give me another twenty minutes, and then we’ll order dinner and talk.”

“No rush,” he said and settled into his chair, watching that gold band wink in the sunlight as she typed.

Chapter Sixteen

Nadia

I am not a detective.

I needed to write that on sticky notes and plaster them everywhere. The deeper I dug into this case, the more keenly I became aware of my overreaching. Yes, I’d solved crimes before, but only because they landed in my lap and, in every case, either no one else was investigating, or I had information the police did not. In other words, I’d had an advantage that overcame my shortcomings.

That wasn’t the situation here. This was a high-profile case, being investigated by a capable metropolitan police force with the help of an equally capable private investigator. If the Honolulu Police Department and Howard Lang couldn’t solve it, how the hell could I?

I’d bitten off more than I could chew, and the worst was that I’d blithely accepted Cypher’s offer without even stopping to consider that.

Nadia Stafford, the professional killer who is mostly at peace with her job, but every now and then, must appease her niggling conscience with tasks that are beyond-any-doubt righteous.

Yeah . . .

I should tell Cypher that I couldn’t solve this. That, instead, I would protect Angela while the police did their job.

Except the investigation had been going on for months, and I didn’t have “months” to play bodyguard. I could, presumably, swap out with Jack and go back to the lodge for the weekend, but there was no way I could do that hellish commute for more than a few weeks.

As I made notes, I glanced at Jack, reclined on the patio chair, eyes closed behind his sunglasses. Relaxed, at ease and looking utterly happy. Which made me happy. It really did. There’d been a time when, if someone showed me a snapshot of him like this, I’d have said he was obviously faking it—playing tourist to throw off some unsuspecting mark. But this was real, and it looked so good on him.

And yet . . .

Oh, hell. Let’s be honest. As much as I loved seeing Jack relaxed, I couldn’t help but feel the dig of unspoken expectations.

“Find anything there?”

“I’m working on it. Give me another twenty minutes, and then we’ll order dinner and talk.”

“No rush.”

If I asked for his help, he’d give it, but otherwise, in our investigations, Jack settled into the role of junior partner. I was the “proper” detective. I’d been a cop, right? He knew I’d only been a constable, but that didn’t matter. To Jack, I was the one who held a legitimate claim to law enforcement. He was “just” a hitman. A guy who’d operated on the other side of the law since he was a kid. Forget the fact that he investigated each and every job to be sure his client was being straight with him. That didn’t count as detective work. Not to him.

I considered admitting I was in over my head. I imagined saying the words. I imagined him lifting his sunglasses, blue eyes glancing over at me, completely unperturbed. He’d tell me I was doing fine, that I always do fine, and I’d figure it out. Which wouldn’t be just a pep talk to make me feel better. He’d believe it. He had complete faith in me.

No pressure.

I sighed.

The glasses went up, just as I imagined, pushed back onto his forehead, and his blue eyes turned my way, crow’s feet in the corners deepening as he squinted against the sun.

“You okay?”

“Just . . .”

Feeling overwhelmed. Feeling inadequate. Feeling a little bit lost.

“Just getting hungry,” I said.

His eyes narrowed a fraction, studying my expression.

“You need a break,” he said. “Give me what you’ve got, and I’ll take a look while you order dinner.”

“What do you want?”

A shrug. “You choose.” His lips curved in a smile. “I trust you.”

Yep, no pressure at all.

We were on the bed, room service trays resting precariously on bunched-up covers. I’d ordered a few dishes for us to share. Jack had put some of each on his plate, and I couldn’t tell if that was because he wanted to sample them all or because he didn’t want to insult my choices.

Damn, I was in a mood, wasn’t I?

“You okay?” he asked after ten minutes of silence.

I shrugged.

“Something’s bugging you.”

I took another bite of fish.

“The case?” he said.

I managed a wan smile. “See, you should be the detective.”

He snorted. “Nah. I’m just hoping it’s the case. Otherwise? Well, only other thing here is me. So if it’s not the case? It’s me.”

“It’s the case.”

“Talk to me.”

I stretched out my bare legs, and he squeezed one before reaching for another piece of bread.

“It’s just . . .”

I feel overwhelmed.

I took a deep breath. “I keep going back to Cherise Hale. Victor Walling’s girlfriend.”

“Okay.”

I crossed my legs. “Howard Lang thinks that Cherise’s death proves Sheila is a viable suspect. Cherise died when a gift blew up in her face. Charles Atom’s daughter died from an IED presumably intended for her dad. Someone placed another IED in Angela’s car. The devices weren’t exactly the same, but there were similarities. The only connection between Cherise and the other two is Sheila.”

“But you don’t like her for it.”

“Six months ago, she kills Cherise, accidentally, it seems, with an explosive device hidden in a gift. She’s a suspect in that case, but she’s never charged. Then she kills Mindy Lang, and it’s ruled a suicide. Okay. Then she shoots Albert Kim and tries to set it up as another suicide, but that fails, which reopens Mindy’s case, and the police realize the two killings are connected. So if you’re Sheila, what do you do now? Move on to Charles Atom, using a device similar to the one that killed Cherise . . . which will then pull her death into the mix and point the finger straight at you?”

Jack grunted, his gaze going distant as he thought it through.

“Fuck, yeah,” he said after a few seconds. “Makes no sense. You go after Atom? You’re not gonna use an IED. It’s the only thing tying Cherise to the Atom girl.”

“Which then ties Sheila to the rest. Sending Cherise that ‘gift’ to spook her doesn’t make sense. Not when her kids were there. And Sheila has never contested the divorce. She’s only arguing for joint custody . . . Which she’d have gotten by now if she hadn’t been investigated for Cherise’s death.”

“So what’s her motive?”

“Exactly.” I paused. “I want to talk to Sheila again. I worry that I’m basing conclusions on snap judgments. I spent a few minutes with her. That’s not enough to judge someone’s character.”

“You’ve got good instincts.”

“I’ve been wrong before.”

He shrugged. “We all have. But yeah, talk to her tomorrow. See what you think.”

Chapter Seventeen

Nadia

Iescorted Angela to work. Then I met up with Sheila. I’d called earlier this morning, and she’d agreed to see me.

“I start at seven,” she’d said. “I’m an early bird. That means I take my break at nine, and it’s a mile to the coffee shop. You seemed to be fine with walking while talking yesterday . . .”

“I am. I’ll meet you at nine, then.”

It turned out that the nearest coffee shop wasn’t a mile from her office. She worked downtown, at a biochemical engineering firm, surrounded by coffee shops.

“I don’t like those ones,” she said when I commented. “And I need the exercise. That’s how I’m staying off the meds.”

I nodded. “Exercise can help with pain.”

“It might. But exercise works for me because I hate every goddamn minute of it, so that’s thirty minutes a day I’m bitching about something other than my shoulder.”

She walked fast, long strides that had me half jogging to keep up. Those strides also kept her path clear, people making way for the grim-faced juggernaut. As we walked, we talked about Cherise. I didn’t have to beat around the bush. One mention of the name, and Sheila knew what I wanted to chat about, and she was happy to do it.

She didn’t defend herself again. She just answered my questions as I got a better sense of her relationship with her husband’s new girlfriend.

Sheila had known Cherise before that. She’d been the children’s babysitter at one time.

“World’s oldest cliché, huh? But it wasn’t quite like that. I don’t think Victor was shtupping the eighteen-year-old sitter. She left for college, and I didn’t see her for years. Next thing I knew, they were together. She was twenty-five by then. Right in that sweet spot. Young enough for a guy in a mid-life crisis, but not so young it’s creepy.”

She laughed, and there was no animosity in it, no bitterness.

“So he was having a mid-life crisis?” I asked. “You figured his relationship with Cherise was temporary?”

“She didn’t seem like his type, long term. He seemed like hers, though. I have no idea how it would have worked out.” She smiled. “I get the feeling Cherise might have prevailed. She had tenacity. Gumption, too, as my gran would have said.”

“How did you feel about that?”

She shrugged. “Like I said, I wouldn’t have been thrilled with Cherise as stepmommy, but honestly, I won’t be happy to see anyone taking that role in my kids’ life. Someone will, though. Victor is the marrying type.”

We picked up coffees. As we started back, at the same pace, I waited a few minutes before I resumed the conversation exactly where we’d left off.

“Any chance you two will get back together?”

“Hell, no. I love Victor dearly, but I love him as a co-parent. A friend. I’m hoping we’ll get back to that once they find out who killed Cherise. The sad thing, hon, is that we were exactly that—friends and co-parents—for most of our marriage. That’s how I got hooked on the meds.”

“You were unhappy.”

“Yep. I wasn’t miserable. I wasn’t depressed. I was just unhappy, and so was he, and I think that bothered me more than anything. I wasn’t making him happy, and I began to wonder if I ever had.”

“I’m sure—”

She cut me off with a look. “I don’t need a teaspoon of honey to make the medicine go down. I prefer honesty, as bitter as it might be. Victor and I met in college. Engineering. I was the only girl in the program, and I thought that would mean, for the first time in my life, the boys would notice me. They’d have to.”

She laughed and shook her head. “Didn’t quite work out that way. I told myself they were intimidated. I got better grades than they did. I had companies fighting for me before I even graduated. I would be more successful than any of those boys, and they knew it, so they steered clear. Truth is, I’ve just never been the sort of woman that men chase. Not until Victor.”

“He chased?”

A smile softened her face. “He did. He wasn’t intimidated—he was impressed. But he wasn’t . . . Well, he wasn’t my type. But I liked him as a friend, and no one else was interested so . . . Damn, that’s a shitty thing to say, isn’t it?”

“It happens.”

Her gaze slid over me. “I’m sure you had no problem getting the boys.”

“That doesn’t mean I kept them. I’m a little . . . unusual.”

“Aren’t we all? I remember my mother telling me I just wasn’t like the other girls. Now I wonder, who is? Who fits this mythical mold?”

“Guys used to say that to me. That I wasn’t like other girls. I never knew what it meant—I just knew I didn’t like hearing it.”

“My mother meant it as a compliment—that I wasn’t some insipid twit.” She rolled her eyes. “I’ll never say it to my daughter. She’s strong, and she’s unique—just like other girls. With Victor, I settled, and as cruel as that sounds, I think he did, too. He pursued me because I was the proverbial fish in a barrel. Easy to catch. I’d say our marriage was a mistake, but he gave me two amazing children, and he is a wonderful father.”

Everything she said reinforced my first impression. Any animosity toward Cherise had been mild, and getting rid of her would only put another woman in her place—a potentially worse stepmom. Sheila didn’t want Victor back. So what did she stand to gain by killing his girlfriend?

“I asked Detective Lee if I could see the remains of that device,” Sheila said when I brought up the IED. “I wanted to point out all the problems with it. Then she’d see that if I’d done it, I’d damn well have done a better job.”

“You’d have built it right.”

“Hell, no. I’d have built it wrong properly. You’ve heard that it probably wasn’t supposed to detonate, right?”

I nodded.

“If I wanted it to detonate, it would have. And if I didn’t want it to . . .”

“It wouldn’t have. You’d have done it wrong . . . properly.”

She nodded. “I do know how to make a device like that. I won’t pretend otherwise. I’ve worked in explosives. But I’m not going to fuck it up. I’d never send a fake bomb as a scare tactic. That’s stupid. It doesn’t matter if it was made to fail, it’s still a criminal offense.”

“What did you conclude when you saw the device?”

“Detective Lee wouldn’t let me. I was a suspect. The hired expert they got”—she rolled her eyes—“was strictly amateur hour. I could have helped them figure out who might have done this. But no . . .”

“If I could get you details—”

“Sheila Walling?”

We turned to see a police cruiser stopping behind us with the window rolled down. One officer climbed out.

“Sheila Walling?” he said again. “You are under arrest for the murders . . .”

Chapter Eighteen

Nadia

Detective Lee had found the evidence she needed to charge Sheila. Not that she was telling me what it was—she was understandably busy interrogating her suspect. I hung out at the station, but I didn’t push. I had too much respect for the police, even when I was sure they’d made a mistake.

I was still waiting at the police station when Howard Lang texted me to say they’d arrested Sheila. I got back to him and discovered he already had the details through his contacts in the department.

The police had recovered a hair from the IED left for Angela. That wasn’t new—they’d had the hair from the start and been running a DNA comparison, which doesn’t happen nearly as fast as Hollywood might lead us to believe. They’d compared the DNA to Sheila’s, which she’d provided back when Cherise died. I was sure her lawyer had argued against volunteering that, but I could see Sheila saying, I didn’t do this, so fuck it. Take my DNA.

That DNA matched the hair taken from the device. Lee still hadn’t been quick to arrest her. She knew Sheila wasn’t going to run, and she wanted more evidence. That came in today, with the results of a credit card search—the DNA match gave Lee what she needed to conduct that search. Sheila’s card had been used to order bomb-making materials shortly before the IED showed up in Angela’s car. It was the same material used in Angela’s device . . . and also used in the previous two. That wasn’t enough to charge Sheila with the murders. For now, she’d only been charged with attempting to kill Angela, but that arrest opened up Lee’s search powers, and the detective was certain she’d find what she needed to connect Sheila to the murders.

I suppose it was possible that Sheila only sent the device to Angela, which explained the DNA match and purchase history. But that didn’t make sense. Why would she construct a bomb to kill Angela when she was already a suspect in Cherise and Sara’s bombing deaths? That was crazy. Sheila Walling was not crazy.

She was being framed.

No one as smart as Sheila was going to use her credit card to buy the materials she’d use to build an IED. She wouldn’t even need to buy them—she worked in the industry, and at most, she might have to purchase a single component. As for the DNA, a hair is the easiest source to “steal.” It was possible there’d been hairs left with the first two devices as well—they just wouldn’t have survived the blasts.

After speaking to Howard, I called Evelyn. Normally, I’d avoid asking for her research help. Evelyn doesn’t work for free. Unfortunately, she doesn’t work for mere cash, either. Her system is trade. Work done for a chit owed, and Evelyn didn’t cash her chits promptly. She stockpiled them as leverage.

Luckily, right now we were in a reverse-credit situation—I’d helped her more than she’d helped me. I also had leverage of my own: Jack.

If you asked Jack and Evelyn what their relationship was, Evelyn would say she was his mentor. Ask Jack, and he’d point out that she’d been his mentor and was now a colleague. They’re also friends, but neither was the type to say that. Business was the more important relationship.

The truth, though, was that to Evelyn, Jack was the closest thing to family she’d ever have. The closest thing to a son. But he was the kind of son who didn’t call home nearly as often as he should. He cared . . . He just got busy, and yes, sometimes he didn’t have the patience for Mom’s bullshit. That placed me in a position of power. I was the daughter-in-law who could encourage him to call and visit. Or discourage him. I won’t say that I used my power to its full potential, but I was aware it existed, and Evelyn was very aware it existed.

Today, I set her on Sheila’s credit card history. I wanted that purchase order. Mostly, I wanted to know where the goods had been sent, which would take more than a phone call from a sweet old lady. That was good, because I’d seen Evelyn’s sweet-old-lady impersonation, and it sucked. Her true skill required only the use of her brain and her fingers, traveling along the back channels of the wired world.

She called an hour later.

“Okay,” she said. “I have . . . Damn it, Dee. Can you call me back when you have a better connection? There’s static.”

“That’s surf.”

A long pause.

“We’re on the beach,” I said.

“Why?”

I laughed. “It’s Hawaii.”

“And you dragged Jack onto the beach?”

“Uh, no. It was his idea.”

A longer pause.

“We aren’t surfing, Evelyn,” I said. “Or sunbathing, really. Did you know people still do that? You’d think they’d never heard of skin cancer. Anyway, we’re just sitting on the beach in our swimsuits, discussing the case. We might even go into the water.” I paused. “Although, on second thought . . . Hey, Jack? How would you feel about surf lessons? Or snorkeling?”

“Sure,” he said without looking over.

“You realize he only does these things to make you happy, Dee.”

I glanced at Jack, lying on his back, face raised to the sun.

“You’re right. He looks miserable. I am a bad, bad person.”

Jack lifted his sunglasses and arched one brow.

“Don’t worry,” I said. “I won’t torture him much longer. We have a case to pursue. So, on that note . . .”

“The mailing address was a house. A house that belonged to Sheila Walling’s mother, who died a few years ago, and it seems Sheila is waiting out the housing market before selling. She still owns it, and it’s been empty since her mother’s death.”

“You researched the house, too? Wow. Thank you. That is above and beyond. You’re good. I don’t know what I’d do without—”

“You still owe me.”

“Nope, totally don’t. That took you an hour. I remain in the black. I’m just heaping on the praise to make you feel good. You’re old. You need a little sunshine to warm your twilight years.”

“Fuck. You.”

I laughed. “I do appreciate it, Evelyn. You know I do. If you can send me the address, that would be awesome. And I think Jack wants to talk to you.”

He lifted his glasses again and mouthed, “I do?”

I mouthed, “Be nice,” and then passed him the phone. “Tell her how much you’re secretly hating this trip.”

He snorted, took the phone and said to Evelyn. “Yeah, it’s awful. Good thing you’re not here. Too much sand. Too much sun. Too much lazing around drinking shit with umbrellas. You’d hate it.”

I motioned that I was going into the water. He mouthed that he’d join me in a minute and resumed talking to Evelyn as I scampered across the hot sand.

I confirmed that the situation was exactly as Evelyn said. Sheila’s mother had passed two years ago, and she’d inherited the house. Presumably, she was waiting for a boost in the housing market. But she wasn’t renting it, either. Which concerned me. One would think that if she was worried about losing money, she’d rent the place. Unless she had another purpose for it.

When I saw the house, I could tell why Sheila wasn’t using it herself. I’d gone by her place earlier, and it was double the size, in a much better neighborhood. Her mother’s house was tiny, barely more than a clapboard shack, and in serious need of renovation before it even saw tenants.

According to Evelyn’s research, Sheila’s mother hadn’t lived in it for years, instead spending her waning days in an upscale hospice. The house would need renovation to put it on the market. The neighborhood, though, was decent, the other homes in much better shape. So it might be in Sheila’s best interests to leave it uninhabited and unfixed until after the divorce. Give Victor half of the current value and then renovate and sell it. It was, after all, her inheritance.

A privacy fence surrounded the small backyard, and I snuck in that way. Both a key lock and a deadbolt secured the back door. I was in before I knew it.

No alarm system inside. Or so I thought until I noticed a faint red line hovering six inches off the hall floor.

I eased back on my haunches and studied it. A laser line, like one might see in an art museum. I stepped over and traced the line along to a small box on the wall—a device that I presumed sent an alert to a remote location. I took photos and e-mailed them to Felix. Then I checked the front door and found the same laser trigger there.

Someone wanted to know whether anyone came into the house. Not a person breaking in but simply entering, even with a key. Yet it was a clumsy system. I’d spotted it during the day, and it would be unmistakable after dark.

I had an idea what that alert system meant, though. What it was being used for.

I looked for a basement first, which proved that I don’t have any experience living on an island. There was only a crawlspace. I checked bedrooms next. Both were empty, like the rest of the house. Any belongings had long since been removed, leaving only dust.

So if there wasn’t a basement, where could one hide . . .

I looked up.

It was a single-story house, but it had looked taller from the outside, suggesting a large attic. Sure enough, I found a ceiling hatch with a hook. I managed to snag that. Then I pulled carefully, braced to set off an alarm.

A narrow set of steps rolled down. I ascended slowly, shining my penlight up into the dark. And there it was. Right at the top. Not a laser beam but a thin thread, ready to be triggered by anyone who came up unawares.

I lifted my foot to step over the wire . . . and froze. Then I turned, following the wire. It did not connect to a tiny alert box.

I had seen very few IEDs in my life. It was a rare hitman who’d use one, both because it required specialized knowledge and because it risked collateral damage. But I knew one when I saw one. And that’s what I was seeing here. It wasn’t just a small bomb, either. Trip this wire, and bits of me would be scattered through the rubble of this house.

I considered withdrawing. But I had one foot over the wire, and backing up seemed just as dangerous as going forward.

So I inched my other foot over, sweat dripping down my cheek. Once I was across, I took a closer look.

No, I wasn’t exaggerating when I said tripping this device would level the house. That was the intention. If anyone tried coming up here, the whole building would come down, hiding whatever lay inside.

I stepped away from the device, shone the light around and found exactly what I expected. The laboratory where this bomb had been constructed. Where I suspected all the bombs had been constructed.

In the attic of a house owned by Sheila Walling.

Chapter Nineteen

Jack

Jack walked into Victor Walling’s office dressed in a suit, newly purchased but not new. Thrift shops and consignment stores were his best source of disguise material, and yeah, partly because he hated spending a lot of money on an outfit he’d wear once, but also, second-hand clothing meant he wouldn’t walk in with a stiff new suit, tag still dangling from one sleeve. For this particular disguise, slightly rumpled worked just fine.

“McCall,” he said to the woman at the front desk. “I work with Detective Lee. Does Victor have a moment?”

He did not introduce himself as “Detective” McCall. His outfit and his words suggested that, though, and the young woman quickly escorted him back to Walling.

As Jack walked, he looked around, assessing. It was an insurance sales office, neither a particularly classy nor shabby one. Middle of the road, like Walling himself, seated behind his desk in a suit little better than Jack’s. When Jack walked in, he straightened, rising as he extended his hand.

“McCall,” Jack said. “We haven’t met. Detective Lee asked me to stop by. It’s about Sheila.”

Walling sighed and lowered himself back into his seat. “I heard she’d been arrested. I still can’t believe it. I knew she was angry, but to kill Cherise? And Charles Atom’s girl? Everyone kept telling me it was Sheila, but I thought no, they were jumping to conclusions. Not my Sheila.” A slow shake of his head.

“She hasn’t been charged in any deaths,” Jack said. “We’ve only traced the device from Angela Kamaka’s car back to Sheila.”

“But they were all made by the same person, right?”

“We’re working on that. We have a lead on a possible location for her laboratory—where she might construct the devices. That’s why I’m here. Do you have access to her mother’s home?”

Walling’s head shot up. “Tina’s house? No, that’s been empty for years.”

“We traced the package delivery there.”

“Then that’s just where Sheila picked it up. The house isn’t big enough to hide a bomb lab.”

“Maybe. We’re working on getting a search warrant, but we’ve run into some complications. Detective Lee hoped you could grant access, being half owner.”

Walling shook his head. “It’s Sheila’s. I’ve never had keys. I’m sorry.”

“Is there any way—?” Jack checked his phone, as if he’d just gotten a text. “Well, it seems we’ll be getting that warrant in about an hour. Sorry to bother you.” He nodded. “Have a good day.”

Chapter Twenty

Nadia

“Don’t let him see you,” Howard said as I peeked over the fence.

I resisted the urge to say this wasn’t my first stakeout. As far as Howard Lang knew, he was the expert here—the cop turned PI. I was just a bodyguard who fancied herself a PI and got lucky on this lead. He’d never say that—he was too nice—but that was the setup I’d given him, so I had to stick to it, and I only said, “right,” when he warned me to duck.

“You should go into this full-time,” he said as we waited. “You’ve got real talent. Two days on the case, and you solved it. We’ve been working it for months.”

“The fact that I’m not officially a PI means I don’t need to play by PI rules. You can’t ask someone to impersonate a cop.”

“But your friend never actually said he was a cop. That’s the trick.”

Maybe. It walks a thin line, though, and it could piss off the police and lose them as a potential source. That was a risk I’d taken, betting on a long shot. Well, maybe not such a long shot. My advantage, in this case, was that I seemed to be the only person who believed Sheila Walling was innocent. It seemed so cut and dried to others. They took Sheila at face value, stuffed her into a stereotype box and saw a cold-blooded killer.

No one had paid any attention to the other person connected to both Cherise and the family court victims. The person who had access to Sheila’s mother’s house. The person who could get access to both Sheila’s hair and her credit card information. The person who, despite working in insurance, had gone through chemical engineering with Sheila. He just wasn’t good enough to get a job in the field.

So I had Jack plant the seed. The laboratory was about to be raided . . . giving Victor just enough time to clear out anything incriminating. Victor had snatched the bait. Jack had watched him leave and called me. I’d called Howard. Now we waited as Jack periodically texted updates on Victor’s location. Sure enough, he was driving straight for this house.

“Five minutes away,” I said as Jack texted again.

Howard speed-dialed a call. “Hey, Jillian, it’s Howard again. Yeah, we’ve definitely got something. Let’s just say it’s very suspicious. Would you happen to have a car near Sheila’s mom’s house?”

A low murmur as Detective Lee answered.

“Right. Yeah. It could be completely innocent, and I don’t want to go raising a ruckus, but this looks bad, and there’s the possibility of an arrest. I can’t tell you much more than that.”

Another pause.

“Two cars would be excellent. Have them stay clear until I text you. We don’t want to spook our suspect.”

Pause.

“Yes, I will be careful,” he said with a chuckle.

As he hung up, Jack texted me again.

“Victor’s parked in a strip mall at the corner,” I said. “He’s walking this way.”

“If he has a lick of sense, he’ll come through one of these backyards. Hopefully the one on the other side, but we need to be ready to run, just in case . . .”

Footfalls thumped along the driveway.

“All right,” Howard said with a sigh. “Apparently, he doesn’t have a lick of sense. At least he’s heading for the back door.”

We watched Victor race into the rear yard, breathing hard.

“Yeah,” Howard muttered. “Run down the street in a suit. That’s not suspicious at all.”

It took Victor a moment to get the door unlocked. Even from here, I could see his hands shaking. He raced through, not pausing to step over the tripwire, which I supposed made sense if he was the only person it alerted.

As Victor barreled into the house, I climbed the fence. When I perched on top, Howard looked up at me with a soft laugh.

“Ah, to be young again. I’m going to take the long way around.”

He set off at a run while I jumped down. I jogged to the back door and eased the screen open. Victor had left the inside door ajar. I slipped through and stepped over the alert laser.

A rustle sounded at the front of the house, and I tiptoed that way. I peered around the hall corner, expecting to see the attic ladder lowered. It wasn’t. The rustling came from an open door farther down. When Victor walked out, I backed up fast, through the living room, into the kitchen.

I was ready to keep retreating, but Victor’s footsteps paused in the living room long enough for me to get out my mirror and check around the corner. He’d perched on the edge of a wooden crate as he flipped through a handful of papers.

Papers?

He’d heard the house was about to be raided and roared over to clear out the lab and then paused to retrieve . . . papers?

Shit.

I looked again. They seemed to be letters of some sort. I could see a pink envelope and a handwritten page decorated with roses.

I remembered Sheila saying she suspected Victor had hooked up with Cherise before they split. If she had proof, she could use that against Victor as proof of infidelity.

That’s what he must have come back for. After Cherise died, he’d want to keep mementos of their relationship, but he wouldn’t want incriminating evidence at home. He’d squirreled them away here, in a closet or under a floorboard.

Shit.

As I pulled back, a creak sounded behind me, and I turned just as Howard lifted his leg over the laser tripwire. I tiptoed to him.

“I screwed up,” I whispered. “Victor isn’t here for the lab.”

Howard’s brows lifted, and he motioned to ask where Victor was. I pointed, and he walked over and took a look. As he did, his lips formed a “Shit.”

He returned to me.

I showed him a message I’d quickly typed on my phone: I think they’re love letters. From Cherise. Proof they were having an affair before he left Sheila. I’m so sorry.

He took my phone and typed: We knew there was a chance this wasn’t the answer, which is why we don’t have a team breaking down the door right now. It was a solid lead. You done good.

He smiled at the last part and gave me a thumbs-up. A pat on the back for the newbie. Except I was less of a newbie than I’d let on, so that pat didn’t make me feel better. I should have had Jack meet me here instead and just snapped photos if we did see Victor dismantling the lab. Called Howard and the police then, with the evidence.

Howard texted Detective Lee as I took another look through my mirror. Victor was on his feet now, pushing the folded pages into his pocket. Then he checked his watch . . . and headed back into the rear hall.

I took off after Victor and barely made it to the hall before I heard the creak of the attic stairs.

I turned to see Howard right behind me. He caught the same noise and his brows lifted.

“The attic,” I said.

His face lit up, reminding me that he wasn’t just a PI on a job. This was personal for him. Catching Mindy’s killer. Now he had his answer.

So why was there a niggling voice in my head, whispering that something was still wrong here?

As Howard started to pass me, I remembered the bomb at the top of the stairs.

I grabbed Howard’s arm. “Get out.”

“What?”

“You need to get out. Now. Run.”

His broad face screwed up.

“There’s a bomb at the top of the stairs,” I whispered as fast as I could get the words out. “If he’s not the killer—if he’s going up there for another reason—he’ll trigger it, and this whole house is going to blow. I’ll stay—”

“The hell you will.” Howard grabbed my arm and yanked me toward the front door as Victor’s footsteps continued up the ladder.

Howard reached for the front door handle . . . and Victor’s footsteps continued across the attic floor.

I exhaled. “Okay, he didn’t trigger it. Which either means he accidentally stepped over the tripwire or . . .”

“He knows it was there, and he’s doing more than hiding old love letters.”

Howard released my arm. As he texted Detective Lee, I headed for the attic ladder. I took it one rung at a time, moving slowly. When a board creaked, I froze, but Victor just kept doing whatever he was doing, the sound of rustles and clatter coming from the attic.

I crested the opening, and there he was at the workbench with his back to me. He was engrossed in his work, so I kept climbing. I moved over the tripwire as carefully as I could. As I put my foot down, though, it gave a soft thump, and that was enough for Victor to spin.

Chapter Twenty-one

Nadia

Victor saw me and went still. “Who the hell—?” He stopped as he saw my gun.

Then his gaze flew to the attic hatch as Howard Lang appeared.

“Hey, Vic,” Howard said. “Gotta say, this isn’t what I expected.”

Victor pressed his back against the workbench. “What are you doing here?”

“Whatcha got there, Vic?” Howard said as he eased over the tripwire.

“N-nothing.”

I stepped toward the bench, my gun pointed at Victor.

“Just taking precautions,” Howard said as Victor stared at my gun. “You gotta admit this is a troubling situation. That”—he pointed at the tripwire bomb—“isn’t exactly a welcome mat.”

“Neither is that,” I said as I nodded at the workbench. On it was a device with a timer. I cursed myself for not anticipating this. Did I really think a bomber would clean up his laboratory by shoving everything into a backpack?

“Blowing up the evidence, huh?” Howard said. “You know I can’t let you do that, Vic, so step away from that bench.”

Victor looked at the timer, its screen black. His fingers twitched.

“Uh-uh,” I said. “You make a move toward that, and I’ll take you out. The police are on their way. You’re about to be arrested for the murder of—”

“Me? No. I didn’t kill anyone. It was Sheila. It was all Sheila.”

“That story worked a lot better before we found you in the lab . . . right after you were warned it was about to be raided.”

He shook his head vehemently. “I didn’t build those devices. Sheila did. But when that cop mentioned the house, I knew she must have her lab here and . . .” He exhaled. “She’s the mother of my children. Whatever she did, I drove her to it, and our kids shouldn’t pay for our mistakes. I wanted to protect them. If that makes me an accomplice—”

“It makes you a killer,” I said. “The son of a bitch who tried to frame his wife.”

“No, I love Sheila. Just because we didn’t work out doesn’t change that.” He looked at Howard. “You understand that better than anyone, Howard. Think of Mindy.”

Howard’s jaw clenched. “Don’t bring Mindy into this, you bastard. You murdered her, and you’re lucky I don’t pull my gun and shoot you right now. My only consolation is knowing that when the police analyze this lab, they’ll prove it was you, and you’ll spend the rest of your life in a—”

Victor lunged at Howard. I held my ground. Victor wasn’t armed, and I sure as hell wasn’t shooting unless I had to, not when I couldn’t just disappear before the police showed up.

Howard started to backpedal . . . and I saw the tripwire behind him.

“Howard!”

I didn’t even get his name out before he realized what he was doing and swung to the side instead. That left the exit open with Victor heading straight for it.

“Stop!” I said, raising my gun.

Victor did stop, right at the trip wire. He turned to me.

“Do you know what that is?” he said, pointing at the wire.

“Yes.”

“Then you know that all it takes . . .” He lifted his foot and made a motion to bring it down on the wire.

“Stop!”

He kept his foot poised above the wire.

“You’re going to let me leave,” he said. “I’m going to step over this and continue down the ladder, and you’re going to let me walk away. Otherwise”—he waggled his foot—“I’ve got nothing to lose, do I?”

“You aren’t going to do that, Victor,” Howard said. “You’ve got two kids who deserve to know why you did this.”

Victor let out a bitter laugh. “Why I did what? I didn’t mean to kill anyone. I sent that damned package to Cherise to get her out of my life. I wasn’t stupid—I knew she was just looking for a free ride. So was I. But suddenly, my ride wasn’t free anymore. She wanted a ring. So I thought I’d kill two birds with one stone. Spook her and frame Sheila. Only the damned thing went off and destroyed the evidence that Sheila did it. So I tried again with that lawyer. That time, I was even more careful. I put the device in the grill, and then I was going to call in an anonymous tip, but that kid opened the grill before I could.”

“That kid was a sixteen-year-old girl,” I said. “Who you murdered.”

“I didn’t kill her. The bomb did. She opened the grill, and no one was supposed to do that. But she did, and again, boom. Sheila’s hair? Gone.”

“You—” I began, barely able to get the word out.

“Okay,” Howard cut in. “You didn’t mean to kill anyone. I get that. So, yes, I’m going to let you leave.” He turned to me. “Stand down, Nancy.”

I clenched my teeth. I knew Howard was right. Just lower my gun, let Victor walk away and then give chase. I could catch him easily enough. Still, after what he just said, it took everything in me to force my gun down, inch by inch.

“She’s going to shoot me,” Victor said, and he sounded so much like a petulant child that I really did want to prove him right.

I holstered my gun instead and said, “Go on.”

He lowered his foot over the wire. His eyes never left mine. I stayed as calm as I could, my hand away from my gun, giving him no reason to do anything except leave. He put one foot down. Then he brought the other over and placed it on the first rung. He lowered himself down one rung . . . and stopped.

“You’re going to come after me,” he said, still watching me.

“Vic?” Howard said. “I’ve got this. You’re fine.”

“I want her gun.” He glanced at Howard. “Yours, too. Give me the guns, and I’ll leave.”

“Victor . . .” Howard began.

“Sure,” I said. “He can have my gun. I get the bullets. He gets the gun.”

“Fine,” Howard said. He took out his weapon.

I unholstered mine and started opening the chamber. And then we heard a sound. The distant wail of police sirens.

Victor looked at me. The son of a bitch looked right at me and then reached for the tripwire.

I slapped the chamber and aimed at his forehead.

“Stop,” I said.

He kept reaching. Kept looking right at me and kept reaching. I heard Howard shouting, saw him start to lunge and then realize he couldn’t, that the wire was between them, and he could not get to Victor without setting off the bomb.

“Stop!” Howard said. “Think of your kids. Chris and Andi. Think about them.”

“Oh, but I am,” Victor said. “I’m thinking of how no one will ever know exactly what happened here. No evidence. No witnesses. Just a tragic misunderstanding. An innocent man, railroaded by some bitch who roared in here, thinking she could solve a crime.”

“This isn’t about Nancy. I’m the one who—”

“You’re the one who couldn’t resist a pretty face, Howard. You never could. None of us can, really. She talked you into this, against your better judgment, and look what happened.” His eyes held mine. “Boom.”

“If you touch that wire—” I began.

“Oh, I’m going to do more than touch it. You think you’re tough, don’t you? Just like Sheila. Gotta wear the pants. Show up the men. Grind them to dust beneath your heel. Well, girlie, you know what’s going to be dust here?” He smiled. “You.”

He reached for the wire. His fingers started to close around it . . . and I put a bullet between his eyes.

As Victor fell, Howard hit the floor as if Victor had managed to grab that wire. But I’d been careful. I’d waited until I was completely sure he was about to do it. He never touched the wire, though, and the shot sent him toppling backward down the ladder.

The sirens screamed louder now, the police coming fast.

“Give me your gun,” Howard said. “Quickly. I’ll say it’s mine. That I shot—”

“It’s unregistered.”

“Shit!”

I was about to tell him I’d handle this—I’d find some way, even if it meant just running before that cruiser arrived, but Howard jumped over the wire and tore down the ladder and put another bullet between Victor’s eyes with his own gun.

“There,” he said as I descended, “I did it. I shot him.”

“You don’t have to—”

“I had the damned gun in my hand, and I never even thought to shoot him.” He turned to me. “Thank you.”

“There wasn’t any other way. That’s what I’ll tell the police when they get here. You had no choice. You saved us.”

He managed a shaky smile. “I’d rather not play hero when I didn’t earn it.”

“You did. You talked him down. If it wasn’t for those damned sirens . . .” I turned and followed the noise. “Are those getting quieter?”

Howard strode to the front of the house. I was right. Those cars weren’t coming here. Their sirens were already receding into the distance. Howard cursed under his breath. And just then, an unmarked car pulled up, and two officers got out.

“I’d better call Detective Lee,” he said, “and tell her we’re going to need more officers.”

“If you can stall those guys while I hide my gun, I’d appreciate it.”

“Sure thing.”

Chapter Twenty-two

Nadia

Itold the story as I’d promised. It wouldn’t hold up under close scrutiny. A coroner could realize Victor had been shot twice in the same place, and that Howard’s bullet was still in Victor’s skull while another one made that exit wound. They might also find the hole in the wall where I’d retrieved my bullet.

But Howard was retired, meaning it wasn’t a police shooting, and I suspected no one was going to go hunting for holes in our story . . . or holes in the wall. The bomb was there, and the position of Victor’s body confirmed our version of events. Our statements matched. I only hoped it wouldn’t cause any trouble for Howard when “Nancy Cooper”—the Michigan-based bodyguard who gave that statement—turned out to be a ghost.

I could have left before the police arrived. Jack certainly wished I had. But I wouldn’t put Howard in that position. I’d hidden my gun, which Jack later retrieved. I hadn’t touched anything in the house. I was wearing the same disguise I’d been using since I arrived, one that matched my Nancy passport. That passport and all other ID would be burned, literally, in Vancouver, and I’d fly home under a new name.

Leaving right away would look suspicious. Angela and Howard still had my number, and I wanted to wait a day or two, just to be sure all was well.

Cypher took us out to celebrate. To the beach, not surprisingly. It’s Hawaii . . . There’s a lot of beach. This time, we were on the patio of an old hotel, listening to live music, watching surfers and swimmers on Waikiki. I was having tea. A full-blown English-style afternoon tea. That was Cypher’s celebration reward for me, and I didn’t take umbrage at the suggestion that a female hitman needed a more “feminine” reward. It was very sweet and thoughtful, and I kinda loved putting on a sundress and a wide-brimmed hat and eating little sandwiches and sipping tea and feeling a million miles from the person who’d shot Victor Walling this afternoon.

Going into this, I didn’t expect to actually pull a hit. I’d rather not have, to be honest. But under the circumstances, I was okay with it. Victor Walling had murdered his girlfriend and an innocent teenage girl, and he’d felt less guilt over their deaths than I would over his. He tried to blow up Howard, too, a guy who’d been willing to let him walk away, a guy who’d treated him with more respect than I could ever manage.

I wouldn’t have pulled the trigger if Victor hadn’t reached for that wire. But I’m not sorry I did.

“How did Angela take the news?” Cypher asked when I finally heard back from her.

“She’s happy,” I said. “She wants to see me in person to say so. Tonight, actually.”

Jack frowned and checked his watch. “Can you do it tomorrow?”

“I suggested that. She’s in court all day. I know you made dinner reservations but honestly”—I waved at my three-tier tea tray—“I doubt I’ll get another bite down before breakfast. I’ll meet up with Angela for a drink, and if you can reschedule the reservation for tomorrow, that’d be great.”

He nodded, expressionless, and I tried to catch his eye, but he was busy eating a scone, his gaze on the beach.

Jack wasn’t the type to get annoyed over canceled plans. Hell, if I’d given him the option of when I met up with Angela, he’d have shrugged and said it was my choice, and I’d have driven myself crazy trying to get a preference out of him.

When I did catch his eye, he frowned, head tilting as if to ask what was wrong. His hand found my knee under the table and squeezed, and I realized that, once again, I’d been fretting over a problem that existed only in my imagination. Even after three years together, I couldn’t quite accept that Jack was as happy as he seemed, and there was part of me constantly on alert for the first glimmer of trouble.

I smiled and laid my hand on his. “I can try to reschedule with Angela . . .”

“Course not. Get business done. You’re right. Wouldn’t eat anyway.”

I tried not to exhale in relief. I wasn’t unhappy with the chance to meet Angela tonight. Just like I wasn’t unhappy with the chance to stay another day in Honolulu, and not just for the sun and sand.

The solution to this case bothered me. But questioning it made me uncomfortable. I felt like the new kid on the softball team, who hits a dumb-luck home run to win the game, and then thinks she has the skills to question the coach’s strategy. Yes, I broke this case, but it was not through superior skills, and questioning Detective Lee and Howard Lang’s theories felt like ego.

I’d talk to Angela. Settle my mind. And I’d get that over with tonight.

I sipped my tea and then looked at Cypher. “She’d like to see you. Angela, that is.”

He shook his shaggy head.

“I’m not pushing you guys together,” I said. “She really did ask. Repeatedly. Including just now.”

I turned my phone over and showed him her text.

Angela: Please tell my anonymous benefactor that I’d like to thank him, too.

Me: I’ll try. But don’t hold your breath.

Angela: I’m not.

Cypher rubbed his mouth. “Can you convince her it’s not me?”

“I’ve tried. She knows.”

“Try again. Tell her she’s made a mistake. Tell her . . .” He threw up his hands. “Make something up. You’re good at that. Make up a story for her.”

“Or, maybe, you could just come with me tonight.”

He shook his head again. “I can’t.”

“Because . . .”

“It’s complicated. Now drink your damned tea.”

“Yes, sir.”

I was supposed to meet Angela at nine after she finished work. I’d offered to come by the office, but she’d picked a bar on the beach, one much closer to my hotel. She’d meet me there.

I went to the bar early, staked out a patio table overlooking the tiki-torch-lit beach, and I tried to enjoy a piña colada. I didn’t quite succeed. I was too busy thinking.

Yes, Victor Walling murdered Cherise Hale and Sara Atom. He had confessed to those crimes. But the earlier ones—Mindy Lang and Albert Kim—didn’t make sense.

With both Cherise and Sara, Victor said he was only trying to spook people, and the evidence supported that. But Mindy and Judge Kim had clearly been murdered, and Victor had no reason to kill them. While Judge Kim had overseen an earlier motion in the Walling custody case, he’d actually reprimanded Sheila, not Victor. And Mindy had been the cause of that reprimand . . . in Victor’s favor.

The time span between “suspecting Victor” and “catching Victor” had been too short for me to pull back earlier and consider whether he worked as a suspect in all four deaths. He fit the last two, and so we’d figure out the rest later. But now no one seemed to be questioning him as the sole perpetrator. Which made me feel like that overconfident home run player questioning the pros. I didn’t have the full case files. I’d barely done any investigative work. There must be aspects of the case that I just didn’t know about.

Either way, did it matter, really? Victor had set the bomb for Atom. He’d planted the one in Angela’s car, with Sheila’s hair. Therefore Victor had been the threat to Angela, and he was gone. My job was complete.

That’s what Jack would say. It’s what Cypher would say. So I didn’t share my doubts with them. As far as they knew, I was fine with the outcome and just meeting Angela for a celebratory drink.

Which was not why I was meeting her tonight at all. I needed information. I needed to test a theory that I liked even less than I liked questioning Detective Lee’s conclusions.

I had an idea who might be responsible for the earlier murders. It was an outlandish theory with not nearly enough evidence for me to dare voice it. I felt ashamed even thinking it because the person I’d begun to suspect deserved my respect, not my suspicion. Total respect for selfless dedication to a cause. Now that I entertained this niggling doubt, I didn’t feel like that overconfident softball player anymore. I felt like a two-bit thug trying to knock the pedestal from under a good person, just to bring them down to my size.

I was almost certainly wrong. But I couldn’t leave until I knew that for sure.

When the server asked whether I wanted a refill, I realized I’d been sitting long enough for the ice to melt in my drink. I checked my watch. It was 9:20 p.m. I flipped through my messages. Yes, Angela said she’d meet me at nine. A glance at the bar name on the napkin. Yes, this was definitely the right place.

I sent her a text.

When five minutes passed without an answer, I called.

Her phone rang. And rang. And rang.

Voicemail picked up. I left a message. “Hey, it’s Nancy. Just making sure we’re still on for tonight. Give me a shout.”

Another ten minutes passed. I sent another text. Made another call.

This wasn’t good.

It wasn’t good at all.

Time to pay my tab and get out of here.

Chapter Twenty-three

Jack

It was 9:10 p.m., and Jack had seen no sign of Angela Kamaka. He sat in a bar a few doors down from where Nadia waited, and he could see her on the patio, her back to him as she stared out at the water.

Every time Nadia shifted position, he tensed, ready to raise the drink menu and block his face. Which told him he shouldn’t be here.

No, that wasn’t entirely true. He should be here. He just should have warned her. Told her why he’d followed her. Why he was staking out her meeting with Angela. His phone weighed heavy in his pocket, needing only a single text to tell Nadia the truth. Yet it stayed in that pocket.

Victor Walling hadn’t killed Mindy Lang or Albert Kim. That didn’t make sense. The cops would figure it out eventually, but until then, Nadia was in danger. So he should warn her.

Yeah, it wasn’t Walling. Not for all of it. Sorry. You screwed up. I know you tried, and you did great, but you’re wrong. Let me take over now.

No fucking way was he saying that. Even if he worded it in the best possible language, she’d still hear: you fucked up, and I need to fix this.

Nadia had not “fucked up.” Come tomorrow, when she relaxed and got some distance from what happened today, she’d see holes in the case. Today, she’d shot a man, and it didn’t matter whether she had to do it, that still bugged her. The fact that she’d shot him before he blew her to bits, hell, she might act like that was no big deal, but Jack struggled to focus even thinking about how close she’d come to dying today.

Nadia would soon realize there was a problem with Walling as the sole perp, and Jack would have been happy to let it ride until she did. Then she set up this meeting with Angela and snared him in a dilemma. Did he warn her . . . and, in doing so, insult her? Or did he just watch over her? He knew option A was the smart choice. It was the choice she’d want him to make. Didn’t mean he was making it, though. His head told him to warn her. His gut told him to shut up and watch.

One problem was that, in warning her, he’d have to admit exactly why he had a problem with this meeting. And she would not like that answer. Not one bit.

Jack didn’t like Nadia meeting with Angela . . . because Angela topped his suspect list. In fact, right now, she was the only person on his suspect list.

Nadia liked Angela. She liked her as a person, and she liked her as a victim. Yeah, that last part sounded weird, but Jack meant that, for Nadia, Angela was the perfect victim. The exact sort of person she wanted to help. Someone who had risked her life, not for some heroic ideal, but simply because it was her damned job. Because other people needed her to do that job. A very ordinary sort of heroism, which made it all the more admirable, because there would be no medal of honor in Angela’s future. The most she’d hope to gain was more clients.

For Angela, though, those clients were a godsend. From those files he’d read in her house, he knew her firm had been struggling before she took on Charles Atom’s clients . . . before she gained even more clients from that very public act, others who heard what she’d done and wanted her as their lawyer.

Not that she had killed to get those clients. That wouldn’t make sense. Walling was definitely the one who set the bomb in Atom’s grill. No, if Jack was right, gaining those clients had been happenstance rather than intent.

Yesterday, after the sex-club alibi, Louis Stanton had started spouting his own theories, desperate to convince Jack that he wasn’t responsible for the murders.

“Someone should look into that lawyer chick,” Stanton had said. “The one who took on the cases.”

“Angela Kamaka?”

“Everyone thinks she’s a damned saint, forgetting the fact she was screwing around with the first victim’s husband.”

“Howard Lang?”

“Lang couldn’t keep his pants zipped. That’s why they split. Rumor is that Mindy put up with his shit until he banged that lawyer chick.”

“Okay . . .”

“Put the pieces together.” Stanton had given Jack this look, like he was an idiot for needing it spelled out. “The two women get into a catfight over the guy, and the lawyer accidentally kills the wife and then realizes how easy that was, so she goes after the judge next. He’s a judge, and she’s a lawyer—he must have done something to piss her off. Then she thinks, Ah-ha, people think the deaths are connected to divorce cases, so what if I off this lawyer guy and take his cases? Then I’ll make myself look like a target, so people feel sorry for me.”

“She killed her own dog?”

Stanton had shrugged. “Maybe it barked too much.”

Jack had dismissed that as a load of crap. Yeah, he knew Angela’s firm was struggling, but that was to be expected for a new business. If that was part of her reason for taking on those clients, so be it. He wouldn’t begrudge her the chance to make a living, especially if she was risking her life to do it. The rest was just random weird shit. Then Walling confessed to the bombs, and Jack couldn’t help looking at Angela again for the other deaths.

He’d asked for Evelyn’s help, and her digging confirmed the financial difficulties. She also learned that Angela had a history of problems with Albert Kim—documented animosity.

What if Angela and Mindy did get into a fight? Lingering resentment over Angela’s affair with Howard. Angela went to confront Mindy at home, accidentally killed her and then made it look like a suicide. After that, something with Judge Kim sent her over the edge, and she killed him, staging it as another suicide. Then Walling came along, picking up on Angela’s “pattern” of family court murders to frame Sheila. After Sara Atom’s death, Angela knew it was safe to take Atom’s cases—that there was no pattern of family court murders. She got extra work and looked like a hero.

It certainly wasn’t a slam-dunk theory. But having Angela then want to meet Nadia at night? Alone? Yeah, that spelled trouble. Which was why Jack was staking out their meeting.

Let Angela show up. If she tried taking Nadia anyplace, he’d act. Otherwise, she might just want to talk, get a sense of whether Nadia suspected more. If so, then Nadia and Jack could talk tonight. He’d say, “Yeah, about Angela . . .” and give Nadia the evidence for them to discuss.

Only Angela wasn’t showing up. It was now twenty past. He watched Nadia send a text. Answering one from Angela, he figured. Then she took a call and had a very short conversation.

Ten minutes later, another text and another call, equally brief. When she got off the phone, she flagged down a server, paid and left her table.

Angela had canceled. Jack exhaled. Okay, now he’d talk to Nadia about Angela. No more of this bullshit. Nadia wouldn’t like Jack considering Angela as a suspect. It made him look like a jaded misanthrope, a guy who saw someone like Angela Kamaka and thought, Too good to be true. Which he hadn’t, not until he had cause to dig deeper. Still, it looked shitty. It might make Nadia think poorly of him. And that was too fucking bad, wasn’t it? For Nadia’s safety, he had to speak up.

Jack had prepaid his tab and tip, so he hurried straight out to see Nadia flagging down a cab. He pulled back into the shadows. Yeah, she would get to the hotel ahead of him, but he could just pretend he’d gone for a walk on the beach. Then he’d sit her down and tell her what he was thinking.

A cab pulled over, Nadia got in. Jack waited as the car left the curb and . . . made a U-turn. Heading away from their hotel.

Fuck, no.

Angela hadn’t called to cancel. She’d called asking Nadia to meet her someplace else.

Fuck, no.

Jack jogged to the sidewalk and flagged down a taxi. He had the door open before it even rolled to a stop.

“Follow that car,” he said, pointing to Nadia’s cab.

The middle-aged driver burst out laughing.

“I’m serious,” Jack said. “I need you to follow—”

“That cab I just drove past? The one that a pretty lady got in?” The driver twisted, putting his arm over the seat as he looked back at Jack. “That’s not a good idea.”

“I need—”

“Look, I understand. You saw her inside the bar, maybe chatted a little. But you struck out. Let it go.” He nodded at the gold band on Jack’s finger. “Remember your wife, okay? Don’t take a vacation from your vows, too.”

“That is my wife.”

The cabbie eyed Jack and shrugged. “Maybe. But if it is? I’d suggest letting her cool down. Go buy her a lei or something. Maybe a bottle of champagne. Have it chilled for when she gets back. She’ll appreciate that far more than you chasing her down after a fight.”

Jack leaned forward, the gun under his jacket shifting, reminding him how easy it would be to resolve this issue. Which was the problem with guns—they made every issue far too easy to resolve. And sometimes—most times—that was just a fucking bad idea.

Jack hesitated only a moment. Then he swung open the door and got out of the cab.

Chapter Twenty-four

Nadia

Jack was trying to get hold of me. He’d called while I’d been in the cab, and I’d let it go to voice mail. Then he texted—he wanted to talk about the case. I replied that, yes, we should do that . . . as soon as I got back.

That’s when my cab arrived at its destination, and I added a quick second text: See you soon! before turning off my phone.

Angela said she’d be coming directly from work to meet me. Therefore, “work” was the first place I’d look for her. I headed straight to the parking garage and found her car there, with no signs of tampering.

I sent her another text. Her phone now went directly to voice mail.

I unzipped my light jacket—easier access to my gun—and headed for the stairwell. The broken card reader meant I got in easily. I climbed to Angela’s office without passing so much as a security camera.

When I reached her floor, I glanced down the hall to see her office door ajar. I took out my gun and proceeded, step by careful step, along the wall. Then I eased over and slowly pushed the door open a few inches. I listened for some response from within. The office stayed dark and silent.

Gun ready, I swung in.

The reception area was empty, lit only by the glow of the security system. The unarmed security system, the light solid green.

I started toward Angela’s office. The door was wide open, and there seemed to be a light on inside. I rounded the reception desk and . . .

A foot protruded from behind the desk. A foot in a man’s stylish leather loafer, topped by a patterned sock. I moved cautiously, gun poised. When I could see the rest of the body, I stopped. From the shoe and sock, I’d expected Angela’s well-dressed receptionist, Richard. Instead, Howard Lang lay crumpled on the floor.

I hurried over. Even as I dropped beside him, I could see his chest rising and falling. He was fine.

I gripped his shoulder. “Howard?”

He groaned.

“Howard.”

There was no blood, no sign of injury, so I gave his shoulder a shake. He lifted his head.

“Wh—what?” he slurred as he peered around. “Where . . . ?”

He looked over his shoulder and saw me. Three hard blinks. Then he shook his head and straightened.

“Nancy,” he said. “What are you . . . ? Shit!”

He scrambled up but swayed and had to grab the desk for support.

I helped him sit and crouched beside him.

“Angela,” he said. “Where’s Angela?”

“I was going to ask you that. She was supposed to meet me for drinks, and she never showed. What happened?”

“She hit me over the head.” He fingered the back of his skull and winced. “Damn it. I did not see that coming.”

“Angela hit you?”

He nodded. “I was talking to her earlier. I had some questions.”

“For Angela?”

“I . . . I hated to think it, Nancy, but I had to. There were too many loose ends. Too many holes in her story.”

“You mean you suspected Angela?”

“I did. So I came to talk to her. And that’s all we were doing. Talking. I asked about a certain case, and she came out here to check the main filing cabinet. The drawer was stuck. Or so she said. I reached to open it, and something hit the back of my head. Next thing I know, you’re waking me up.” He looked around. “What time is it?”

“Just after ten.”

“Shit!” He wobbled to his feet. “Then she’s long gone. I can’t believe I fell for that. I suspected her, and still, I let her get the jump on me.”

“Do you have any idea where she’d go?”

He hesitated, and I could tell it took effort to collect his thoughts. “Actually, I do. She has a place outside the city. It’s kind of her secret spot, but Angela and I . . . We had a thing.”

I tried to hide my surprise. “So that’s why you think she killed Mindy?”

It took him at least thirty seconds to answer. “I . . . When Mindy first died, I had to consider the possibility. Angela has a temper. But I knew Angela couldn’t have made a bomb, so I stopped considering her. Then we found out about Victor, and I realized there was a chance he might not have killed Mindy. So I came to talk to Angela. I never accused her of anything, but she knows me. She must have realized I was suspicious.”

“Do you have a car?”

“I do.”

“Then let’s go.”

Chapter Twenty-five

Nadia

Howard drove us outside the city. We went down back roads, parked in thick forest and then crept through it to find a place that was little more than a shack.

“Angela bought the property cheap years ago,” Howard said. “Her dream was to tear this down and rebuild. For now, it’s not much. But hardly anyone knows about it. She’d feel safe here. And, yep, there’s a light on.”

A dim one, barely more than a glow.

“We should split up,” I said. “I’ll take the back.”

“I’d . . . I’d rather not. You already saw how I respond under pressure. I freeze up. You should take the lead.”

I nodded and started forward. He fell in behind me. I’d gone five steps when I felt cold metal against the base of my skull.

I swore under my breath.

Howard chuckled. “You don’t sound surprised.”

“I’m never surprised.”

“I bet you aren’t. You’re not just some chick who decided to play bodyguard, are you? I saw the way you handled Victor. I hesitated. You didn’t. A perfect, cold-blooded shot.”

“Just take me to Angela.”

“Oh, believe me, I’m about to.”

I started walking. I probably should have tried to seem more surprised, but really, I didn’t see the point in faking it. I’d started suspecting Howard the moment I realized Victor wasn’t the sole killer.

I remembered Angela’s reaction when she first mentioned Howard, and I thought she meant he was a suspect. She’d hesitated before laughing it off and correcting me. And I thought she’d just been surprised, but then I began to wonder. Which is why I’d wanted to talk to her tonight. I’d hoped I was wrong. I liked Howard. Maybe I’m a romantic at heart, but I also liked the idea that he’d still cared enough about his ex to single-mindedly hunt down her killer. And then doubt had set in as I’d twisted the situation around. What if Howard killed Mindy? What better way to ensure he wasn’t caught than to investigate her murder as the grieving ex?

I’d known exactly why he brought me to this shack, and I’d been relatively certain this place never belonged to Angela. It was just a convenient place to stash her . . . and now me.

I continued on to the house. Then I turned around, faced him and reached for my gun.

“Are you crazy?” he said, pointing his weapon at my forehead. “Or do you really think I didn’t realize you’d taken the bullets out of my gun?”

He turned the barrel aside and fired.

Oh, shit . . .

When I’d seen him on the floor of Angela’s office, I’d emptied his gun before I roused him. That’s why I hadn’t been too worried about him holding me at gunpoint . . . until now.

Howard prodded me to the shack, opened the door and shoved me into a dimly lit room. It took a moment for my eyes to adjust. Then I saw Angela. Bound, gagged and furious, her eyes blazing.

I started toward her.

Howard shook his head and waved the gun. “A little more distance between the ladies, please.”

I glanced around. It was a one-room shack with a single door and windows. Not even an indoor bathroom. The only furnishings were a couple of lawn chairs, one broken, the other rotted.

“Put your hands out,” Howard said.

I did. He stuffed the gun into his holster, eyeing me the whole time, waiting for any sign of attack. I stood patiently, hands extended as he wrapped thin nylon rope around my wrists. Only when he had my hands secured did he relax. And I kicked him in the kneecap as hard as I could.

He flailed, hands windmilling to find his balance. I managed to snag the grip of his gun with my bound hands, but I didn’t get a good enough hold to pull it out before he recovered. His first reaction was to grab his gun, which I was still holding, albeit awkwardly. That meant that we pulled it out together. Then I let go and slammed my bound hands up into his.

He fumbled the gun. As it fell, he went for it, but Angela was right there, and maybe she couldn’t do a whole lot, being bound and gagged, but she was on the floor, which meant when she slammed into his legs, he tumbled overtop her.

Angela kicked the gun aside. Howard scrabbled up and went for it again, but now I rammed into him with my shoulder, hard enough that pain ripped through it. I hit him again, this time a head butt that sent him staggering back. I was about to strike again when the door flew open and Jack swung in, gun raised.

“Stop,” Jack said.

Howard twisted to look over at him. He eyed the gun. Eyed Jack . . . and then lifted his hands over his head.

Chapter Twenty-six

Jack

Jack followed Nadia out of the cabin. Inside, Howard had taken Angela’s place, bound and gagged on the floor. Angela wanted to speak to Howard alone, in hopes of negotiating a way to turn him into the police without involving Jack. So after they made sure Howard was secure, Jack and Nadia went outside.

“Well,” Nadia said once they were away from the cabin. “At least I had the foresight to empty his gun.”

“You didn’t think he’d notice?”

“Hey, the guy was nearly blown to smithereens and never even raised his weapon. I hoped that meant he’d fail to notice his weapon seemed a whole lot lighter. It was worth a shot. I still sent you that text as a backup plan, though. I guess Felix’s GPS app in my phone worked, huh?”

Jack hesitated. Shit. Right. Felix had installed an app in each of their work phones, which was supposed to let them track each other in an emergency. Felix had warned it might not work well, so Jack had forgotten all about it.

The truth was that he’d played a hunch that Nadia might go to Angela’s office—which was in the direction the taxi had been heading—so he’d hot-wired a car and arrived just in time to see Nadia leaving with Howard. He’d relaxed . . . until he’d gotten her text. He’d followed Howard’s car and then . . . Well, the problem with jacking a nice ride is that it might have an ignition kill. The owner had realized that his—or her—car was gone and shut it down. Jack had set off running, and fortunately, within a mile, he’d spotted Howard’s car.

He nodded. “Yeah, GPS worked fine. Didn’t matter. You had it under control.”

“I appreciated the save, though. Nice work.”

Jack was about to answer when Angela came out of the cabin.

“Okay, negotiations complete,” she said. “I’ll tell the police that I came along willingly, which saves Howard from the kidnapping charge. In return, he won’t mention either of you. I followed him here, hoping to get him to confess to the murders. We fought. I won.”

“You don’t have to do that,” Nadia said. “He did kidnap you.”

“The murder charges are more important. Of course, he’s convinced he can duck those, which is why he’s agreeing. He won’t get out of this. I’ll make sure of it.” She glanced back at the cabin. “I’ll admit, I was almost glad when he brought you through that door, Nancy. At least then I knew it was a straight-up kidnapping and not anything . . . else. He came by my office when I was getting ready to meet you. I really didn’t want to be alone with him, so I said you were expecting me. That’s when he knocked me out.”

“He must have thought you knew something and were about to tell me. Then he pretended he’d been knocked out—by you—to get me here.”

“I didn’t know a damned thing, except that Victor didn’t kill Mindy and Albert. That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. Just discuss my doubts. When I woke up in that cabin, I was worried it wasn’t about the case at all.”

“You never had an affair with Howard, did you?”

She sighed. “Did you hear that old rumor? I thought—hoped—it died long ago. There was no affair, but not for lack of trying on his part. Howard fooled around, and Mindy ignored it . . . until she realized it wasn’t the women doing the pursuing. Hard pursuing. In my case, I was about to file a stalking complaint when Mindy found out. We talked. That’s why she left him. Because when a woman said no, Howard heard maybe.”

Nadia made a face. “Ugh.”

“That was Mindy’s breaking point, but they stayed friends. I think she hoped their divorce would teach him the error of his ways. I thought it had. He certainly backed off me after that. I’ll admit that after we found out Mindy had been murdered, I immediately thought of Howard. I couldn’t see any reason why he’d kill Albert, though, so I told myself I was being silly. Obviously, I should have trusted my instincts.”

Jack waited in the woods with Nadia until the police arrived. Then they slipped off and began the long walk back to the city.

“You didn’t track me on GPS, did you?” she said when they were far enough away to talk. “I noticed that flash of confusion when I mentioned it. I just wasn’t going to call you on it back there.”

He told her everything, starting with watching her at the bar and ending with following her to the cabin.

“You thought Angela was the killer?” she said when he finished.

“I know you like her.”

“Sure, but I liked Howard, too, and I still suspected him. But you thought Angela killed her own dog?” Nadia shook her head. “I can’t imagine anyone doing that.”

To which Jack, who had seen people do much worse, wisely decided not to respond.

“The upshot, though,” she continued, “is that we both knew Victor didn’t fit for all the murders, and we both had other suspects in mind. It would have been a hell of a lot easier if we’d just, you know, talked.” She looked at him. “We need to work on that.”

“Yeah, we do.”

She slipped her hand into his, squeezed it, and they continued walking.

Chapter Twenty-seven

Nadia

Imet with Angela for an update the next day.

The police already had a theory connecting Howard to Albert Kim’s death. It seemed that e-mail correspondence between Kim and Howard suggested the judge had reason to believe Mindy Lang didn’t kill herself.

“So first Howard killed Mindy,” Angela said as we had our belated drink on the beachfront. “I’m going to guess that he borrowed the truth for his accusation against me. He got into a fight with Mindy, accidentally killed her, and staged it as suicide. Then something led Albert to think it was murder. He contacted Howard to raise the possibility. To say, ‘Hey, I think someone killed your wife.’ Howard shoots him to shut him up and stages it as a suicide because that worked the first time. Only this time, it doesn’t, which leads to reopening Mindy’s case.”

“He would have been better to just talk Albert Kim out of it,” I said. “Convince him he was mistaken.”

“Which would have worked, I bet. I’m sorry Albert died, but he was a corrupt bastard. I wouldn’t be surprised if Albert did suspect Howard and was just hoping for a cash payment to make it all go away. Instead, Howard shoots him. And then Victor, who has accidentally killed Cherise, sees an opportunity to frame Sheila for the deaths and ends up killing poor Sara Atom.”

“In the lamest frame-up job ever. Which wouldn’t have gone anywhere, except, by that point, Howard was on the case, working hard to solidify the link between all the murders, because that was in his best interests. Prove Sheila killed Sara Atom and Cherise Hale, and pin the others on her, too.”

“Men,” she said. “They can be such bastards.”

I laughed. “Which is not really the moral of this story, but in this case, yes, the boys were to blame.”

“Speaking of men . . .” She twirled her umbrella. “He’s not going to come, is he? My anonymous benefactor.”

“I . . . I’ve passed on the message.”

Angela sighed. “Okay, well, can you pass along another?” She looked me in the eye. “Tell my father I would really like to see him.”

“Father?” Jack said as we walked along the beach, one last time before our red-eye flight home.

“That makes more sense than former lover if you think about it.”

“Guess so. Just . . . father.” He shook his head. “Think he’ll go see her?”

“I hope so. But, like he said, it’s complicated.”

“Yeah.” Jack watched kids run across the sand. “When you take this job, you can’t get out of it. Not really. Ty quit the life years ago. Doesn’t matter. You can’t go back. Can’t erase the jobs. Or pretend they never happened. Not if it affects someone you care about. It’s fucking complicated.” He lifted our hands and touched my fake wedding band. “Can’t do this.”

“I know.”

“Part of me says screw it. Chances anyone will find me? Near zero. But not zero. Never zero.”

I squeezed his hand. “I know that. Marriage means using your real name. You burned that long ago, and you can’t risk claiming it again.”

“Wouldn’t put you through that.”

“The issue for me isn’t what you’d ‘put me through.’ It’s that I’d lose you, and there is no way in hell marriage is worth that. We’re a committed couple. That’s enough.”

He glanced at the matching band on his finger. “Yeah, I know. I just . . .”

“You like that.”

“Yeah, I really do.” He took a deep breath. “Which is why I’m going to ask. Not for a wedding. Not for a legal marriage. Just . . .” He took a box from his pocket.

I stopped walking.

“Yeah,” he said. “Even that’d be complicated. I shouldn’t ask.”

He started shoving the box back into his pocket. I caught his wrist and pulled it out.

“That wasn’t a no, Jack.”

I took the box and opened it. Inside were three rings. Two gold bands and a diamond solitaire.

I looked up at him. “Are you asking me to fake-marry you?”

He sputtered a laugh. Then he went serious and took the diamond ring. “No, I’m asking you to be my wife, Nadia. In every way that counts.”

I held out my hand.

He tilted his head, blue eyes meeting mine uncertainly.

“That’s a yes, Jack,” I said. “God, you can be—”

He cut me off with a kiss. A long, sweet kiss, and when I finished, I had a diamond ring on my finger. I took the larger band from the box and picked up his hand.

“Will you marry—” I began.

“Fuck, yeah.”

I laughed and threw my arms around his neck and kissed him. Then I pulled back, took out my phone and placed a call.

“Hey, Emma?” I said when she answered. “It’s Nadia. We’ll be home tomorrow, but something happened, and I wanted to tell you in advance.”

I winked at Jack as Emma’s voice rose with concern.

“No, no, it’s fine. We’re fine. It’s just . . . Well, it turns out John had an ulterior motive for this trip. He asked me to marry him.”

I held out the phone so he could hear her screech.

“I said yes, obviously, and then we were walking past this adorable chapel, right on the beach, and I know, we should have waited, but we couldn’t. So we’re married.”

I held out the phone again for her response, and Jack shook his head, chuckling.

“No, we don’t want a party,” I said. “Fine, okay, a small party. Very, very small.”

I resumed walking along the beach, my hand in Jack’s, as Emma chattered her plans, and I smiled. I just smiled.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Kelley Armstrong is the author of the Cainsville modern gothic series and the Rockton crime thrillers. Past works include Otherworld urban fantasy series, the Darkest Powers & Darkness Rising teen paranormal trilogies, the Age of Legends fantasy YA series and the Nadia Stafford crime trilogy. Armstrong lives in Ontario, Canada with her family.

Visit her website at www.KelleyArmstrong.com

Enjoyed the Nadia Stafford stories?

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To read the first three chapters of

City of the Lost,
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CITY OF THE LOST

CHAPTER ONE

“I killed a man,” I say to my new therapist.

I’ve barely settled onto the couch . . . which isn’t a couch at all, but a chaise lounge that looked inviting and proved horribly uncomfortable. Like therapy itself.

I’ve caught her off guard with that opening line, but I’ve been through this before with other therapists. Five, to be exact. Each time, the gap between “hello” and “I’m a murderer” decreases. By this point, she should be glad I’m still bothering with a greeting. Therapists do charge by the hour.

“You . . . ,” she says, “killed a man?”

The apprehensive look. I know it well—that moment when they’re certain they’ve misheard. Or that I mean it in a metaphorical way. I broke a man’s heart. Which is technically true. A bullet does break a heart. Irrevocably, it seems.

When I only nod, she asks, “When did this happen?”

“Twelve years ago.”

Expression number two. Relief. At least I haven’t just killed a man. That would be so much more troublesome.

Then comes the third look, as she searches my face with dawning realization.

“You must have been young,” she says. “A teenager?”

“Eighteen.”

“Ah.” She settles back in her chair, the relief stronger now, mingling with satisfaction that she’s solved the puzzle. “An accident of some kind?”

She’s blunt. Others have led me in circles around the conclusion they’ve drawn. You didn’t really murder a man. It was a car accident or other youthful mishap, and now you torture yourself with guilt.

“No, I did it on purpose. That is, pulling the trigger was intentional. I didn’t go there planning to kill him. Manslaughter, not homicide. A good lawyer could argue for imperfect self-defense and get the sentence down to about twelve years.”

She pulls back. “You’ve researched this. The crime. The sentence.”

“It’s my job.”

“Because you feel guilty.”

“No, it’s my job. I’m a cop.”

Her mouth forms an O of surprise, and her fingernails tap my file folder as she makes mental excuses for not reading it more thoroughly. Then her mouth opens again. The barest flicker of a smile follows.

“You’re a police officer,” she says. “You shot someone in the line— No, you were too young. A cadet?”

“Yes, but it wasn’t a training accident.” I settle on the chaise. “How about I just tell you the story?”

An obvious solution, but therapists never suggest it. Some, like this one, actually hesitate when I offer. She fears I’m guilty and doesn’t want me to be. Give her a few more clues, and she’ll find a way to absolve me.

Except I don’t want absolution. I just want to tell my story. Because this is what I do. I play Russian roulette with Fate, knowing someday a therapist will break confidentiality and turn me in. It’s like when I was a child, weighed down by guilt over some wrongdoing but fearing the punishment too much to confess outright. I’d drop clues, reasoning that if I was meant to be caught, those hints would chamber the round. Magical, childish thinking, but it’s what I do.

“Can I begin?” I ask.

She nods with some reluctance and settles in.

“I’d gone to a bar that night with my boyfriend,” I say. “It was supposed to be a date, but he spent the evening doing business in the back corner. That’s what he called it. Doing business. Which sounds like he was dealing coke in some dive bar. We were actually in the university pub, him selling vitamin R and bennies to kids who wanted to make it through exam week. . . .”

CHAPTER TWO

Blaine and I sat at a back table, side by side, waiting for customers. His fingers stroked the inside of my thigh. “Almost done. And then . . .” He grinned over at me. “Pizza? Your place?”

“Only if we get enough for Diana.”

He made a face. “It’s Friday night, Casey. Shouldn’t your roommate have a date or something?”

“Mmm, no. Sorry.”

Actually, she was out with college friends. I just wasn’t telling Blaine that. We hadn’t had sex yet. I’d held him off by saying I was a virgin. That was a lie. I was just picky.

Blaine was my walk on the wild side. I was a police recruit playing bad girl. Which was as lame as his attempt to play drug lord. On a scale of bad boys, Blaine ranked about a two. Oh, sure, he claimed he was connected—his grandfather being some Montreal mobster whose name I couldn’t even find with an Internet search. More likely the old guy played bookie at his seniors’ home. Blaine’s father certainly wasn’t mobbed up—he was a pharmacist, which was how Blaine stole his stuff. Blaine himself was pre-med. He didn’t even sample his merchandise. That night, he nursed one beer for two hours. Me? I drank Coke. Diet Coke. Yep, we were hard-core.

A last customer sidled over, a kid barely old enough to be in university. Blaine sold him the last of his stash. Then he gulped his beer, put his arm around my shoulders, and led me from the pub. I could roll my eyes at his swagger, but I found it oddly charming. While I might not have been ready to jump into bed with Blaine, I did like him. He was a messed-up rich kid; I could relate to that.

“Any chance of getting Diana out of your apartment?” he asked.

“Even if there is, the answer is no.”

He only shrugged, with a smile that was half “I’ll change your mind soon” and half genuine acceptance. Another reason why I wasn’t ready to write him off as a failed dating experiment—he never pushed too hard, accepted my refusals with good-natured equanimity.

We started walking. I wasn’t familiar with the campus area. I was attending the provincial police college outside the city and spending weekends with Diana, a high school friend who went to the local community college. Neither of us was from here. So when Blaine insisted that a dark alley was a shortcut to the pizza place, I didn’t question it . . . mostly because I was fine with what he had planned—a make-out pit stop designed to change my mind about getting Diana out of our apartment.

We were going at it hard and heavy when I heard the click of a gun. I gasped and pushed Blaine back. He looked up and jumped away, leaving me with a 9 mm pointed at my cheek.

“I only have fifty bucks,” Blaine lied—the rest was stuffed in his sock. “She has some jewelry. Take that and the fifty—”

“Do we look like muggers, Saratori?”

As the gun lowered, I saw the guy holding it. Early twenties. Dark blond hair. Leather jacket. No obvious gang markings, but that’s what this looked like: four young guys, one with a gun, three with knives.

I couldn’t fight them—I didn’t have a weapon, and martial arts doesn’t work well against four armed attackers. Instead, I committed their faces to memory and noted distinguishing features for the police report.

“Does the old man know you’re dealing?” the lead guy asked.

“I don’t know what—” Blaine began.

“What I’m talking about? That you’re Leo Saratori’s grandkid? Or that you were dealing on our turf?”

Blaine bleated denials. One of the guys pinned him against the wall, while another patted him down. They took a small plastic bag with a few leftover pills from one sock and a wad of cash from the other.

“Okay,” Blaine said. “So we’re done now?”

“You think we want your money?” The leader bore down on him. “You’re dealing on our turf, college boy. Considering who you are, I’m going to take this as a declaration of war.”

“N-No. My grandfather doesn’t—”

A clatter from the far end of the alley. Just a cat, leaping from a garbage bin, but it was enough to startle the guy with the gun. I lunged, caught him by the wrist and twisted, hearing the gun thump to the ground as I said, “Grab it!” and—

Blaine wasn’t there to grab it. He was tearing down the alley. One of the other thugs was already scooping up the gun, and I was wrenching their leader’s arm into a hold, but I knew it wouldn’t do any good. The guy with the gun jabbed the barrel against my forehead and roared, “Stop!”

I didn’t even have time to do that before the other two slammed me into the wall. The leader took back his gun and advanced on me.

“Seems we know who’s got the balls in your relationship,” he said. “The pretty little China doll. Your boyfriend’s gone, sweetie. Left you to take his punishment.” He looked me up and down. “A little too college-girl for my tastes, but I’m flexible.”

I thought he was joking. Or bluffing. I knew my statistics. I faced more danger of sexual assault from an acquaintance or a boyfriend.

“Look,” I said. “Whatever beef you have with Blaine, it has nothing to do with me. I’ve got twenty dollars in my wallet, and my necklace is gold. You can take—”

“We’ll take whatever we want, sweetie.”

I tugged my bag off my shoulder. “Okay, here’s my purse. There’s a cell phone—”

He stepped closer. “We’ll take whatever we want.”

His voice had hardened, but I still didn’t think, I’m in danger. I knew how muggings worked. Just stay calm and hand over my belongings.

I held out my purse. He grabbed it by the strap and tossed it aside. Then he grabbed me, one hand going to my throat, the other to my breast, shoving me against the wall. There was a split second of shock as I hit the bricks hard. Then . . .

I don’t know what happened then. To this day, I cannot remember the thoughts that went through my brain. I don’t think there were any. I felt his hands on my throat and on my breast, and I reacted.

My knee connected with his groin. I twisted toward the guy standing beside us. My fingers wrapped around his wrist. I grabbed his switchblade as it fell. I twisted again, my arm swinging down, and I stabbed the leader in the upper thigh as he was still falling back, moaning from the knee to his groin.

Afterward, I would piece it together and understand how it happened. How a response that seemed almost surreal was, in fact, very predictable. When the leader grabbed me with both hands, I knew he was no longer armed. So I reacted, if not with forethought, at least with foreknowledge.

Yet it was the lack of forethought that was my undoing. I had stabbed the leader . . . and there were three other guys right there. One hit me in the gut. Another plowed his fist into my jaw. A third wrenched my arm so hard I screamed as my shoulder dislocated. He got the knife away from me easily after that. Someone kicked me in the back of the knees, and I went down. As soon as I did, boots slammed me from all sides, punctuated by grunts and curses of rage. I heard the leader say, “You think you’re a tough little bitch? I’ll show you tough.” And then the beating began in earnest.

* * * * *

I awoke in a hospital four days later as my mother and the doctor discussed the possibility of pulling the plug. I’d like to believe that somewhere in that dark world of my battered brain, I heard them and came back, like a prizefighter rising as the ref counts down. But it was probably just coincidence.

I’d been found in that alley, left for dead, and rushed to the hospital, where I underwent emergency surgery to stop the internal bleeding. I had a dislocated shoulder. Five fractured ribs. Over a hundred stitches for various lacerations. A severe concussion and an intracranial hematoma. Compound fracture of the left radius. Severe fracture of the right tibia and fibula with permanent nerve damage. Also, possible rape.

I have recited that list to enough therapists that it has lost all emotional impact. Even the last part.

Possible rape. It sounds ludicrous. Either I was or I wasn’t, right? Yet if it happened, I was unconscious. When I was found, my jeans were still on—or had been put back on. They did a rape kit, but it vanished before it could be processed.

Today, having spent two years as a detective in a big-city Special Victims Unit, I know you can make an educated guess without the kit. But I think when it disappeared, someone decided an answer wasn’t necessary. If my attackers were found, they’d be charged with aggravated assault and attempted murder. Good enough. For them, at least.

As for my injuries, physically, I made a full recovery. It took eighteen months. I had to drop out of police college and give up the job waiting for me. As the victim of a serious crime, I was deemed no longer fit to serve and protect. I didn’t accept that. I got a bachelor’s degree in criminology, a black belt in aikido, and a flyweight championship in boxing. I aced the psych tests and, five years after the attack, I was hired and on the fast track to detective.

My parents had not been pleased. That was nothing new. When I’d first declared I wanted to be a police detective, their reaction had been pure horror. “You’re better than that,” they said. Smarter, they meant. Not geniuses, like them. While they considered my IQ of 135 perfectly adequate, it might require extra effort to become a cardiologist like my dad or chief of pediatric surgery like my mom or a neuroscientist like my sister. Still, they expected that I’d try. I wanted none of it. Never had.

After I had to leave police college, they’d been certain I’d give up this nonsense and devote myself to a meaningful career, preferably with a string of letters after my name. We argued. A lot. They died in a small plane crash four years ago, and we’d never truly mended that fence.

But back to the hospital. I spent six weeks there, learning to walk again, talk again, be Casey Duncan again. Except I never really was. Not the Casey Duncan I’d been. There are two halves of my life: before and after.

Four days in a coma. Six weeks in the hospital. Blaine never came to see me. Never even sent a card. I’d have ripped it to shreds, but at least it would have acknowledged what happened. He knew, of course. Diana had made sure of that, contacting him while I was in emergency. He hadn’t asked how bad I was. Just mumbled something and hung up.

When I’d seen him run away in the alley, my outrage had been tempered by the certainty that he would get help. Even as the blows had started to fall, I’d clung to that. He must have called the police. He must have.

The last thing that passed through my mind before I lost consciousness was that I just had to hold on a little longer. Help was on the way. Only it wasn’t. A homeless guy cutting through the alley stumbled across me, hours later. A stranger—a drunk stranger—had run to get help for me. My boyfriend had just run.

Blaine did need to speak to the police after I woke up and had told them what happened. But in Blaine’s version, he’d created the distraction. I’d been escaping with him, and we’d parted at the street. The muggers must have caught up and dragged me back into that alley. If Blaine had known, he’d have done something. To suggest otherwise, well . . . I’d suffered head trauma, hadn’t I? Temporary brain damage? Loss of memory? Clearly, I’d misremembered.

I didn’t call him when I got out of the hospital. That conversation had to happen in person. It took a week for me to get around to it, because there was something I needed to do first. Buy a gun.

Blaine’s routine hadn’t changed. He still went jogging before dawn. Or that was what he’d say if he was trying to impress a girl: I run in the park every morning at five. It wasn’t completely untrue. He did go out before dawn. He did run in the park. Except he only did it on Fridays, and just to the place where he stashed his drugs. Then he’d run back to campus, where he could usually find a few buyers—kids who’d been out too late partying, heading back to the dorms before dawn, in need of a little something to get them through Friday classes.

I knew the perfect place for a confrontation. By the bridge along the riverbank, where he’d pass on his way home. The spot was always empty at that time of day, and the noise of rushing water would cover our discussion.

Cover a gunshot, too?

No, the gun was only a prop. To let him know this was going to be a serious conversation.

I stood by the foot of the bridge. He came by right on schedule. Walking. He only jogged where people could see him.

I waited until I could hear the buzz and crash from his music. Then I stepped out into his path.

“Casey?” He blinked and tugged at the earbuds, letting them fall, dangling, as he stared at me. “You look . . .”

“Like I got the shit beat out of me?”

“It’s not that bad.”

“True. The bruises have healed. There are only ten stitches on my face. Oh, and this spot, where they had to shave my head to cut into my skull and relieve the bleeding.” I turned to show him. “Plus a few teeth that will need to be replaced after my jaw’s fully healed. My nose isn’t straight, but they tell me plastic surgery will fix that. They also say I might walk without the limp if I work really, really hard at it.”

He listened, nodding, an overly concerned expression on his face, as if I were an elderly aunt detailing my medical woes.

When I finished, he said, “You’ll heal, then. That’s good.”

“Good?” I stepped toward him. “I almost died, Blaine. I had to drop out of police college. I’m told I’ll never be a cop. That I’ll never move fast enough. I might never think fast enough.”

Another long pause. Then, “I’m sorry this happened to you, Casey. I gave you a chance to run.”

“No, I let you run. You did, and you never even called for help.”

“That’s not how I remember it.” He pulled himself up straight, ducking my gaze.

“No?” I said. “Does this refresh your memory?”

I took the gun from my pocket.

I’d envisioned this encounter so many ways. All those nights, lying in a hospital bed, fantasizing about it, I’d realized I didn’t want him to break down and beg forgiveness too quickly. I wanted to have to pull the gun. I wanted to see his expression. I wanted him to feel what I’d felt in that alley.

Now I pointed the gun at him, and he blinked. That was it. A blink. Then his lips twitched, as if he was going to laugh. I think if he had, I’d have pulled that trigger. But he rubbed his mouth instead and said, “You’re not going to shoot me with your training weapon, Casey. You’re smarter than that.”

“Did I mention I had to drop out? This isn’t my training weapon. Now, I want you to think hard, Blaine. Think back to that night, and tell me again that you let me run.”

“Oh, I get it.” He eased back. “You want me to confess on some hidden tape so you can—”

I yanked off my jacket. It wasn’t easy. My left arm was still in a cast, and my shoulder blazed with the simple act of tugging off clothing. But I got it off, and I threw it at him.

“Check for a recorder. Pat me down if you want. I’m not taping this. It’s for me. I want to hear you tell the truth, and I want to hear you apologize.”

“Well, then you’re going to have to pull that trigger, because I don’t have anything to apologize for. We ran, and you must have doubled back.”

“For what?” I roared. “What in fuck would I double back for?”

“Then they must have caught you. You were too slow—”

“I did not run! You know I didn’t. I grabbed him, and you were supposed to pick up the gun he dropped, but you ran. Like a fucking coward, you ran, and you didn’t look back, and I nearly died, and you never even called the goddamned hospital to see if I was okay.”

“You are okay. Look at you. Up and about, waving a gun in my face. Well, actually, I’m not sure I’d call that okay. I think you need help. I always did. You’re messed up, Casey. I bet a shrink would say you have a death wish.”

I went still. “What?”

He shifted forward, as if he’d just remembered the missing answer in a final exam. “You have a death wish, Casey. What normal girl wants to be a cop? Does that martial arts shit? We get mugged in an alley, and I’m trying to play it cool, and what do you do? Grab the guy. Hell, thank God I did run, or I’d have had the shit beat out of me, too.”

I hit him. Hauled off and whaled the gun at the side of his head. He staggered back. I hit him again. Blood gushed. His hands went to the spot, eyes widening.

“Fuck! You fucking crazy bitch!”

“We were not mugged,” I said, advancing on him as he backed up, still holding his head. “You were selling dope on some other guy’s turf. Apparently, you knew that. You just didn’t give a shit. I grabbed that guy to save your ass, and you ran. You left me there to die!”

“I didn’t think they’d—”

“You left me there.”

“I just thought—”

“Thought what? They’d only rape me? A distraction while you escaped?”

He didn’t answer, but I saw it in his face, that sudden flush right before his eyes went hard.

“It was your own fault if they did rape you,” Blaine said. “You couldn’t leave well enough alone. Now give me that—”

He lunged for the gun. I shot him. No thought entered my head as I pulled the trigger. It was like being back in that alley.

I saw Blaine coming at me. I was already pointing the gun at his chest. So I pulled the trigger.

The end.

CHAPTER THREE

“And he died?” the therapist says.

I swing my legs over the side of the couch and sit up. Her expression is rapt, as if she’s overhearing a drunken confession in a bar.

“And he died?” she prompts again.

“I called 911 on his burner phone. By the time I got through, he was gone.” No, not gone. Dead. Use the proper terminology, Casey. Don’t sugarcoat it.

“What did you tell the operator?”

“Dispatcher,” I say, correcting her automatically. “I said I heard a shot, and I raced over to see two men fleeing the scene. One had a gun. I gave descriptions roughly matching two of the guys who beat me. I said I was going to follow them to get a closer look. She told me not to, of course, but I was already hanging up.”

“You’d thought it through.”

Her tone should be at least vaguely accusatory. Instead, it’s almost admiring. She’s been abused in some way. Bullied. Harassed. Maybe even assaulted. She’s fantasized about doing exactly what I did to whoever hurt her.

I can’t even take credit for “thinking it through.” A situation presented itself, and I reacted. One therapist explained it as an extreme response to the primal fight-or-flight instinct. Mine apparently lacks the flight portion.

“What did you do with the gun?” she asks.

“I wiped it down and threw it in the river. It was never found.”

“Have you ever pulled the file? As a cop?”

She doesn’t even bother to say “police officer” now. All formality gone.

“No, that could flag an alert,” I say. “It didn’t happen here anyway.”

“Was his family really connected? Like capital F family?”

She says it as if this is an episode of The Sopranos.

“I guess so,” I say, which is a lie. I know so. The Saratoris aren’t major players, but Blaine’s grandfather Leo is definitely part of the Montreal organized crime scene.

“Don’t you worry they’ll find out and come for revenge?”

Every day of my life, I think, but all I grant her is a shrug.

“Biggest therapist fail ever.” I down a shot of tequila two days later, my first chance to have a drink after work with Diana. “I might as well have confided in that chick over there.” I point at a vacant-eyed girl in the corner. Hooker. Crack addict. If she’s old enough to be in a bar, I’ll turn in my badge.

“Remind me again why you put yourself through that,” Diana says. “Oh, right. You’re a sadist.”

“Masochist,” I say. “Also, possibly, a sadist, but in this situation, it’s masochism.”

She rolls her eyes and shifts on her stool. She’s already sitting on the edge, as if placing her ass—even fully clothed—on the surface might result in lethal contamination. At least she’s stopped cleaning her glass with an antiseptic wipe before drinking from it.

Another shift has her sliding off the stool, and she does a little stutter-jump to get back on, tugging down her miniskirt as she does. One of the guys across the bar is checking her out. Or he’s checking out her hair, blond with bright pink tips. He squints, as if suspecting he’s had too much to drink. They don’t see a lot of pink hair in here.

“So how was work?” I ask. Diana is in accounting. Her exact title seems to change by the month, as she flits about, not climbing the corporate ladder, but jumping from rung to rung, testing them all for size.

“We’re not going to talk about your therapy session?”

“We just did.”

I down my second shot of tequila. The bartender glances over and jerks his thumb at the soda fountain. It’s not a hint. Kurt knows I have a two-shot limit. I nod, and he starts filling a glass.

“So work . . . ?” I prod Diana.

Her lips purse, and that tells me that’s not a good question. Not today. I just hope it doesn’t mean she’s been demoted again. Lately, Diana’s career hopes seem to all be downward . . . and not by choice.

“Is work . . . okay?” I venture.

“Work is work.” She gulps her drink, and there’s an uncharacteristic note of bitterness in her voice.

I try to assess her mood. We haven’t always been best friends. In high school, it’d been on and off, the ebb and flow that marked many teen friendships. It was the attack that brought us closer. She’d stood by me when all my old friends shied away, no one knowing what to say. After I shot Blaine, she’d found me frantically changing out of my blood-splattered clothing, and I’d told her everything, and that cemented our friendship. Forged in fire, as they save. Fire and secrets.

“Let’s talk about something else,” I say. “Did you bump into that guy at the coffee shop? The musician, right?”

She shrugs and runs a hot-pink fingernail around the rim of her martini glass . . . which is actually a regular whiskey glass, but it’s currently holding a lemon-drop martini. I know she has something to say. Something about therapy, I presume, but I pretend not to notice, as Kurt brings my Diet Coke.

“You staying till closing?” he asks me.

“Maybe.”

A smile lights his eyes. When I stay until closing, I usually end up in the apartment over the bar. His apartment.

“You should,” he says. “Looks like you could use a break.”

I’m sure he’s about to make some smutty suggestion about ways to relieve my stress. Then his gaze slides to Diana, and instead he heads off to wait on another customer. He thinks he’s being discreet, but Diana knows about us, and she’s just as horrified as he suspects she’d be. Diana does not approve of casual sex, especially not with an ex-con bartender who works at the docks by day. She has no idea what she’s missing.

Normally, she’d make a smart comment as Kurt walked away. But tonight she’s lost in the mysteries of her lemon drop.

“You okay?” I ask.

“It’s . . . Graham.”

“Fuck,” I mutter, and sit back on my stool.

Graham Berry is Diana’s ex-husband. Respected lawyer. Community pillar. Also one of the most goddamn brilliant psychos I’ve ever met. He knows exactly how to stalk and torment her while keeping his ass out of prison. Restraining orders? Sure, we can get them. But any cop who’s spent time in SVU knows they’re as useful as cardboard armor in a gunfight.

She downs her martini and signals Kurt for a refill. Diana rarely has more than one, and when he comes over to deliver it, he gives me an Is everything okay? look.

“Rough day,” I say.

When he says, “Maybe tomorrow will be better,” I know he isn’t talking about Diana.

“It will be,” I say.

“Graham’s in town,” she blurts out when Kurt leaves. “He claims he’s here on business.”

“And he wants to see you, because he loves you and he’s changed.”

I look her in the eyes as I say this, steeling myself for the guilty flash that says she’s considering meeting with him. Like many abusive relationships, theirs is a complicated one. He’d beat the shit out of her, and then he’d be so very sorry, and she’d go back to him, and the cycle would start again.

It’s been two years since she left him and convinced me to move to a new city with her. I’d resisted, not because I was reluctant to help but, honestly, because I expected I’d relocate my life for Diana and then find myself alone in that new city when she went back to Graham. But I’d decided to give her one last chance . . . and she’d finally decided he’d had enough chances. She’s been free and clear of him ever since, and now I don’t detect any guilt in her eyes, any sign that she wants to see him.

“Okay, step one,” I say. “You’ll stay at my place tonight and work from there tomorrow. Call in sick.”

I brace for her to suggest she stay longer. When her lease came due, she hinted—strongly—about moving into my place instead. She’d gotten very little in the divorce, having signed a prenup, and had long since run through it. The demotions haven’t helped her ever-worsening financial situation. I’d pointed out that my single-bedroom place wasn’t big enough, but still I feel like a selfish bitch. I help by footing the bills when we go out and “loaning” her bill money that I never expect to see again.

She doesn’t suggest a longer-term stay, though, and I feel like a bitch for that, for even thinking it at a time like this, as if she’d manufacture a story about Graham to move in with me.

“With any luck,” I continue, “it’ll take him a while to track your home or work address, and if he really is on business, he won’t be here long . . .” I catch her expression. “He’s already found you.”

“He—he stopped by the office. The usual crap. He just wants to have coffee, talk, work things out.”

“And then?” I say, because I know there is an and then. In public, Graham plays the besotted ex-husband. But as soon as no one is around . . .

“He waylaid me in the parking garage.”

I reach for her wrist, and she flinches. I push up the sleeve to see a bracelet of bruises.

“Goddamn it, Di!”

She gives me a whipped-puppy look.

“Graham showed up at your office, and you didn’t call me? You walked into the goddamn parking garage—”

“Don’t, Casey. I feel stupid enough.”

Her eyes fill with tears, and that’s when I really feel like a bitch. Blame the victim. I hate it so much. But Diana never seems to learn, and I’m terrified that one day I’ll get a call that she’s in the morgue because she gave Graham another chance and I wasn’t there to stop her.

“He’s going to do it one of these days,” she says, wrapping her hands around her glass. “You know he is.”

I don’t want to follow this line of thought, because when I do, I think of Blaine and how easy it was to kill him. I fear that one day I’ll decide there’s only one way to protect Diana. No, really I’m afraid she’ll ask me to do it. I don’t know what I’d say if she did. I owe her for keeping my secret about Blaine. But I don’t owe her enough to repeat the mistake with someone else. Not even Graham.

“I’ve been researching how to disappear,” she says.

“What?” I look up sharply.

“We could disappear. You and me.”

I don’t ask why she includes me. When she’d asked me to relocate and I’d resisted, she’d pointed out the ugly truth—that I’d had no reason to stay. That hasn’t changed. I have a furnished apartment I’ve never added a picture to. I have a lover whose last name I’ve never asked. I have a sister I speak to three times a year. I have one friend, who is sitting in front of me. I do have a job I love. But that’s all I care about. My job and Diana. The job is replaceable. Diana is not.

“Let’s just focus on keeping you safe for now,” I say. “Graham will give up and go home, and then we can discuss how to handle this long-term.”

I put money on the table and catch Kurt’s eye as he deals with a drunk. He mouths, “This weekend?” meaning he can see something’s up and tomorrow probably isn’t going to be better. I nod, try for a smile, and then turn to Diana and say, “Drink up, and let’s go.”

Table of Contents

- Title
- Copyright
- Author’s Note

- Perfect Victim

- Chapter One: Nadia
- Chapter Two: Jack
- Chapter Three: Nadia
- Chapter Four: Nadia
- Chapter Five: Nadia
- Chapter Six: Nadia
- Chapter Seven: Nadia
- Chapter Eight: Jack
- Chapter Nine: Nadia
- Chapter Ten: Jack
- Chapter Eleven: Nadia
- Chapter Twelve: Nadia
- Chapter Thirteen: Nadia
- Chapter Fourteen: Nadia
- Chapter Fifteen: Jack
- Chapter Sixteen: Nadia
- Chapter Seventeen: Nadia
- Chapter Eighteen: Nadia
- Chapter Nineteen: Jack
- Chapter Twenty: Nadia
- Chapter Twenty: Nadia
- Chapter Twenty: Nadia
- Chapter Twenty: Jack
- Chapter Twenty: Nadia
- Chapter Twenty: Nadia
- Chapter Twenty: Jack
- Chapter Twenty: Nadia

- ABOUT THE AUTHOR

- CITY OF THE LOST

- CHAPTER ONE
- CHAPTER TWO
- CHAPTER THREE