Exit Strategy Part 28

The truth was, as cruel as it seemed by not not letting people know of the threat, the police were doing their best to end that threat...for everyone else. This was their first chance-an excellent chance-of catching the Helter Skelter killer. letting people know of the threat, the police were doing their best to end that threat...for everyone else. This was their first chance-an excellent chance-of catching the Helter Skelter killer.

If they'd refused to play along and canceled the show, any criminal psychologist could predict the killer's next move. Ruin his game, and he'd do something worse, as payback. Here, they could monitor every variable and ensure the guests' safety.

Once inside the doors, we found ourselves funneled into a line through a portable metal detector and a wand-wielding guard.

"My bag?" sniffed a matron at the front. "No, you may not not paw through my bag, young man." paw through my bag, young man."

The queue ground to a halt.

"Oh, come on," I muttered. "They're not worried about the flask you stuffed in there."

Jack craned his neck to see around the mob. After a moment, a guard took the woman and her party aside to let others pa.s.s though.

"Unbelievable," huffed a diamond-dripping woman about my age. "It's opera, not a rap concert."

"There's a whole industry getting rich off this terrorism nonsense," said the gray-haired man at her side. "Did I tell you what happened on my flight to Tokyo last week? They body-searched first-cla.s.s pa.s.sengers. First-cla.s.s! As if any of us..."

He continued to b.i.t.c.h about the injustices visited on the upper cla.s.ses, but I turned my attention to mentally reexamining Quinn's blueprints of the opera house. One front entrance, one staff entrance, one delivery door and three fire exits. Easy to guard and, according to Quinn, guarded they were, with no one allowed in or out any way but the front door tonight.

According to Quinn's source, even staff had needed to pa.s.s through those main doors earlier, with the metal detectors and bag search. That would likely be the ruse the killer would use-pretending to work here. With a new business, employees would still be accustomed to seeing unfamiliar faces and wouldn't question one more. If that was his plan, he'd have found himself out of luck. There had been a manager at the door, ticking off names, and if a new or replacement worker showed up, the Feds had turned him away.

We made it through security without incident. We weren't armed. Too risky. The Feds would probably have wand-waving agents inside, too. Not having a gun made me uneasy, but I knew the killer wouldn't have risked bringing one in, either. He wouldn't need to. A real pro doesn't need a traditional weapon to do his job.

Once inside, we veered left. Quinn said the Feds were setting up base in a storage room behind the bar, so that's where I wanted to go first. Get an insider's feel for security precautions, and we'd see where the holes were.

It took some wrangling, but we found a spot where we could, with the help of listening devices provided by Felix, hear what was going on in the FBI's control room. We arrived just as they received a call from the front door, about a woman refusing to let them search or scan her evening bag. It could have been the same woman we'd seen, but I suspected they'd been dealing with similar complaints all night.

"I don't care if she's the wife of the G.o.dd.a.m.ned president," a man boomed. "No one gets in without a search and if you can't handle that, then find someone who can." He signed off. "f.u.c.king unbelievable. Old bats thinking we're going to swipe twenty bucks from their handbags, delivery men too lazy to carry boxes to the front door, but if something goes wrong, they'll be the first to raise a stink, calling the papers to complain that we weren't doing our jobs."

"Nothing's going to go wrong, Marty. A woman couldn't get groped in here without us knowing about it."

"Yeah, but if she does, I'll have ten deadweight rookies in here asking me what they should do about it, while that f.u.c.ker has free run of the building."

The door creaked open.

"What the h.e.l.l are you two doing back-?" the first man boomed.

"There's been a seat mix-up," a woman said. "An elderly couple is in ours-"

"Then tell them to move!"

The women continued in the same calm voice. "The usher feels it would be less intrusive if we took the seats beside them-"

"I told you where to sit! We picked out the sight lines to cover every-"

"We've checked the sight lines and they'd be the same."

"I don't care. You sit where I a.s.signed you, and if there's someone there, then you move them. Why the h.e.l.l you couldn't figure that out without bothering me-"

"Because you asked to be apprised-personally apprised-of all complications."

"This isn't a complication, Chin. It's a.s.s-wiping, and you can d.a.m.ned well do your own."

The door clicked shut. I looked over to see a young couple in formal wear heading back to the foyer.

"Idiot," the woman muttered.

"He's under a lot of pressure," her partner said. "He saw what happened to McMillan, and he knows if this goes bad, he's next."

"Stress, my a.s.s. Dubois is in his element. He wants to be in control so he can take full credit if he pulls this off. But if he doesn't, you can bet your a.s.s it'll be everyone else's fault."

Jack touched my arm and motioned that we should move on. I had to agree. All we'd accomplished here was overhearing Martin Dubois, the agent now leading the investigation after the last one had been "rea.s.signed." The guy might be a jerk, but he seemed to be doing the job.

As we walked through the lobby, I hoped that the undercover agents wouldn't be as obvious to the killer as they were to me. The janitor emptying a quarter-filled trash can. The extra barman, who did nothing but wipe the counter and polish gla.s.ses. The couple lingering in a T-intersection, talking but never looking at each other. Still, if the killer did "make" them, maybe that wasn't such a bad thing. He might realize he didn't have a chance.

Next, Jack and I scoped out all the potential blind spots-places we'd we'd pick for a hit. We started with the bathrooms. The moment I walked in, I knew it was covered, by an agent playing washroom attendant, pumping lotion onto a matron's hands and apologizing when the squirt dribbled onto her shoe instead. Oh, the joys of undercover work. pick for a hit. We started with the bathrooms. The moment I walked in, I knew it was covered, by an agent playing washroom attendant, pumping lotion onto a matron's hands and apologizing when the squirt dribbled onto her shoe instead. Oh, the joys of undercover work.

Despite the on-duty agent, I gave the bathroom a once-over, seeing it with a hitman's eye. No closets, no windows, the dividers too low to crawl under, the stalls too small to hide in. By the time I finished using the toilet, I was satisfied enough to strike this "blind spot" off my list.

I scrubbed my hands, my mind fully aware of my surroundings yet skipping forward, planning my next move.

He was here. My target. In this very building.

I was on the trail, his scent in the wind. The real thing. Out there. Waiting for me.

And while maybe that should have had me as puppy-dog excited as Jack seemed to think I was, I felt calm. Perfect control, the kind I'd never felt off the shooting range. Everything in focus. Sharp focus-smelling the soap on my hands, hearing the squeak of shoes on the linoleum, seeing the flash of red as the woman beside me painted on fresh lipstick.

I looked at myself in the mirror. No signs of stress-no beading sweat, no parted lips, breathing hard. Just a woman enjoying her evening out and looking forward to the pleasure yet to come.

I turned to the agent at the door, pa.s.sed her a smile and a tip, and walked out.

Grace

In the movies, things were always so much more dramatic. Put this scene in some Hollywood blockbuster, and there would be a deviously elaborate solution to the challenge he faced, maybe explosives hidden inside a seat, rigged to detonate when the soprano hit her first C. In real life, sometimes even the most difficult situations had solutions that were almost laughably simple.

How would he kill someone in an opera house, with only one way in or out, patrolled by dozens of top FBI agents, all devoted to stopping him? By hiding behind a door. His only tool? A pair of panty hose. Not worn on his head, like some cinematic killer. In his world, disguising yourself from your target was ludicrous-if he lived long enough to talk, then you d.a.m.ned well deserved to get caught.

One glance at the opera house blueprints and he'd known where he'd hide-behind the door in the one room the Feds couldn't be inside: the handicapped washroom.

He'd been preparing for tonight since he'd first leaked the Moreland arrest. He'd bought the tickets before making the call-two, knowing they'd later search for single-ticket purchases. He'd walked right in the front door, among a group of retirees, even talking to them, as if he was just another old man out for a night of culture. Then straight to the bathroom. He'd limped in with his cane-for the benefit of anyone who saw his destination. Once inside, he'd had to tamper with the lock, to be sure he could relock it as he left. Then he'd positioned himself, turned out the light, leaned over...and unlocked the door to await the next visitor.

Laughably simple.

Grace steered her wheelchair around a group of middle-aged matrons who looked as if they'd rather be anywhere but here. A social-duty event. Grace remembered those, dragging David along, kicking and screaming, telling him he couldn't ignore an invitation from the CEO, even if it was the company's twentieth outing to The Nutcracker The Nutcracker.

She hit a wrinkle in the carpet and the wheelchair veered, heading straight for a young woman in a green dress. The woman's companion tried to pull her out of the way, but she grabbed the wheelchair handles, stopping and steadying it.

"Thank you," Grace said. "Still haven't gotten the hang of this darned thing, I'm afraid."

"And I'm not much help," said a voice behind her.

She twisted to see Cliff hobbling over on his cane, two champagne flutes precariously clutched in his free hand. The young woman took the gla.s.ses from him. She handed one to Grace, then waited until Cliff was settled before pa.s.sing back his.

Cliff thanked her, then chuckled. "We make a fine pair, don't we?"

"Do you need any help getting to your seats?" the woman asked. "I don't see a ramp."

Her companion's gaze slid to the side, as if anxious to move on.

"Thank you, dear, but we'll be fine," Grace said. "This place is supposed to be accessible, so they must have a ramp or elevator hidden somewhere."

"Enjoy the show, then," the woman said, and let her companion lead her away.

Cliff found a quiet corner and they sipped their champagne and watched the "preshow show," the parade of patrons, from the well dressed, to the badly dressed, to the barely dressed. Cliff's murmured commentary kept her in giggles, as always. For fifty years, no one had ever made her laugh like Cliff could. Her husband, David, had been a wonderful man, and she'd loved him dearly-still missed him every day-but when she needed a good chuckle, she'd always looked to Cliff, David's childhood friend and business partner.

There'd never been anything between them while their spouses had been alive. Never considered it. But as the grief had faded, they'd realized that there might be more between them than the shared love of a good laugh. Their children and grandchildren had encouraged the relationship, happy to see the "old folks" bonding in companionship and mutual support. As for romance, well, there was bound to be some hand-holding, maybe the odd kiss on the cheek, but that was it. After all, both would see eighty in a year or two.

Had the kids known the truth...Grace smiled. With Cliff, she'd discovered a pa.s.sion she'd thought lost to age. Even with his b.u.m knee and her recent hip break, they managed just fine.

"What are you thinking, Gracie?" Cliff's voice was a growling purr as he leaned over her. "That glint in your eyes tells me I might want to skip the show."

She was opening her mouth to reply, when an usher pa.s.sed, telling people it was fifteen minutes to curtain.

"Time for me to find a bathroom," Cliff said. "That wine at dinner went right through me and this"-he lifted his empty champagne flute-"didn't help. How about you?"

Grace paused. She hated using public bathrooms with this wheelchair. Darned awkward. But there was no way she'd make it until she got home after the show, and the hallway congestion would be impossible at intermission. Better to get it over with now.

"So who goes first?" Cliff said as Grace wheeled into the bathroom hall. "Flip for it? Or..." He grinned down at her. "Maybe we should go together. I'm sure you could use a hand."

"If we do, will we get to our seats in ten minutes?"

"Probably not."

"Then save that thought for another time."

"Don't think I won't."

A sly smile up at him. "Good." Before he could answer, she waved at the bathrooms. "Seems we don't need to flip for first dibs after all. There are two of them. You know you're in a place that caters to us old fogies when..."

He smiled. "Too true. You take the first, then, my lady, and I'll meet you in a few minutes." He snuck a look her way and waggled his brows. "Sure you don't want some help?"

"Oh, I want it...but I don't want to be rolling into the auditorium after all the lights go out, or I'll break my neck."

He pushed open the door for her and she navigated inside.

He heard the k.n.o.b turn and tensed, hose strung between his hands. The door opened, hiding him behind it. He pressed himself against the wall, waited until the door was swinging shut, then lunged.

He checked outside the door, then stepped out, letting it close-locked-behind him. As he strolled past the other handicapped washroom, the door opened and a woman in a wheelchair maneuvered her way out.

As Grace waited outside the bathroom, the usher came by, announcing five minutes to performance time. She glanced at the door. Yes, some things weren't as speedy at seventy-eight as they'd been at eighteen, and she hated to rush him, but she really didn't want to be navigating the aisles in the dark. She rapped on the door. When Cliff didn't answer, she rattled the handle.

"Cliff?" she said, as loud as she dared. "It's me."

Sill nothing. His hearing was fine, but she knocked louder, just in case. Her gut went cold. Why wasn't he answering? She tried to calm herself. Her mind offered up a dozen logical explanations, but her gut shut them down. Something had happened. A fall, a stroke, a heart attack-just like David.

"Can I help?" A middle-aged man paused in his sprint from the washroom to the front hall.

"My-someone's-I need a-an usher. Someone who can open the door. Quickly!"

He glided into the front foyer. People were still streaming in, and a few were heading out for that last-minute cigarette. He thought of joining them, but knew he couldn't. Ushers were right there, watching each exit with disapproval, warning people the opera would begin soon. He might get all the way to the car before the Feds found the body-or he might not get down the steps. Safer to do what everyone else was doing and head into the auditorium.

As he walked, his gaze pa.s.sed over the crowd and snagged on a face with a split-second of "Hey, don't I know...?" But when he zeroed in, that spark of recognition faded. The man was in his late forties, an investment banker type, with that lean, slightly hungry look. On his arm was a younger woman, maybe thirty. Typical, especially here, amid a sea of trophy wives, but this didn't look like your average "secretary turned spouse." He let his gaze linger and didn't worry about being obvious-he wasn't the only one looking. She wasn't a knockout. Just...pretty. A pretty redhead with a smile that turned heads, and sparked more than a smile or two in return.

She was chatting away animatedly, and her companion-he checked the man's finger and amended that-her husband husband was listening to every word, turning now and then to nod at her, the hard edges of his face softening each time he glanced over. The doting husband. The investment banker and the...kindergarten teacher, or maybe a pediatric nurse-she had the cheerful vibrancy of someone who worked with children. Probably had a few of them at home, tucked away with the sitter for the night. was listening to every word, turning now and then to nod at her, the hard edges of his face softening each time he glanced over. The doting husband. The investment banker and the...kindergarten teacher, or maybe a pediatric nurse-she had the cheerful vibrancy of someone who worked with children. Probably had a few of them at home, tucked away with the sitter for the night.

A pang of remorse ran through him. If only she she could have been his victim. Now, that would have been a coup. The world would be appalled by the death of the old man, but someone like this, they'd be outraged. They'd could have been his victim. Now, that would have been a coup. The world would be appalled by the death of the old man, but someone like this, they'd be outraged. They'd demand demand action. Parade her crying children on television, her grief-stricken husband, her sh.e.l.l-shocked co-workers and neighbors, all telling the world what a kind, caring woman she'd been, and the nation would demand that the killing be stopped. As the regret over lost opportunity washed over him, he pa.s.sed the couple, so close he could have reached out and- action. Parade her crying children on television, her grief-stricken husband, her sh.e.l.l-shocked co-workers and neighbors, all telling the world what a kind, caring woman she'd been, and the nation would demand that the killing be stopped. As the regret over lost opportunity washed over him, he pa.s.sed the couple, so close he could have reached out and- The woman said something and her husband gave a low chuckle. Hearing the sound, he froze in midstep, then turned, slowly. That low laugh had triggered a connection in his brain, and he realized he'd been too quick to dismiss the gut-level recognition. He did did know this man. Had known him well, once upon a time. He told himself he was wrong-he had to be-but his gut refused to believe it. know this man. Had known him well, once upon a time. He told himself he was wrong-he had to be-but his gut refused to believe it.

Still, the coincidence had to be just that-a coincidence. But as he replayed the last minute in his head, he saw the "banker's" gaze, in constant motion as he'd walked, watchful, scanning, searching.

He glanced over his shoulder and found the couple in the throng. The woman's grip tightened on the man's arm. Their eyes met. Her head tilted to the left, toward a side corridor, and they veered that way, still talking, as if they'd been heading in that direction all along. He remembered that Internet chatter about hitmen teaming up to find him, and his gut tightened with an unexpected jolt of pain. So it was true. And this was who it was.

"But not for long, Jack," he murmured. "Not for long."

By the time the usher arrived, a crowd had gathered at the bathroom door. Two men argued over the best way to open it-credit card or a hard shoulder shove.

Just open it! Grace wanted to scream, but the words jammed in her throat and all she could think about was Cliff's laugh and David, slumped on the garage floor, dead from a heart attack, just minutes after he'd kissed her good-bye. A split second, that's all it took, and your world was shattered.