Exit Strategy Part 4

What if he was a target, a hit?

First, I'd have to get him away from the pack. There was always an opportunity. Nature would call. Or he'd decide he needed a c.o.ke. Maybe a cigarette. Or he'd whip out his cell and step outside for better reception.

Once away from his pack, I'd need to be able to identify him from a distance or find him in a crowd, even if he was with twenty guys who could pa.s.s for his brothers. Distinguishing features? A puckered scar on his left earlobe, as if he'd pierced it himself, then changed his mind. I noticed the wear pattern on his navy high-tops, the soles worn along the outside of the heels, as if he walked slightly bow-legged. His clothing could always be changed. Yet someone suspecting a tail rarely changes his footwear. Shoes and jewelry. Always make a note.

As he talked, a jangling underscored his words, and I traced it to a chain hanging off his belt. I closed my eyes and memorized the sound. Then I noted the sound of his voice, the inflection, the accent.

My target said something to his buddies, stepped away and headed for the doors.

"You ready?" Jack's voice startled me. He lifted a tray of coffees and bagels.

One last glance after my target, then I nodded and followed Jack out of the terminal.

We dined on stale bagels and lukewarm coffee, consumed in the ambience of engine thunder and jet fuel fumes.

"So what's the plan?" I said as I perched on the hood of Jack's rental car. "Have you met with the other guys? Come up with some theories?"

"Nah. Figured you'd want to do that."

I stopped licking cream cheese off my fingers. "Meet the others? If I can avoid it, I'd really rather-"

"Not meet them. I agree. Stay under the radar. Work with me. That's it."

"So you and I...we'll be working together?"

He looked over at me. "Thought that was understood. Watch each other's backs. That a problem?"

"No, I just...I wasn't sure. I know you work alone, so I thought maybe you'd just set me on a trail or a lead. But working with a partner is how I'm used to doing things-or was, as a cop, so that's fine by me. How are we going to coordinate this with the others, then? A conference call to toss around theories, come up with a plan of action, divide the work..."

I stopped, glancing over at Jack, who was staring out at the runway, face impa.s.sive.

"There's no meeting, is there? Long distance or otherwise."

He shook his head. "These guys? Not much for teamwork. Me neither."

"And I totally get that. But in this case, we need to coordinate our efforts, if only to ensure we cover everything and..." I met his gaze. "And it's not happening, is it?"

He shook his head. "One guy I tried pulling in? Already in custody. Better keep to ourselves."

"Well, what's our our game plan, then?" game plan, then?"

"Start by filling me in. Who's he killing? Where? Patterns? Methods?"

"I don't know a d.a.m.ned thing about these killings, Jack. I've told you I've been trying to forget that part of my life, stop following the cases."

"Oh."

"Ah, you thought I'd just said said I'd stopped. I know he's killed four people in the past week or so, and that the last one was strangled." I'd stopped. I know he's killed four people in the past week or so, and that the last one was strangled."

"Four states. Four methods. That's all I know."

"s.h.i.t, we really are starting from ground zero, aren't we?"

Once we were on the highway, Jack handed me a bag. I reached in, pulled out a wig and sighed.

"Figures. Get a guy to buy a wig, and he's going to go blond every time."

"Small store. Two choices. Blond or red."

"I like red."

"Fire-engine red."

"Cool."

"Be thankful I didn't pick clothing. Almost did."

"What were you going to get? Miniskirt and fishnets?"

I put on the wig, then looked at the rest of my outfit. I wore jeans, a plain white T-shirt and a denim jacket-an all-purpose ensemble that, with the right accessories, could run the gamut from preppy-casual to biker-chick-trashy. Normally, I'd fall somewhere in the middle: the nature-girl look, with wash-and-wear hair, fading summer tan and tinted lip gloss. Given Jack's choice of disguise, more makeup was a must. I opened my makeup case, applied enough to scare myself, then took a tissue and pared it back a layer or two.

"Good?" I asked.

Jack glanced over and grunted. Not the most enthusiastic endors.e.m.e.nt, but at least he didn't say I looked so much better in a platinum wig and half-pound of makeup.

"One thing missing," he said.

"Stilettos? Or a whip?"

His mouth twitched as he pa.s.sed me a heavy wrapped bundle.

I unwrapped it to find a Glock 33. "Oooh. Serious bondage gear!"

"Got a waistband holster. Should fit under your jacket. Keep it on, all times."

I found the holster and slipped into it, then double-checked my makeup application in the visor mirror, making sure the faint, thin scar on my neck was hidden. "Not bad. I have to work on my aging techniques, though. I can never get it right. You'll have to teach me sometime."

He made a noise in his throat that I took for agreement, then turned into a strip mall so we could get some research material.

Joyce

"I can try, but..."

The dry-cleaning clerk shrugged, bit back a yawn. Given that it was barely 6:30 in the morning, the yawn and the heavy-lidded eyes could be excused, but Joyce knew it wasn't lack of sleep that was causing the younger woman's attention to wander. She just didn't give a d.a.m.n.

"Look," Joyce said. "You opened five minutes ago, so you can't possibly be overbooked yet. Your sign says you offer same-day cleaning. I need same-day cleaning."

"We are are overbooked. With regular customers." A slow quarter-smile. "If you were a regular customer..." overbooked. With regular customers." A slow quarter-smile. "If you were a regular customer..."

"I am am a regular customer. I've dropped off clothes every Friday for the past three months." a regular customer. I've dropped off clothes every Friday for the past three months."

The clerk's eyes narrowed behind her microframed gla.s.ses. "I work Fridays and I've never seen you."

"Of course you have. I talk to you every week!"

The young woman's expression didn't change. "I've never seen you."

Joyce pulled back and shoved her hands in her pockets, torn between crying and screaming. Maybe she should do both. Throw a hissy fit, see if that made her more memorable next time. She sized up the clerk, considered throwing herself at the young woman's mercy, telling her the truth. Look, I've just been through the world's s.h.i.ttiest divorce. I have my first date tonight and this old black dress may not look like much to you, but it's the only thing I have to wear.

Joyce imagined saying the words. Imagined the clerk's reaction. Imagined the smirk, the glitter of condescension. Imagined her response, "Oh, I'm soooo sorry, but no. Can't do it." Another smirk. Now p.i.s.s off, you old cow. No twenty-year-old ever imagined herself sinking so low, her self-confidence puddled around her ankles, her ratty apartment and divorce pet.i.tion exposing her failures as a wife, a woman.

"p.i.s.s off to you, too," Joyce muttered under her breath, gathering her dress from the counter and swooping from the store with as much dignity as she could muster.

The door swung closed behind her. Joyce paused, and looked up and down the street, hoping another "same-day cleaning" sign would miraculously appear. There must be other places in town, but she had no idea where they were. She'd only moved there three months ago to take a job from a sympathetic friend.

She inhaled sharply. Okay, maybe she didn't know where there was another cleaner, but she could find out. Joyce strode to the nearest phone booth, pushed open the doors, reached for the phone book...and found an empty chain.

"G.o.d-f.u.c.king-d.a.m.n it!"

She hiccuped a laugh. Now that felt better, didn't it? She glanced down at the dress slung over her arm. Ten years old. Ten years out of style. Made for a woman ten years younger. Screw this. If she was going on a date, she was doing it right. Break the bank and buy a new dress. Maybe something from the sales rack at Barneys. She checked her watch. Not yet seven. If she started work early, she could take an extended lunch hour, use the time to buy a dress. She smiled. Problem solved.

Joyce drove into her office building's underground garage. The lot was almost completely empty. She shivered as she walked toward the elevator. Picked up her pace. Slid her car key between her index and middle fingers, the way her daughter had taught her after taking a self-defense course at college. Any guy jumps you, Mom, go for his eyes.

Joyce reached for the elevator b.u.t.ton, then paused. Was this such a good idea, getting onto an elevator so early in the morning? What if it stopped between floors and she was stuck there alone? Or what if she wasn't alone? Yes, it was silly, but still...She glanced toward the stairs. A five-floor climb. It wasn't like she didn't need the exercise.

As she rounded the second flight of stairs, she caught sight of something on the step. Folded green paper. She paused, leaned over. Twenty dollars. She laughed, the sound echoing through the empty stairwell. Twenty dollars toward a new dress. How perfect was that?

As her fingers brushed the bill, a current of air swished behind her. She looked up to see a blur flying toward her head. Over her head. The world went white. She opened her mouth, but something jammed against it. She bit down, tasted plastic. A plastic bag over her head. A hand or arm pressing it into her mouth, cutting off her screams.

Her hands flew up. Too late she felt the keys slide from her fist, heard them tinkle against the concrete. She panicked, clawing, kicking, but hitting only air. She tumbled forward. Felt a hand between her shoulder blades. A shove. Her head struck the sharp edge of the step. Light and pain flashed. Her daughter's face. Go for his eyes, Mom. Darkness.

The man looked down at her body, sprawled awkwardly over the steps, skirt shoved up to reveal one cellulite-pitted thigh above her knee-highs, her arm stretched over her head, fingers grazing the twenty as if, in death, still reaching for it. He almost laughed.

A twenty placed at eye level. A human trap, guaranteed to catch the first person who climbed these stairs. There was an element of risk here, something he'd never allowed himself before. If she hadn't been alone, he'd have had to sc.r.a.p the whole plan. But the thrill of it, the purest surge of power, came from knowing that if this attempt failed, it made no difference in the overall plan. Kill this person, kill another. Kill here, kill there. Kill now, kill then. For once, it didn't matter. There was no contract, no obligation. He could take risks, enjoy them even, and, to his surprise, he found that he did.

He looked down at the woman. His penultimate strike, perhaps even his last. That was the plan anyway. He'd make this last hit and then, if all went well and the police stayed stumped, he'd stop here. If it didn't go smoothly-and one always had to plan for contingencies-he had one more victim in mind, someone who could take the blame.

But now he wasn't so sure he should stop. He told himself it wasn't the unexpected thrill of this newfound power-that would be unprofessional. Instead, he wondered whether he hadn't been shortsighted. Perhaps five wasn't enough. He'd gotten this far and the Feds were still chasing their tails. Why not add another couple of bodies? He always had the backup hit-his scapegoat-if things went bad. And, more likely, another body or two would only add to the confusion. Then he could stop, free and safe.

He smiled and walked away, leaving her lying there, the bag still over her head. As he pa.s.sed, he glanced down at the twenty lying by her outstretched hand. Let them tie up their labs pulling scores of fingerprints from it, running them through the database. They wouldn't find his...on the bill or in the database. He took the folded book page from his pocket, unwrapped it and tucked it under her hand, beside the twenty.

One last visual sweep. All clear. He adjusted his driving gloves, picked up his briefcase, then walked down to the main floor door, cracked it open and peered through. Closed doors, darkened windows, an office building still slumbering. He straightened his tie and walked out.

SIX.

I ran into the convenience store and bought Time, Newsweek Time, Newsweek and and Cosmopolitan Cosmopolitan. No, Cosmo wasn't running an in-depth a.n.a.lysis of the Helter Skelter killings. I'm sure they would have, but, apparently, the breaking news of "10 Ways to Drive Your Man Wild in Bed" took precedence.

As I climbed into the car, Jack plucked the magazines from under my arm. "Time. Newsweek Newsweek. And...?"

He looked at the half-naked supermodel on the cover of Cosmopolitan Cosmopolitan. Most guys would have looked closer. Or at least looked interested. Jack frowned.

"Chock-full of articles on catching a man," I said. "I thought it might help us."

Jack shook his head.

"Hey, in this outfit, do I strike you as a Time Time and and Newsweek Newsweek kinda girl? But if you see anything in there that interests you, it's all yours." kinda girl? But if you see anything in there that interests you, it's all yours."

Another head shake. He turned the key in the ignition and the subcompact's engine puttered to life. "I'll drive. You read."

The articles contained only a single line on each victim, descriptions so brief even Jack would be hard-pressed to condense them further. That's not to say the articles were short. Each magazine contained not less than three separate pieces on the case, each running several pages. So what did they write about? The killer. Theories, motivations, expert opinions, editorial comments.

The list of victims was almost identical in both publications.