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"Easily done," Felix said. "We'll locate several for rent, with immediate possession, scout locations, and select one."
"Hole up in a place for rent?" I said. "Sounds good, but there's a risk factor, isn't there? If someone decides to show the place--"
"We'll rent it," Felix said. "Cash for a month."
"Is that--?"
"Safe?" He smiled, and switched to an upper-class British accent. "Hello, I'm Dr. Patterson, and I have a rather...odd request to make. I'm visiting your university and, well, I must admit, I loathe public housing. I believe you have a lovely little place for rent on Main Street? If it wouldn't be too much of an inconvenience, I'd like to let it for the week. I'll pay you for the entire month, of course, in advance."
"Works for me," I said.
"And it has worked for me more times than I can count."
"Let's get moving on that," Jack said. "Dubois comes through? I want keys within the hour. Need time for a thorough examination. No surprises."
* * *
Dubois
Martin Dubois stirred his coffee, tasted it, then added another sweetener. As he lifted the cup to his lips, he looked over the rim at the clock. Eleven twenty-nine. He'd wait until eleven thirty-five, no longer. Maybe eleven forty, but only if he didn't finish his coffee before that. He drank slower.
The message had come in last night. An e-mail, sent to his personal account.
Missing a witness? We have her but I think you'd rather have the man who tried to kill her. If so, we can deliver. This is a private transaction. You'll get your man and all the credit, and we'll ask for very little in return.
If you wish to discuss this further, please respond to the e-mail address at the bottom with a time and place.
Attached to the e-mail was a photo of a bloodied garrote wire. No one knew that's what the killer had tried to use. The kids thought he'd been strangling her with a rope, which hadn't explained her bloodied hands. The wire looked like the same gauge used on the Lee woman. That made sense.
He'd tried to trace the e-mail, of course--using what resources he could without arousing suspicion--but the trail ended at a dead account. So he'd done the only thing he could: responded with a time and place. Here and now.
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They'd expected him to come alone. He hadn't, of course. He was ambitious--not crazy. But he'd told the young agent accompanying him only that he was meeting a witness in a public place and wanted backup, then positioned him across the room, where he could watch for trouble, but couldn't overhear the conversation.
Had it been any other case, there would have been a team of agents with him, ready to take into custody whoever showed up. But this was the case of a lifetime, one that every agent dreamed of--a dream that was fast turning into a nightmare.
They hadn't blamed him for the Chicago killing. That had been his free swing. Then he'd had his entire team on a train to California...and the killer took a victim in Nebraska. Strike one. So he'd pulled them back into the investigation, and sent a skeleton crew to organize security at the West Virginia parade. And the killer had not only shown up in West Virginia, but left an eyewitness who just up and walked away. Strike two. He had twenty-four hours to produce that witness. If not...strike three.
Now he had a shot at getting her. That would redeem him, for a while. But if he could go all the way? Bring down the Helter Skelter killer? That would hit the ball out of the park, home run, bases loaded...safe forever. He could ride the wave for a few more years in the bureau, retire with full pension, maybe even tour the lecture circuit.
The bell over the cafe door tinkled. He glanced up. In walked an older woman. White-haired, elegantly groomed, the country club type. He was about to look away when she caught his gaze...and headed straight for him.
Goddamn it. She'd recognized him. And now she was coming over to tell him what a horrible job he was doing, and someone had to catch this criminal and, in her day, by God, they would have nabbed him after the first murder, if not before--
The woman dropped something onto the table. The garrote wire. He looked up at her, his mouth open, but nothing coming out. She took the seat opposite his and shrugged out of her coat.
He looked down at the wire.
"It's clean," he said, because he couldn't think of anything else to say.
"Yes, the boys wanted to leave the blood on it for you, but if you get blood in a silk pocket, it just never comes out." She met his gaze. "You didn't really think we'd leave our girl's DNA all over it, did you?"
"Your girl?"
"Your witness?"
She was looking at him like he was an idiot. A twenty-year veteran, and he was gaping at a source like a rookie. He slapped down his mug hard enough to slosh coffee over the edge.
