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“She’s on another murder case. They kill people in San Francisco too. Life in the Bureau is good so far.” I popped open the second of my beers. “I need to get used to the Bureau-crats, though.”
“Uh-oh,” Sampson said. Then he grinned wickedly. “Crack in the walls already? The Bureau-crats. Authority problems? So why you working so late? Aren’t you still in orientation, whatever they call it?”
I told Sampson about the kidnapping of Elizabeth Connolly—the condensed version—but then we moved back to more pleasant subjects. Billie and Jamilla, the allure of romance, the latest George Pelecanos novel, a detective friend of ours who was dating his partner and didn’t think anybody was onto them. But we all knew. It was like it always was when Sampson and I got together. I missed working with him. W
hich led to the next thought: I needed to figure out some way to get him into the FBI.
The big man cleared his throat. “Something else I wanted to tell you, talk to you about. Real reason I came over tonight,” he said.
I raised an eyebrow. “Oh. What’s that?”
His eyes avoided mine. “Kind of difficult for me, Alex.”
I leaned forward. He had me hooked.
Then Sampson smiled, and I knew it was good, whatever he was about to share.
“Billie’s got herself pregnant,” he said, and laughed his deepest, richest laugh. Then Sampson jumped up and bear hugged me half to death. “I’m going to be a father!”
Chapter 23
“HERE WE GO AGAIN, my darling Zoya,” said Slava in a conspiratorial whisper. “You look very prosperous, by the way. Just perfect for today.”
The Couple looked like all the other suburban types wandering around the crowded King of Prussia Mall, the “second largest in America,” according to promotional signs at all the entrances. There was good reason for the mall’s popularity. Greedy shoppers traveled here from the surrounding states because Pennsylvania had no tax on clothing.
“These people all look so wealthy. They have their shit together,” said Slava. “Don’t you think? You know the expression I’m using—‘having your shit together’? It’s American. Slang.”
Zoya snorted out a nasty laugh. “We’ll see how together their shit is in an hour or so. After we’ve done our business here. Their fear lies about a quarter of an inch below the surface. Just like everybody else in this spoiled-rotten country, they’re afraid of their own shadows. But especially pain, or even a little discomfort. Can’t you see that on their faces, Slava? They’re afraid of us. They just don’t know it yet.”
Slava looked around the main plaza, which was dominated by Nordstrom and Neiman Marcus. There were signs up everywhere for Teen People magazine’s “Rock and Shop Tour.” Meanwhile, their target had just bought a fifty-dollar box of cookies at Neimans. Amazing! Then she bought something equally absurd called a Red, White, and Blue Dog journal, which was prohibitively expensive as well.
Stupid, stupid people. Keeping notebooks for a dog, Slava thought. Then he spotted the target again. She was coming out of Skechers with her small children in tow.
Actually, the target looked a little apprehensive to them at the moment. Why was that? Maybe she was afraid that she would be recognized and have to sign an autograph or make small talk with her fans. Price of fame, eh? She moved quickly now, guiding the precious little ones into Dick Clark’s American Bandstand Grill, presumably for lunch, but maybe just to escape the crowds.
“Dick Clark came from Philadelphia, near here,” Slava said. “Did you know that?”
“Who the hell cares about Dick Clark, Dick Tracy, or dickless,” said Zoya, and hammered Slava’s biceps with her fist. “Stop this stupid trivia game. It gives me a headache. Excedrin headache number one trillion since I met you.”
The target certainly fit the description they had been given by their controller: tall, blond, ice queen, full of herself. But also tasty down to the last detail, thought Slava. It made sense, he supposed. She had been purchased by a client who called himself the Art Director.
The Couple waited about fifty minutes. A middle school choir from Broomall, Pennsylvania, was performing in the atrium. Then the target and her two kids emerged from the restaurant.
“Let’s do it,” said Slava. “This should be interesting, no? The kids make it a challenge.”
“No,” Zoya said. “The kids make it insane. Wait until the Wolf hears about this. He’ll have puppies. That’s American slang, by the way.”
Chapter 24
THE NAME OF THE WOMAN who’d been purchased was Audrey Meek. She was a celebrity, having founded a highly successful line of women’s fashions and accessories called Meek. It was her mother’s maiden name, and the one she used herself.
The Couple watched her closely, tailed her into the parking garage without creating suspicion. They jumped her as she was putting her Neiman Marcus and Hermès and other shopping bags into a shiny black Lexus SUV with New Jersey plates.
“Children, run! Run away!” Audrey Meek struggled fiercely as Zoya tried to stuff an acrid-smelling gauzy cloth over her nose and mouth. Soon she saw circles, stars, and bright colors for a few dramatic seconds. Then she finally passed out in Slava’s powerful arms.
Zoya peered around the parking garage. It was nothing much to look at—cement walls with number and letter marks. Nobody anywhere near them. Nobody noticing anything wrong, even though the children were yelling and starting to cry.
“Leave my mommy alone!” Andrew Meek shouted, and threw punches at Slava, who only smiled at the boy. “Good little fellow,” he applauded. “Protect your mama. She would be proud of you. I am proud of you.”
