later?”
“Yes.” Reynolds looked away. “Another woman. Younger than this one. Harder to get at. Harder to take down.”
“Gimme her address,” Shanker said, eager to please. “My crew’ll pop her, too.”
“One thing at a time. This other woman has to be approached with care. And ...” He let his words fade away.
Shanker waited, knowing the Man would tell him if he meant to.
“And when she’s taken care of, I want to be there.”
“Okay.” Shanker drew out the two syllables in an unasked question.
“I hired her, and she quit on me. Called me a liar.” Reynolds turned to him, and something in his face made Shanker almost flinch. “I don’t like that.”
“Okay,” Shanker said again, quietly.
Reynolds looked past him into some invisible distance. “I’ll be teaching her a lesson in loyalty.”
“You can teach her today, if you want.”
“Not today.” Reynolds smiled. His voice was low, the voice of a man speaking to himself. “Abby can wait. Sometimes the waiting is half the pleasure of it. You know what I mean?”
He didn’t. “Sure.”
“When I need this other matter addressed, you’ll be able to arrange it, I’m certain.”
“Absolutely.”
“And I’ll pay another five grand. With a bonus if she lasts through the night.”
“That’s very generous.” Shanker was thinking of Joe Ferris, who had lived for four to six hours according to the autopsy, though for the last hour or two he had been blind, deaf, unable to speak or move, capable only of feeling pain.
Reynolds stood. “I’ll let myself out.” Suddenly he was a charmer again, a neighborhood guy. “Great to see you, Ron. You haven’t changed a bit.”
“You too,” Shanker managed. “We gotta get together for dinner sometime.”
“Count on it,” the Man said, knowing as well as Shanker that there would be no dinner, which was just as well, because Shanker never had any appetite in Reynolds’ presence.
The door closed after Reynolds, and Shanker sank back in his chair. He thought about the two women. The second one, especially, the one Reynolds had called Abby. She’d walked out on a business arrangement, he said. Insulted him, too. Insulted the Man.
That hadn’t been smart. Whoever she was, this Abby didn’t have a clue who she was dealing with. She would find out, though.
Just like Joe Ferris did.
12
The air over Los Angeles was a grimy sepia tone, tinting the gridwork of buildings and streets below. Looking out the airplane window, Tess saw the Hollywood sign on a far hillside, the row of giant letters reduced by distance to microscopic text, a footnote to the city. She wondered why people made such a big deal about the sign. It was only the remnant of someone’s advertising promotion—for a housing development called Hollywoodland, as she recalled. Denver boasted the Rocky Mountains, a wilderness of trails and fishing holes and granite peaks running with clear snowmelt. L.A. had a defunct advertisement on a hill.
All right, maybe she was overstating things. But she truly hated Los Angeles. With any luck her stay would be short and uneventful. She would find out what Abby was mixed up in, make sure she wouldn’t come to the Bureau’s attention, then make a graceful exit.
The problem was, she’d found that situations involving Abby rarely proceeded according to plan.
The jet touched down with a skid of tires and made its way to the arrival gate. She’d checked no baggage, choosing to bring only a carry-on case with a few items she kept in her office for overnight stays—a change of clothes, some toiletries, other odds and ends. She had worn her gun in a pancake holster under her jacket throughout the flight, an option that was not only tolerated but required when federal agents traveled by plane. In the world after September 11, a law-enforcement agent with a gun was the next best thing to an air marshal.
Most of the flight had been occupied by her perusal of the MEDEA
“Yes.” Reynolds looked away. “Another woman. Younger than this one. Harder to get at. Harder to take down.”
“Gimme her address,” Shanker said, eager to please. “My crew’ll pop her, too.”
“One thing at a time. This other woman has to be approached with care. And ...” He let his words fade away.
Shanker waited, knowing the Man would tell him if he meant to.
“And when she’s taken care of, I want to be there.”
“Okay.” Shanker drew out the two syllables in an unasked question.
“I hired her, and she quit on me. Called me a liar.” Reynolds turned to him, and something in his face made Shanker almost flinch. “I don’t like that.”
“Okay,” Shanker said again, quietly.
Reynolds looked past him into some invisible distance. “I’ll be teaching her a lesson in loyalty.”
“You can teach her today, if you want.”
“Not today.” Reynolds smiled. His voice was low, the voice of a man speaking to himself. “Abby can wait. Sometimes the waiting is half the pleasure of it. You know what I mean?”
He didn’t. “Sure.”
“When I need this other matter addressed, you’ll be able to arrange it, I’m certain.”
“Absolutely.”
“And I’ll pay another five grand. With a bonus if she lasts through the night.”
“That’s very generous.” Shanker was thinking of Joe Ferris, who had lived for four to six hours according to the autopsy, though for the last hour or two he had been blind, deaf, unable to speak or move, capable only of feeling pain.
Reynolds stood. “I’ll let myself out.” Suddenly he was a charmer again, a neighborhood guy. “Great to see you, Ron. You haven’t changed a bit.”
“You too,” Shanker managed. “We gotta get together for dinner sometime.”
“Count on it,” the Man said, knowing as well as Shanker that there would be no dinner, which was just as well, because Shanker never had any appetite in Reynolds’ presence.
The door closed after Reynolds, and Shanker sank back in his chair. He thought about the two women. The second one, especially, the one Reynolds had called Abby. She’d walked out on a business arrangement, he said. Insulted him, too. Insulted the Man.
That hadn’t been smart. Whoever she was, this Abby didn’t have a clue who she was dealing with. She would find out, though.
Just like Joe Ferris did.
12
The air over Los Angeles was a grimy sepia tone, tinting the gridwork of buildings and streets below. Looking out the airplane window, Tess saw the Hollywood sign on a far hillside, the row of giant letters reduced by distance to microscopic text, a footnote to the city. She wondered why people made such a big deal about the sign. It was only the remnant of someone’s advertising promotion—for a housing development called Hollywoodland, as she recalled. Denver boasted the Rocky Mountains, a wilderness of trails and fishing holes and granite peaks running with clear snowmelt. L.A. had a defunct advertisement on a hill.
All right, maybe she was overstating things. But she truly hated Los Angeles. With any luck her stay would be short and uneventful. She would find out what Abby was mixed up in, make sure she wouldn’t come to the Bureau’s attention, then make a graceful exit.
The problem was, she’d found that situations involving Abby rarely proceeded according to plan.
The jet touched down with a skid of tires and made its way to the arrival gate. She’d checked no baggage, choosing to bring only a carry-on case with a few items she kept in her office for overnight stays—a change of clothes, some toiletries, other odds and ends. She had worn her gun in a pancake holster under her jacket throughout the flight, an option that was not only tolerated but required when federal agents traveled by plane. In the world after September 11, a law-enforcement agent with a gun was the next best thing to an air marshal.
Most of the flight had been occupied by her perusal of the MEDEA
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