head.
Lopez, his voice flat. “I will kill you…it’s only a matter of when.”
Not when. Now.
“Get down…just in case—”
Chen was screaming. Around her, people were dropping to the pavement. The day was fading. Weirdly, she couldn’t hear the traffic anymore. Funny, but she’d never thought it would feel like this, heat where she’d been hit, a cold numbness all around—a weird pastiche of sensations as muscles went into spasm and her legs folded.
The next bullet sliced a gash in Chen’s arm and ended up in the bottom of the pool surrounding the fountain.
The sleet thickened, coating the sidewalk and turning the city gray. Chen pushed to his knees and peered over the top of his counter. People were still lying on the sidewalk. He could see the long dark hair and outflung arm of the woman he’d just served. After she’d fallen over the counter, she’d slid down onto the sidewalk and didn’t appear to be moving.
In the distance sirens wailed. Someone must have called the police and, hopefully, an ambulance. He clutched his bleeding arm, wincing at the pain, his attention drawn to the sleet-covered outline of the woman’s arm. She hadn’t moved in a while. No matter how fast the ambulance came, he didn’t think they were going to be in time.
Rico stepped out into the street, bracing himself against the icy wind. The guitar case bumped against his left thigh as he strode toward his car. A short, thickset man stepped out of a doorway, pausing to turn up the collar of his coat. The eye contact was brief and electric. Aldo Fabroni.
He ducked his head and walked on. As he strode down the street he could feel the older man’s stare boring into his back. He swore beneath his breath and controlled the panicked impulse to break into a run. He couldn’t get into his car, because that would give Aldo an opportunity to approach him and another point of reference to identify him, which meant he had to take the subway. He couldn’t afford to stop a cab, not while he was carrying the gun and with a homicide one street over.
Rico couldn’t believe it. He usually worked out of L.A., which was why he’d been chosen for this particular job. The client had wanted to make sure the hit was untraceable. In this business, secretive as it was, it was sometimes possible to trace the triggerman by asking around to find out who was available in the area to do the work. He had been the perfect choice for an East Coast job. Until Aldo.
He rounded a corner and stepped directly into the wind. Sleet pounded his face and froze his fingers. Shielding his eyes, he broke into a run, the ice-laden air shoving into his lungs hard enough to hurt. The sirens were closer.
As he dodged around pedestrians, he studied the street to orient himself. This wasn’t his city, but he had done his homework. There was a subway entrance a block away.
Seconds later the subway sign came into view. When he reached the entrance, he slowed to a jog, grabbed the railing and slipped, almost losing his footing and the guitar case.
Breathing hard, he steadied himself and took the stairs as quickly as he could with the awkward weight of the case. A train pulled out, gathering speed, as he reached the platform.
He checked the displayed timetable. He was going to have to wait.
Clenching his jaw, he strode into the men’s washroom, grabbed a wad of paper towels, dried his face and hair and wiped down his suit jacket. With any luck Aldo hadn’t recognized him. If he ever asked him about it, Rico would simply say he had made a mistake; he hadn’t been to D.C. in years.
When Rico exited the men’s room, a familiar figure was staring at the timetable.
His stomach sank. He put on a smile. Finally, his acting classes were good for something. “Hey, Aldo. What are you doing here?”
“I could ask you the same thing.” His attention dropped to the case. “No, don’t tell me. You’re in town for a concert.”
Rico assessed the hard greed in Aldo’s expression. He was a two-bit drug dealer and a fence, small potatoes all around, but he wasn’t stupid. “How much?”
Aldo named a figure. Rico’s stomach bottomed out.
Aldo grinned. “Don’t worry. For that price your secret’s safe with me.”
Five
Steve Fischer stepped into the FBI building. It was just after four-thirty. The office was still open, but a lot of people had left early, eager to avoid the evening rush hour and worried that the escalating blizzard might create further delays.
Dusting sleet from his jacket, he stripped off his gloves, slipped them in his pocket and produced his ID. “Cold night.”
The security guard checked his face against the photograph then waved him through. “Yes, sir.”
He took the elevator, stepped out into the corridor and found the office he wanted. The door opened as he approached, which meant he didn’t have to use his card and PIN number, which would record his presence in the office. He had a working agreement with the FBI, but Marc Bayard wouldn’t tolerate interference in his investigation, old friendship or not. A woman and a man stepped out. Colenso and Burrows.
Colenso held the door. Burrows gave him a speculative look, but it was more female than curious. She had only recently transferred into D.C. and was still working out who was who, while Colenso had briefly met Steve during the hostage situation in Eureka last year.
The door closed behind him. Aside from a light in one of the end booths, the field room was empty. Walking through to an interview room, he took a seat and waited until the occupant of the booth left. Seconds later, the lights went out and the door clicked closed, signaling that he now had the office to himself.
Strolling to Taylor Jones’s workstation, he sat down at her computer. The screen flickered the instant he touched the mouse. The computer hadn’t been switched off, as he had expected. It had been in rest mode, which meant that when Taylor had left the building to get lunch, she had left the computer on, the system open. Frowning at the uncharacteristic sloppiness, Steve withdrew a disk and a flash card from an inside pocket of his jacket and plugged it into the USB port. The flash card was larger than normal, about the size of a pocket calculator.
He inserted the disk and waited for the program to install. Seconds later, he removed the disk, unplugged the flash card and slipped them both back into his jacket pocket. Taylor’s security breach in leaving her computer on and unprotected while she was out of the building had just been solved. There was nothing to copy; her computer was clean. Someone had gotten there before him.
An hour later, he stepped into Taylor’s apartment. Pocketing the duplicate master key he’d had made several weeks previously, he closed the door behind him and thumbed on a penlight. He didn’t want to risk turning on a light in case Taylor’s mother, Dana Jones, had caught an early flight and was already in town, although it was more than likely she would go directly to the hospital.
He moved soundlessly through the rooms in case one of Taylor’s neighbors had caught the evening news and was nosy enough to check out who was in apartment 10A when the tenant was on the critical list.
The master bedroom was empty, the quilt a little wrinkled, as if she’d sat down on it that morning after the bed had been made. The quilt itself was plain,
