slept with him, didn’t you?” Rosie accused.
The call came into the payphone near the marina exactly when the man was expecting it—dreading it.
“Is it done?” asked the raspy voice.
“Accidents are dicey things,” he said, watching a float plane land beyond the line of boats. “Not predictable like more traditional methods. This will be a helluva lot easier with the direct approach.” Stealing the keys out of a desk—that had been easy. Pushing a car down a slope at exactly the right time to kill somebody—that was a gamble in anybody’s book.
“No,” was the immediate answer. “So you’re telling me that the status quo hasn’t changed.”
“She’s not dead, if that’s what you mean,” he answered, tired of the stupid game of refusing to name what he’d been hired to do. The chances of anyone listening to a conversation made to a pay phone from a pay phone were slim and none. “You want an accident, that’s going to take time.”
“And expenses on our clock. Mr. Lawrence expects results from you. I expect to read in the paper that a terrible accident has had tragic results. The sooner, the better.”
“And like I said, accidents aren’t that easy.”
“Let me put this another way, so you’ll understand perfectly. Mr. Lawrence is an engineer, did you know that?”
“Get to the point.” So he was an engineer. So what?
“He always ensures there are backup systems and fail safes.”
Which explains why he’s in prison, he nearly retorted.
“If a fail safe is required for this situation,” the voice continued, “you won’t be needing a single dime of the payment that was agreed to. Now, then. Since you seem to be unable or unwilling to think on your own, you will find a way to get close to her, and you will see to it that she’s involved in a very tragic, life-ending accident.”
The line went dead.
He stared across the water. A fail safe? A chill slithered down his spine. He got it. Somebody would kill him if he didn’t kill Lily Jensen Reditch. So far, he hadn’t been able to get close enough, which was only one of the problems with “accidents.”
As for thinking on his own, he already had an employment application in to go to work at the research center. He had enough of a chemistry background to create fire out of water, to even blow up a building. Plus, he knew for a fact he had the party-hearty merchandise a couple of the students wanted—they’d already made a buy from him. Trade drugs for a favor or two—a plan that was already in the works. Think on his own. What the hell did the old guy on the other end of the phone even know?
As the opening movement of Tchaikovsky’s Seventh Symphony swelled from the small CD player on the counter, Max Jamison, aka Jones, sat at the kitchen table waiting for a collect call. Depending on the length of the lineup to use the phone at the prison, the call could come in the next second or the next three to four hours. His gaze swept over the austere apartment he’d rented after arriving here a week after the double wedding of Dahlia Jensen to Jack Trahern, and Rosie Jensen to Ian Stearne. That’s a ceremony he would have liked to have seen, though he wouldn’t have been welcome.
The last time he had seen Dahlia, she’d believed he would kill her. She had shot him instead. Luckily for him, hospital prison wards were easier to escape from than prison cells. And now, unlikely as it seemed, here he was—seeking his revenge. Franklin Lawrence was going to pay for blackmailing him into kidnapping Lily’s sister.
Oh, he had done it, but he’d hated everything about it. After learning that Franklin Lawrence had since issued a contract on Lily, he had headed here.
A pro bono job—and his last. God willing, his sister would never learn that he had spent the last twenty-plus years as a paid assassin. He liked thinking how retirement would be, being with her without the lies about what he did or where he had gone. Enjoying his favorite music on his state-of-the-art system over coffee that had been ground seconds before brewing. Spending time with his niece and nephew.
The few dishes from breakfast had been washed and put away. The double bed that should have been hauled off to the dump ten years ago was made. The floor was swept, the battered furniture dusted. So, waiting was all he could do, just as he had done for much of his adult life.
He suspected that Lily believed Franklin Lawrence wouldn’t still be interested in her now that the trial was over. Max knew better. Men like that—men like him—didn’t let go. Since Lawrence was looking at a life sentence of hard time if his appeal failed, Lily still wasn’t safe. She might be with her family using her married name instead of her maiden name—but she wasn’t safe. Not yet.
Max’s cell phone rang thirty-seven minutes later.
“Yeah,” he said.
“Interesting proposition,” came a gravelly voice on the other end of the line, “assuming you’re J.M.”
“I am.”
“So how does this work?” the man asked.
Max wished for the more secure telephone line he had at his home. “If you agree to the job, I’ll deposit fifty Gs wherever you want. After it’s done, I’ll deposit another fifty.”
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