Exit Strategy (29 page)

“One dollar for every adult? That’s…hundreds of millions.”

Jack nodded and reached for his keys.

“How would he transport that much money? You can’t just pack it in a suitcase.”

“Doesn’t matter. Two hundred dollars. Two hundred million. Same thing. Can’t be paid.”

It took a moment to realize what he meant. “Because the U.S. government has a policy of refusing to bargain with terrorists. He must know that. Does he expect them to make an exception?”

“Maybe. Could just be a game.”

“Asking for money he knows he’ll never see? What kind of game is that?”

“Helter Skelter,” Jack said, and pulled open the car door.

As we drove to see Little Joe, I remembered what Lucy had said at the lodge, about a hitman turned serial killer, and how tough that would make things on the investigators. We’d dismissed that possibility. These were cold, clean kills, with none of the earmarks of random serial killings.

But, in setting up his calculated plan to hide the murder of Leon Kozlov, the killer must have encountered something he’d never experienced as a contract killer—the thrill of fear, the power that came with chaos and the chance to play God.

Jack said it did happen. Usually it was the new hitmen who succumbed and, even then, they didn’t fit the textbook definition of a serial killer, picking and hunting down victims, acting on some inner urge. They just didn’t give a shit who they killed.

If you’re willing to kill five innocent people to eliminate one potential problem, then what’s to stop you from killing umpteen more to get what you want? “What you want” could be two hundred million or it could be the thrill of playing Death. Or it could be a last burst of glory before you slide into your golden years. Doesn’t matter. You’re just shifting pieces around a board, patiently moving toward your endgame while the rest of the world holds its breath and awaits your next move.

Lyndsay

“So he comes home last night with this wrapped box,” Moira said as she plucked a brownie—her third—off the plate. “He hands it to me, and he’s all puffed up, proud as can be—”

“Aren’t they always?” Beth cut in. “As if they deserve a medal for being thoughtful.”

“Not a medal,” Lyndsay said. “A blow job.”

The other women snickered their agreement. Moira settled back in her chair and waited for silence, obviously miffed at the interruption of her story. That was enough. The others fell in line like trained show dogs.

As they fawned over their queen, Lyndsay bit into her brownie. The first rush of chocolatey sweetness filled her mouth. As it settled, the aftertaste came through, the faintly bitter chemical taste of store-bought baked goods.
Revenge is like that,
she thought. Everyone called it sweet, and it was, at first nibble. Then the aftertaste kicked in.

“—picked up the box, and it’s too heavy to be jewelry,” Moira was saying. “So I think maybe Ted’s trying to be cute again, putting something in the box to make it seem heavy. Then I open it up, and you know what I find?”

Lyndsay took another bite of her brownie.
Why the hell am I eating this thing?
she thought, even as she chewed it.
It tastes like crap, and I’ll pay for the extra calories, but I keep on eating. Just like revenge.

“It was a gun,” Moira said.

Tina screwed up her nose. “Are you serious? What for?”

“To protect myself, in case this Helter Skelter killer comes calling.”

The women let out a collective burst of laughter, and eased back in their chairs, all shaking their heads. Even Lyndsay, who rarely shared any opinions in common with her neighbors, had to agree. The thought of needing protection was preposterous.

They were safe here, and their husbands paid very well to keep them safe in their security-system–armed homes, in their ultraexclusive gated community, in this remote suburb, isolated from Seattle, and its big-city evils. Some of their husbands had guns, of course, but the women didn’t need them. They lived here, socialized here, sent their children to school here, secure within the gilded cage of Oakland Hills, venturing out only to shop, and even then traveling in packs.

Ted was an idiot. But Lyndsay could’ve told Moira that. Once she
dreamed
of telling her that. Just after Lyndsay and her husband had moved in, when Moira had snubbed her—never ignoring her, of course, that would be rude—but making her feel welcome while sniping to the others behind her back. Then she would’ve loved to say, “Hey Moira, your husband is an idiot…. Believe me, I know. I’ve been fucking the loser.” As revenge went, though, sleeping with Ted had proven as deceiving as the brownie—much less satisfying in reality than it had looked on the plate.

Lyndsay popped another chunk in her mouth and chewed so hard she heard her teeth grinding. As the other women nattered on about the Helter Skelter killer, Lyndsay gnawed through a second brownie.

By the time she finished, her gut was in full revolt, and she wanted to beg off staying to watch CNN, and find out whether this killer would meet his noon deadline. Who cared? She had bigger things to worry about—namely how to keep Ted from telling her husband, as he threatened to do if she broke it off.

But to leave midway through the killer-watch was out of the question. Lyndsay had fought for her place here, and she wasn’t doing anything to jeopardize it now. She needed to think, so she offered to start a fresh batch of coffee for Moira while the others retired to the entertainment room.

Once they were gone, Lyndsay gathered the cups and plates and put them on the counter. Maybe if she gave Ted a taste of his own medicine, and threatened to tell Moira…

Lyndsay snorted. Like he’d care. Like
she’d
care. Moira would probably be glad—one more dull wifely function delegated.

Lyndsay picked up the bag of coffee beans and turned to the coffeemaker. Holy shit—was that a coffeemaker? It had more switches and digital readouts than a space shuttle. Was this where the beans went in? Did the machine grind them in there?

If she lost Austin—No, she couldn’t,
wouldn’t
lose him. Maybe if she diverted Ted, found him a new lover. That was an idea. She could—

Liquid splashed as she poured the beans in. She peered down to see them floating in the water reservoir and cursed.

As she studied the space-age coffeemaker, something hit her in the back, hard enough to slam her against the counter. In the stainless steel side of the coffeemaker, she saw the reflection of a man behind her. An older man.

The distorted image looked like Blake, Tina’s husband, but when she saw her own reflection, blood flower blossoming on the chest of her white sweater, Lyndsay knew it wasn’t Blake.
Jesus Christ,
she thought.
I do not have time for this
. Then her knees buckled, and she hit the floor.

He looked down at the body at his feet. A young blond woman, cover-model gorgeous with centerfold tits. Amazing what money could buy. He wondered whether two hundred million would buy him one of those, and almost laughed. Two hundred million would buy him one for every day of the week…and extras for Saturday night. Too bad he’d never see the money.

He could hear the women chattering in the other room. So close and yet, at the first click of an Italian leather pump, he could be through the pantry, and out the back door. Unbelievable how easy it had been, even in a place that sold security as a way of life. Disappointingly easy.

He took two things from his pocket—a page from
Helter Skelter
and a dollar bill. He bent to put the page in her pocket, then stopped. Did he really need this calling card anymore? No. The Feds would know it was him—the act itself was proof enough. So he kept the page, but dropped the dollar bill, letting it flutter down onto the dead woman.

THIRTY-ONE

When we reached Little Joe’s retirement home, Jack parked in the side lot; the one reserved for overflow guests. The regular lot was almost empty, so I didn’t know why he chose that one.

To get to the place, we had to take a path through a patch of woods. Jack was at the trail’s edge before he realized I wasn’t behind him. He waved—as if I might not have understood that I was supposed to follow. When I didn’t move, he walked back to the car. I rolled down my window.

“I like my life, Jack. Sure, it’s a little screwy, but I’d really like to keep it for a while longer. Going in there, after the last time, doesn’t seem the best way to prolong my term on this earth.”

He opened the car door. I didn’t move.

“You trust me?” he asked.

“Sure, but—”

“Then get out. I’m going to fix this.”

“That fix doesn’t involve prematurely ending the life of a Mafia don’s brother, does it?”

A look. That’s all he gave me. Just a look.

I threw up my hands. “Well, I had to ask. The last time I had a run-in with Little Joe, it ended with body disposal, and I like to be prepared.”

He headed for the home.

There were three people at the front desk—a nurse, a receptionist and a young man who looked like an orderly. They were so engrossed in their conversation they didn’t notice us come in.

“—think he’ll do it?” the receptionist was saying.

“Of course he will. He has to. Otherwise, no one will take him seriously.” The orderly glanced at the wall clock. “Right now, someone, somewhere is enjoying the last few minutes of their life.”

“Someone, somewhere is always enjoying the last few minutes of their life,” the nurse snapped. “Hundreds of people will die in the next ten minutes, and if we start panicking over that one, we’re giving him exactly what he wants.”

The Helter Skelter killer. What else would they be talking about as the clock hands hit noon, reminding me that no matter how close we got, it would be too late for at least one person.

My throat tightened, breath catching, as if the oxygen content in the room had plummeted. Jack’s hand tightened on my elbow.

“We’re here to see Joe Nikolaev,” he said with a standard midwestern accent.

The receptionist and the orderly both glared at him for disrupting their death watch. As the nurse turned off the radio, the orderly looked from Jack to me, then scurried off, probably to find another radio. Jack’s gaze followed him.

“I’m sorry,” the nurse said. “I’m afraid Mr. Nikolaev is no longer with us.”

“No longer—?” I began. “Oh—oh, geez. We hadn’t heard. When did it happen?”

The receptionist sputtered a laugh, covering her mouth as she did.

The nurse glared at her, then turned a wry smile on us. “I’m sorry. We need to be careful what we say in this business, don’t we? I meant he’s not here anymore—at the home. His family took him out yesterday.” She lowered her voice. “He didn’t seem too happy about it.”

“Caused a real uproar,” the receptionist muttered.

“Transition can be difficult at that age,” the nurse said. “I’m sure Joseph will adjust.”

That hitman Joe sent after me had said Boris Nikolaev had had enough of his brother’s screw-ups, the same thing Evelyn had heard. If Boris had found out about Joe’s slip of the tongue—and the failed hit—well, then the only thing Little Joe would be adjusting to was life at the bottom of a six-foot hole.