"And if you don't, it ain't worth shit, either," I said.
He turned his attention to Evelyn.
"You've got to understand," he said. "This isn't some nobody I'm dealing with--"
"Isn't it?" she said, taking a seat on the bed. "Perhaps he was a somebody once, but now he's a toothless old lion desperate not to cut his last years short. That's why he called you, isn't it?"
I glanced sharply at Evelyn, but her gaze was riveted on the hitman.
"You know then," he said. "So why are you asking me?"
"For confirmation."
"Yeah, it was Little Joe Nikolaev. He said you two went to see him yesterday and he let something slip. Something big. I don't know what it was, but he said if Boris heard, that was it. He'd shut him up for good."
So that was what this was about? That old hit Little Joe had let slip, the details of which I'd already forgotten?
For twenty minutes Evelyn prodded and probed, trying to find out whether there could be a Helter Skelter connection. She even asked point-blank if he knew anything about the killer, but it was obvious he didn't.
"All right then," she said. "You can't tell us what you don't know."
"I held up my end," he said, gaze lifting to hers. "Now it's your turn."
She nodded. "Fair is fair. Dee?"
I walked behind him, aimed the gun at the base of his skull and pulled the trigger.
* * *
TWENTY-FOUR
Thirty minutes of driving and Evelyn had yet to say a word. Finally, I glanced her way. "You think I made the wrong decision. Killing him."
"If you didn't, I would have. Let him live, and he'd only keep trying to finish the job. We humiliated him. In such a situation, there's no room for mercy."
"So the problem is...?"
After a moment, she murmured, "No problem. Just...interesting."
As soon as I got back, I took a shower. While I was dressing afterward, the hall floor creaked. One creak could be blamed on the older house, but a second told me someone was out there. I tensed.
I knew I was alone with Evelyn, but that was all the more reason for being nervous. I still wasn't sure how to interpret her trick earlier.
I pulled on my shirt, unlocked the door as quietly as I could and cracked it open. There, at the top of the stairs was Jack, his back to me, hands in his pockets.
I released the door handle. At the soft click, he turned.
"Back already?" I said. "Do you need--?" I waved into the bathroom.
"Nah."
I backed up to the sink again, leaving the door open. As I took out my comb, he stepped into the doorway.
"Did you find Baron?" I asked.
"Yeah."
"Okay. So we'll need a plan--"
He shook his head. "Can't question him."
A glance over his shoulder, head tilting as if listening for Evelyn. When I sidestepped, giving him room to come in, he did.
"Baron's dead. Shot himself. A month ago."
"Oh, geez, I'm sorry."
As the words left my mouth, I realized how silly they sounded. Offering my consolations on the death of a colleague he hadn't seen in years, and had suspected of being a serial killer. Yet he nodded, gaze sliding to the side.
I rubbed SPF moisturizer on my face, then scrubbed my hands and repacked my toiletry bag. "Are we sure about Baron? I know faking your death sounds like something out of a movie, but is there any chance...?"
"Slim. Talked to someone. Got the story. Looked it up. Found the obituary, picture. It was him. Other ways to check?" He shrugged. "No idea."
"Short of digging up a grave, that's probably the best we can do. Have you told Evelyn?"
He shook his head.
"We'll get that over with, then."
If Jack expected Evelyn to go off on her "see, I told you he was a loser" tangent about Baron, he was mistaken. She took the information in, said "Well, there's one fewer theory for you, Dee" and moved on.
Evelyn's source for Manson information had gotten back to her with a list of three possible Manson sons: a former Manson family member turned Nevada brothel owner, a drug dealer who boasted of an ongoing prison correspondence with Manson and a B&E artist who claimed to be Manson's illegitimate son.
"Door number three sounds promising," I said.
"He's probably bandying the story around to gain street cred," Evelyn said. "But we should look him up." She turned back to her computer. "What's the name on that sheet again?"
"Benjamin Moreland."
"State?"
"Right here in Indiana."
"Hold on."
Jack shook his head and sunk back into the couch. Five minutes of keyboard-clicking later, Evelyn stopped.
"Well, that's promising," she said.
She swung around from the computer and waved at a grainy, enlarged photo on the monitor. Jack and I peered at the screen. A thin, wide-eyed face peered back.
"That good?" Jack asked.
"You don't see the resemblance?" Evelyn said.
When neither of us answered, she sighed, retrieved the Helter Skelter book from the shelf, opened it to a page of photos and passed it to us. The guy did look like Manson, especially in the upper half of the face, through the eyes and hairline.
"Now, he could be trading on a coincidental resemblance to back up his story," Evelyn said. "But I'd check it out. DNA is DNA."
Twenty minutes later, she turned from her computer again. "I found Moreland. Seems he's currently enjoying the hospitality of a mental institution outside Indianapolis."
"So he's Manson's son after all," I said. "Or, I suppose, one could argue that claiming to be related to the man is grounds for committal in itself. Either way, it can't be him."
"Not so fast," Evelyn said. "We have no idea what kind of security this hospital has. If this was our killer, it would make one hell of an alibi."
She pointed to the screen. "He had a series of arrests in the late eighties, then nothing. Maybe he's moved up in the world. For all his fuckups, Manson was a bright guy. Let's assume his kid inherited those brains."
I glanced at Jack. "Do we have anything better to follow up on right now?"
He shook his head.
"How far to Indianapolis?"
"'Bout two hours." He checked his watch. "Leave now? Should make visiting hours."
We'd barely made it out of the driveway before Jack said, "Evelyn told me. What happened. At the motel."
"Ah."
He drove for another few minutes in silence, then said, "Something else, isn't there? With Evelyn."
"I don't think she expected me to shoot--"
"Not what I meant. About Evelyn. What'd she do?"
"Nothing I couldn't handle."
"Don't doubt that. What was it?"
When I didn't answer, he pointed at the glove box. "Can you grab--?"
I had it open before he finished. A box of American cigarettes nearly fell in my lap. When he nodded, I opened the pack and handed him one. Even lit the match for him. He nodded his thanks, took the first drag and made a face, lips curving in a silent oath.
I arched my brows. "Not your normal brand, I take it."
"Does it smell like it?"
"No, but I wasn't about to assume that what you normally smoke at the lodge is your normal brand." When he gave me a look, I shrugged. "Hey, if you smoked something different, trying to throw me off track, I wouldn't blame you."
"I don't pull that shit, Nadia. Not with you." He lifted the cigarette. "This? Just while I'm on a job. Other's too..."
"Distinctive?"
He nodded. "'Course, if I had any brains? Quit altogether. Worst habit a pro can have. Started quitting ten years ago. Got down to maybe one a day. Then...stuck."
Another drag. He shook his head and reached for the ashtray then stopped and held the cigarette out to me. I shook my head and he stubbed it out.
"About Evelyn," he said. "Whatever happened? Like to know."
He wasn't going to let that
slide, so I told him about Evelyn's stunt in the parking lot, then said, "So what was that about? Testing me or trying to go after the guy herself ?"
"Probably both. You spot her trick? You pass. You both go. You fail?" He shrugged. "Better to leave you behind."
He passed a transport, then turned back to the slow lane before speaking again.
"Either way? Fucking waste of time. You're pissed? Got a right to be."
"She likes games, doesn't she?"
"All there is. This investigation? A big game. That hitman? Smaller game. Testing you? Tiny game in that one. Like fucking nesting dolls. She pulls that shit again? Walk away."
* * *
TWENTY-FIVE
The nurse behind the desk worried her identification badge, the surface dulled from handling. She looked no more than twenty-one. From the way she flinched every time a patient walked by, this was the only job she'd been able to find, and she was counting the days until she could transfer.
"Mr. Moreland doesn't get many visitors."
"But he is allowed to have them, correct?" I said.
She shot a nervous glance around. I couldn't see the cause of her discomfort. There were no drooling, ranting, half-naked lunatics wandering the halls. The ID badges were the only way I could see to tell the patients from the staff.
"Mr. Moreland is permitted visitors, is he not?"
"Umm, right."
"And your evening visiting hours are 7 to 9 p.m., correct?"
A nod.
"Then forget this"--I gestured to my business card on the counter--"and consider me a visitor."
"Do you need a special room?" she asked.
"For privacy, yes, that would be best."
She fingered her badge and bit her lip.
"Is that a problem?" I asked.
"No, I guess not." She looked around, as if searching for someone. "Everyone's on break, but I guess--" She swallowed. "I guess I could take you."
So that was the problem. She didn't want to leave her protective cage. I hoped she got a new job soon...for the patients' sake.
After another worried look up and down the hall, she stepped out.
Nurse Nervous left me in a small windowless room that could have passed for a corporate meeting room. I studied the posters on the wall. Good taste on a budget. The furnishings were likewise a compromise between quality, comfort and cost: decent upholstered chairs and a sturdy conference table. A long way from padded rooms and leather restraints.
Outside the room, the silence was broken only by the occasional swoosh of a door and staccato clicks of staff passing by, their steps quick and purposeful. When I caught a whiff of cleaning solution, I thought of Jack and hoped he wouldn't have a problem finding Moreland's room.
While I waited, I ran through the list of questions I was going to ask Moreland. Basic queries, easily answered, none of which would reveal any hint of our suspicions because my main role was to get Moreland out of his private room long enough for Jack to get what he needed.
As footsteps squeaked down the hall, I listened. Voices drifted in, both female. The first I recognized as the young nurse.
"--ever tells me anything."
An older woman answered, her voice clipped with authority. The squeal of a cart covered her first few words. "--show up, demanding access to Ben, saying it's part of this horrible Helter Skelter killer mess. We've had to notify the director, round up every doctor Ben's ever spoken to, alert security--believe me, Angela, informing a junior nurse was the last thing on our mind." The women's footsteps receded around a corner. "Who did you say wants to talk to Ben now...?"
I nearly shot out of the room, but managed to stop myself at the door and crack it open for a quick peek before hightailing it out. I started marching in the other direction and got five steps before Jack swerved around a corner and grabbed my arm.
"Lawyer?" the older nurse's voice trumpeted down the hall. "Lord, that is just what we need. Where did you put--?"
"Fuck," Jack whispered, drowning her out.
Still clutching my elbow, Jack strode to the first door, checked it, then moved to the next. Another peek. Then he yanked it open and propelled me inside.
I caught a glimpse of brooms and buckets. Jack wheeled in, closed the door and the closet went dark.
"FBI," he whispered, breath tickling my ear.
"How many?" I whispered.
"Don't know. Just heard the nurses talking." A pause and he shifted, moving against my hip as he leaned toward the door.
I put my ear to the wall, but heard only pipes gurgling. The small closet made for very tight quarters. Warm, too. Much longer in here and we'd be putting our deodorant to the test.
The room already stank--of bleach, as if there was an open container or a small spill--and between the smell and the heat, my head started to spin.
"Hold on," Jack whispered. Like I was going anywhere.
The soft grate of a doorknob turning. A splinter of light lit Jack's face. He pressed his cheek against the gap, then pulled back. The light vanished and the door clicked shut.
"Nothing."
"You get some of Moreland's hair?" I whispered.
A shake of his head. "Don't need to. It's a match."
"Wha--?" I bit off my near-yelp of surprise.
"That's why Feds are here. Got a tip. Hair matches Moreland's DNA."
"Shit. So it was a plant."
"Yeah."
The word tickled my ear. He shifted, and his hand went to my hip for balance. As he breathed, that faint scent of the earlier cigarette wafted over me, and my pulse quickened. I told myself it was the smell of nicotine, but I suspected it had more to do with having a man pressed up against me, hand on my hip, breath against my hair...Like I've said, it'd been awhile.
Jack pressed closer as he shifted again, trying to get his balance or get comfortable. I could feel the heat of his fingers through my skirt. He leaned forward, listening, cheek a hairsbreadth from mine. I could smell him--the cigarette plus something faintly spicy: soap or shaving cream. He smelled very...male. When he moved again, his hand slipping on my hip, my imagination followed through where his fingers didn't: down my skirt, catching the edge--
I jerked upright. "Sounds quiet. We should go."
"Yeah." A moment's pause, then. "Nearest exit--"
"--is a staircase two doors on the other side of the meeting room, leading down to the first floor. There's an emergency exit right there, but it supposedly triggers an alarm. If possible, it'd be better to cut back across the first floor to the main doors. The only alternate route I see is to head into the basement and cut across to another stairwell."
A soft chuckle that reverberated along my back. "Good work. Basement's it, then. Hold on."
Putting his free hand on my other hip for balance, he opened the door and leaned into it. The sliver of light grew to a handsbreadth. Then he twisted back toward me, mouth lowering to my ear.
"Clear. Wait."
He took a broom from behind us, and eased from the closet, leaving the door open a crack so I could see out. As I picked up my briefcase, I looked down at my new pumps. Take the risk of someone hearing me clicking along the floors? Or the risk of being spotted in stockinged feet? I went for option two and slipped them off.
Broom to the floor, Jack swept briskly, moving fast. He kept his head down, concentrating on his work and hiding his face. The hall remained empty. A few feet from the end, he stopped and turned so his back was to the nearby nurses' station. Then he bent, as if to pick up something. As he leaned over, he peered under his arm, looking toward the station. Then he gestured for me to hightail it down there.
I crept out of the closet, closing the door behind me, and walked as fast as I could without breaking into a jog. I kept my face turned slightly toward the far wall. When I drew opposite the hall leading to the nurses' station, I caught a glimpse of two men in suits, talking to the nurse, their backs to me. I kept walking.
Ahead, Jack waited by the stairwell. As I to
ok that last step past the hall junction, one of the FBI men moved. I caught only the flash of motion, not enough to know whether he was turning to watch me or scratching his ass. I picked up the pace. Footsteps sounded behind me.
I flicked my fingers at Jack, telling him to get out of the hall. He stepped into the stairwell, but held the door open. Six steps, seven, and I was there.
Behind me, shoes squeaked against the linoleum, making a sharp turn. As I ducked through the door, Jack grabbed my elbow and pushed me toward the stairs.
He paused behind me, presumably to double-check. I didn't wait for the verdict. I galloped down the steps as fast as I could without stumbling. As I rounded the first flight, Jack fell into step beside me, caught my eye and nodded. The Feds were following.
I lifted my forefinger, then swiveled my thumb down. "First floor or basement?" I mouthed. Jack pointed down. Basement. Above us, the door finally clicked shut, only to whoosh open seconds later. Footsteps thumped across the landing. I shifted to the outside, where I'd be harder to spot, and Jack fell in behind me.
At the first floor, I motioned for Jack to continue heading down, then turned toward the door. He caught my arm, but I motioned that I'd follow in a moment. I jogged to the first floor door, opened it as far as it would go, released it and turned to race after Jack. As we rounded the midflight turn, Jack glanced up. The door I'd opened was slowly swinging shut, where the agents would see it and assume we'd gone that way. Jack nodded his approval.
Above us, several sets of shoes clomped down the steps at double-time. When we reached the basement door, Jack waved me against the wall. He opened the door slowly and silently. We slipped through and he eased it shut behind us.
We turned to survey our surroundings. A typical industrial basement: big, semidark, full of wheezing, clanking machinery. Helpful signs on the wall indicated points of interest: furnace, laundry, storage, deliveries. Jack jabbed a finger at the last.
As we turned the first corner, a grating squeal cut through the mechanical roar, growing louder by the second. We looked around. To our left was a hall lined with old office equipment. We took refuge beside a filing cabinet.
The squeal turned to a steady squeaking. Wheels in need of oiling. Seconds later, the sound began to recede. I leaned out to see an employee wheel a metal cart of laundry onto an elevator. We waited until the doors clanked shut before we took off.