"That kid was a sixteen-year-old girl," I said. "Who you murdered."
"I didn't kill her. The bomb did. She opened the grill, and no one was supposed to do that. But she did, and again, boom. Sheila's hair? Gone."
"You--" I began, barely able to get the word out.
"Okay," Howard cut in. "You didn't mean to kill anyone. I get that. So, yes, I'm going to let you leave." He turned to me. "Stand down, Nancy."
I clenched my teeth. I knew Howard was right. Just lower my gun, let Victor walk away and then give chase. I could catch him easily enough. Still, after what he just said, it took everything in me to force my gun down, inch by inch.
"She's going to shoot me," Victor said, and he sounded so much like a petulant child that I really did want to prove him right.
I holstered my gun instead and said, "Go on."
He lowered his foot over the wire. His eyes never left mine. I stayed as calm as I could, my hand away from my gun, giving him no reason to do anything except leave. He put one foot down. Then he brought the other over and placed it on the first rung. He lowered himself down one rung . . . and stopped.
"You're going to come after me," he said, still watching me.
"Vic?" Howard said. "I've got this. You're fine."
"I want her gun." He glanced at Howard. "Yours, too. Give me the guns, and I'll leave."
"Victor . . ." Howard began.
"Sure," I said. "He can have my gun. I get the bullets. He gets the gun."
"Fine," Howard said. He took out his weapon.
I unholstered mine and started opening the chamber. And then we heard a sound. The distant wail of police sirens.
Victor looked at me. The son of a bitch looked right at me and then reached for the tripwire.
I slapped the chamber and aimed at his forehead.
"Stop," I said.
He kept reaching. Kept looking right at me and kept reaching. I heard Howard shouting, saw him start to lunge and then realize he couldn't, that the wire was between them, and he could not get to Victor without setting off the bomb.
"Stop!" Howard said. "Think of your kids. Chris and Andi. Think about them."
"Oh, but I am," Victor said. "I'm thinking of how no one will ever know exactly what happened here. No evidence. No witnesses. Just a tragic misunderstanding. An innocent man, railroaded by some bitch who roared in here, thinking she could solve a crime."
"This isn't about Nancy. I'm the one who--"
"You're the one who couldn't resist a pretty face, Howard. You never could. None of us can, really. She talked you into this, against your better judgment, and look what happened." His eyes held mine. "Boom."
"If you touch that wire--" I began.
"Oh, I'm going to do more than touch it. You think you're tough, don't you? Just like Sheila. Gotta wear the pants. Show up the men. Grind them to dust beneath your heel. Well, girlie, you know what's going to be dust here?" He smiled. "You."
He reached for the wire. His fingers started to close around it . . . and I put a bullet between his eyes.
As Victor fell, Howard hit the floor as if Victor had managed to grab that wire. But I'd been careful. I'd waited until I was completely sure he was about to do it. He never touched the wire, though, and the shot sent him toppling backward down the ladder.
The sirens screamed louder now, the police coming fast.
"Give me your gun," Howard said. "Quickly. I'll say it's mine. That I shot--"
"It's unregistered."
"Shit!"
I was about to tell him I'd handle this--I'd find some way, even if it meant just running before that cruiser arrived, but Howard jumped over the wire and tore down the ladder and put another bullet between Victor's eyes with his own gun.
"There," he said as I descended, "I did it. I shot him."
"You don't have to--"
"I had the damned gun in my hand, and I never even thought to shoot him." He turned to me. "Thank you."
"There wasn't any other way. That's what I'll tell the police when they get here. You had no choice. You saved us."
He managed a shaky smile. "I'd rather not play hero when I didn't earn it."
"You did. You talked him down. If it wasn't for those damned sirens . . ." I turned and followed the noise. "Are those getting quieter?"
Howard strode to the front of the house. I was right. Those cars weren't coming here. Their sirens were already receding into the distance. Howard cursed under his breath. And just then, an unmarked car pulled up, and two officers got out.
"I'd better call Detective Lee," he said, "and tell her we're going to need more officers."
"If you can stall those guys while I hide my gun, I'd appreciate it."
"Sure thing."
Chapter Twenty-two
Nadia
Itold the story as I'd promised. It wouldn't hold up under close scrutiny. A coroner could realize Victor had been shot twice in the same place, and that Howard's bullet was still in Victor's skull while another one made that exit wound. They might also find the hole in the wall where I'd retrieved my bullet.
But Howard was retired, meaning it wasn't a police shooting, and I suspected no one was going to go hunting for holes in our story . . . or holes in the wall. The bomb was there, and the position of Victor's body confirmed our version of events. Our statements matched. I only hoped it wouldn't cause any trouble for Howard when "Nancy Cooper"--the Michigan-based bodyguard who gave that statement--turned out to be a ghost.
I could have left before the police arrived. Jack certainly wished I had. But I wouldn't put Howard in that position. I'd hidden my gun, which Jack later retrieved. I hadn't touched anything in the house. I was wearing the same disguise I'd been using since I arrived, one that matched my Nancy passport. That passport and all other ID would be burned, literally, in Vancouver, and I'd fly home under a new name.
Leaving right away would look suspicious. Angela and Howard still had my number, and I wanted to wait a day or two, just to be sure all was well.
Cypher took us out to celebrate. To the beach, not surprisingly. It's Hawaii . . . There's a lot of beach. This time, we were on the patio of an old hotel, listening to live music, watching surfers and swimmers on Waikiki. I was having tea. A full-blown English-style afternoon tea. That was Cypher's celebration reward for me, and I didn't take umbrage at the suggestion that a female hitman needed a more "feminine" reward. It was very sweet and thoughtful, and I kinda loved putting on a sundress and a wide-brimmed hat and eating little sandwiches and sipping tea and feeling a million miles from the person who'd shot Victor Walling this afternoon.
Going into this, I didn't expect to actually pull a hit. I'd rather not have, to be honest. But under the circumstances, I was okay with it. Victor Walling had murdered his girlfriend and an innocent teenage girl, and he'd felt less guilt over their deaths than I would over his. He tried to blow up Howard, too, a guy who'd been willing to let him walk away, a guy who'd treated him with more respect than I could ever manage.
I wouldn't have pulled the trigger if Victor hadn't reached for that wire. But I'm not sorry I did.
"How did Angela take the news?" Cypher asked when I finally heard back from her.
"She's happy," I said. "She wants to see me in person to say so. Tonight, actually."
Jack frowned and checked his watch. "Can you do it tomorrow?"
"I suggested that. She's in court all day. I know you made dinner reservations but honestly"--I waved at my three-tier tea tray--"I doubt I'll get another bite down before breakfast. I'll meet up with Angela for a drink, and if you can reschedule the reservation for tomorrow, that'd be great."
He nodded, expressionless, and I tried to catch his eye, but he was busy eating a scone, his gaze on the beach.
Jack wasn't the type to get annoyed over canceled plans. Hell, if I'd given him the option of when I met up with Angela, he'd have shrugged and said it was my choice, and I'd have driven myself crazy trying to get a preference out of him.
When I did catch his eye, he frowned, head tilting as if to ask what was wrong. His hand found my knee under the table and squeezed, and I realized that, once again, I'd been fretting over a problem that existed only in my imagination. Even after three years together, I couldn't quite accept that Jack was as happy as he seemed, and there was part of me constantly on alert for the first glimmer of trouble.
I smiled and laid my hand on his. "I can try to reschedule with Angela . . ."
"Course not. Get business done. You're right. Wouldn't eat anyway."
I tried not to exhale in relief. I wasn't unhappy with the chance to meet Angela tonight. Just like I wasn't unhappy with the chance to stay another day in Honolulu, and not just for the sun and sand.
The solution to this case bothered me. But questioning it made me uncomfortable. I felt like the new kid on the softball team, who hits a dumb-luck home run to win the game, and then thinks she has the skills to question the coach's strategy. Yes, I broke this case, but it was not through superior skills, and questioning Detective Lee and Howard Lang's theories felt like ego.
I'd talk to Angela. Settle my mind. And I'd get that over with tonight.
I sipped my tea and then looked at Cypher. "She'd like to see you. Angela, that is."
He shook his shaggy head.
"I'm not pushing you guys together," I said. "She really did ask. Repeatedly. Including just now."
I turned my phone over and showed him her text.
Angela: Please tell my anonymous benefactor that I'd like to thank him, too.
Me: I'll try. But don't hold your breath.
Angela: I'm not.
Cypher rubbed his mouth. "Can you convince her it's not me?"
"I've tried. She knows."
"Try again. Tell her she's made a mistake. Tell her . . ." He threw up his hands. "Make something up. You're good at that. Make up a story for her."
"Or, maybe, you could just come with me tonight."
He shook his head again. "I can't."
"Because . . ."
"It's complicated. Now drink your damned tea."
"Yes, sir."
I was supposed to meet Angela at nine after she finished work. I'd offered to come by the office, but she'd picked a bar on the beach, one much closer to my hotel. She'd meet me there.
I went to the bar early, staked out a patio table overlooking the tiki-torch-lit beach, and I tried to enjoy a pina colada. I didn't quite succeed. I was too busy thinking.
Yes, Victor Walling murdered Cherise Hale and Sara Atom. He had confessed to those crimes. But the earlier ones--Mindy Lang and Albert Kim--didn't make sense.
With both Cherise and Sara, Victor said he was only trying to spook people, and the evidence supported that. But Mindy and Judge Kim had clearly been murdered, and Victor had no reason to kill them. While Judge Kim had overseen an earlier motion in the Walling custody case, he'd actually reprimanded Sheila, not Victor. And Mindy had been the cause of that reprimand . . . in Victor's favor.
The time span between "suspecting Victor" and "catching Victor" had been too short for me to pull back earlier and consider whether he worked as a suspect in all four deaths. He fit the last two, and so we'd figure out the rest later. But now no one seemed to be questioning him as the sole perpetrator. Which made me feel like that overconfident home run player questioning the pros. I didn't have the full case files. I'd barely done any investigative work. There must be aspects of the case that I just didn't know about.
Either way, did it matter, really? Victor had set the bomb for Atom. He'd planted the one in Angela's car, with Sheila's hair. Therefore Victor had been the threat to Angela, and he was gone. My job was complete.
That's what Jack would say. It's what Cypher would say. So I didn't share my doubts with them. As far as they knew, I was fine with the outcome and just meeting Angela for a celebratory drink.
Which was not why I was meeting her tonight at all. I needed information. I needed to test a theory that I liked even less than I liked questioning Detective Lee's conclusions.
I had an idea who might be responsible for the earlier murders. It was an outlandish theory with not nearly enough evidence for me to dare voice it. I felt ashamed even thinking it because the person I'd begun to suspect deserved my respect, not my suspicion. Total respect for selfless dedication to a cause. Now that I entertained this niggling doubt, I didn't feel like that overconfident softball player anymore. I felt like a two-bit thug trying to knock the pedestal from under a good person, just to bring them down to my size.
I was almost certainly wrong. But I couldn't leave until I knew that for sure.
When the server asked whether I wanted a refill, I realized I'd been sitting long enough for the ice to melt in my drink. I checked my watch. It was 9:20 p.m. I flipped through my messages. Yes, Angela said she'd meet me at nine. A glance at the bar name on the napkin. Yes, this was definitely the right place.
I sent her a text.
When five minutes passed without an answer, I called.
Her phone rang. And rang. And rang.
Voicemail picked up. I left a message. "Hey, it's Nancy. Just making sure we're still on for tonight. Give me a shout."
Another ten minutes passed. I sent another text. Made another call.
This wasn't good.
It wasn't good at all.
Time to pay my tab and get out of here.
Chapter Twenty-three
Jack
It was 9:10 p.m., and Jack had seen no sign of Angela Kamaka. He sat in a bar a few doors down from where Nadia waited, and he could see her on the patio, her back to him as she stared out at the water.
Every time Nadia shifted position, he tensed, ready to raise the drink menu and block his face. Which told him he shouldn't be here.
No, that wasn't entirely true. He should be here. He just should have warned her. Told her why he'd followed her. Why he was staking out her meeting with Angela. His phone weighed heavy in his pocket, needing only a single text to tell Nadia the truth. Yet it stayed in that pocket.
Victor Walling hadn't killed Mindy Lang or Albert Kim. That didn't make sense. The cops would figure it out eventually, but until then, Nadia was in danger. So he should warn her.
Yeah, it wasn't Walling. Not for all of it. Sorry. You screwed up. I know you tried, and you did great, but you're wrong. Let me take over now.
No fucking way was he saying that. Even if he worded it in the best possible language, she'd still hear: you fucked up, and I need to fix this.
Nadia had not "fucked up." Come tomorrow, when she relaxed and got some distance from what happened today, she'd see holes in the case. Today, she'd shot a man, and it didn't matter whether she had to do it, that still bugged her. The fact that she'd shot him before he blew her to bits, hell, she might act like that was no big deal, but Jack struggled to focus even thinking about how close she'd come to dying today.
Nadia would soon realize there was a problem with Walling as the sole perp, and Jack would have been happy to let it ride until she did. Then she set up this meeting with Angela and snared him in a dilemma. Did he warn her . . . and, in doing so, insult her? Or did he just watch over her? He knew option A was the smart choice. It was the choice she'd want him to make. Didn't mean he was making it, though. His head told him to warn her. His gut told him to shut up and watch.
One problem was that, in warning her, he'd have to admit exactly why he had a problem with this meeting. And she would not like that answer. Not one bit.
Jack didn't like Nadia meeting with Angela . . . because Angela topped his suspect list. In fact, right now, she was the only person on his suspect list.
Nadia liked Angela. She liked her as a person, and she liked her as a victim. Yeah, that last part sounded weird, but Jack meant that, for Nadia, Angela was the perfect victim. The exact sort of person she wanted to help. Someone who had risked her life, not for some heroic ideal, but simply because it was her damned job. Because other people needed her to do tha
t job. A very ordinary sort of heroism, which made it all the more admirable, because there would be no medal of honor in Angela's future. The most she'd hope to gain was more clients.
For Angela, though, those clients were a godsend. From those files he'd read in her house, he knew her firm had been struggling before she took on Charles Atom's clients . . . before she gained even more clients from that very public act, others who heard what she'd done and wanted her as their lawyer.
Not that she had killed to get those clients. That wouldn't make sense. Walling was definitely the one who set the bomb in Atom's grill. No, if Jack was right, gaining those clients had been happenstance rather than intent.
Yesterday, after the sex-club alibi, Louis Stanton had started spouting his own theories, desperate to convince Jack that he wasn't responsible for the murders.
"Someone should look into that lawyer chick," Stanton had said. "The one who took on the cases."
"Angela Kamaka?"
"Everyone thinks she's a damned saint, forgetting the fact she was screwing around with the first victim's husband."
"Howard Lang?"
"Lang couldn't keep his pants zipped. That's why they split. Rumor is that Mindy put up with his shit until he banged that lawyer chick."
"Okay . . ."
"Put the pieces together." Stanton had given Jack this look, like he was an idiot for needing it spelled out. "The two women get into a catfight over the guy, and the lawyer accidentally kills the wife and then realizes how easy that was, so she goes after the judge next. He's a judge, and she's a lawyer--he must have done something to piss her off. Then she thinks, Ah-ha, people think the deaths are connected to divorce cases, so what if I off this lawyer guy and take his cases? Then I'll make myself look like a target, so people feel sorry for me."
"She killed her own dog?"
Stanton had shrugged. "Maybe it barked too much."
Jack had dismissed that as a load of crap. Yeah, he knew Angela's firm was struggling, but that was to be expected for a new business. If that was part of her reason for taking on those clients, so be it. He wouldn't begrudge her the chance to make a living, especially if she was risking her life to do it. The rest was just random weird shit. Then Walling confessed to the bombs, and Jack couldn't help looking at Angela again for the other deaths.