That was the question Laird had been waiting for. "The woman. She found you. Apparently, she's exceptional."

"Should have killed her when I had the chance. d.a.m.ned FBI."

"Actually, she's not FBI."

"What do you mean?"

"Her name is Dr. Kendra Michaels. She's some kind of psychologist. She consults with law enforcement but doesn't even carry a gun."

Briggs snorted. "She doesn't need one. She clotheslined Leon right off his motorcycle. d.a.m.ned b.i.t.c.h. And now you're telling me that because of her, I'm not going to get paid what I was promised."

"That's one way of looking at it. Or you could choose to take some personal responsibility."

"Screw that. You just told me it was her fault."

"She's definitely a threat to us ... and to you."

Briggs's eyes were suddenly narrowed on Laird's face. "You're getting at something. I'm not stupid, Laird."

He was very stupid. But he had a basic cunning that helped him to survive, together with several lethal capabilities that made him valuable to Schuyler. "I would never suggest you're stupid, Briggs. And a solution to our mutual problem just occurred to me. You need to redeem yourself and earn the rest of the fee you forfeited. While we have to protect our security in any way we can." He smiled. "I believe I'm going to have an important position opening soon. I may have an opportunity for you to better yourself, Briggs."

"IT'S ABOUT TIME YOU CALLED me back," Olivia said as soon as she picked up Kendra's call the next morning. "If I hadn't heard from you today, I was going to park myself on your doorstep and wait for you."

"You sound just like my mother. She just read me the riot act." Kendra sighed. "Okay, I should have returned your call, but I was busy during the day, then I'd get home too late. I didn't want to wake you."

"She should have read you the riot act. You knew that neither one of us wanted you to go along with that FBI agent, then you ignore our calls."

"I didn't ignore-it just happened."

Olivia was silent. "And what else happened? I a.s.sume you haven't found Jeff yet?"

"No, but we're getting closer ... I think."

"But you don't know?"

"It's become very ... tangled."

Olivia muttered a curse. "That's what you said when you were looking for those kidnapped kids. Get out, Kendra. Tell this Lynch to go take a hike."

"I don't know if he'd go." She paused. "I don't know if I'd want him to go. He's very sharp, and he can help me find out what happened to Jeff. I don't want to give up now."

"I was afraid of that." She didn't speak for a moment. "Look, I want my chance to talk you out of it. I'm coming over after work, and we'll have a drink and go out to dinner."

"I don't know what time I'll be home."

"Then I'll tell you what time to be home," Olivia said brusquely. "I'll be over at seven. I'll make dinner reservations at Alfredo's for eight thirty. Don't stand me up."

"Olivia, this isn't a good time."

"Anytime is good for friends to be together." Olivia's voice was suddenly soft and persuasive. "Come on, forget about all that FBI c.r.a.p and relax and have dinner with me." Olivia's tone changed back to its former crispness. "It's settled. After I have you half-inebriated and entirely mellow, we'll discuss your continuing with this FBI stuff. Bye." She hung up.

Kendra was shaking her head as she pressed the disconnect. Olivia was going to be very difficult. Kendra would have been smarter to have kept in touch with her during these days instead of making her worry. Now that worry had brought determination, and when Olivia was determined, she was a force to be reckoned with.

Of course, Kendra could skip the dinner at Alfredo's.

No, she couldn't. You didn't do that to friends you loved. She'd have to sit through dinner and let Olivia coax and persuade and amuse her as she always did. Her friend was always good to be with even when she had an agenda.

So accept, enjoy the meal, and try to convince Olivia that she was not going to end up as the basket case she'd been when the kids had been killed.

And try to convince herself at the same time.

OSCAR LAIRD STRODE ACROSS the alley and approached a dilapidated twelve-unit apartment building in National City. The place was more run-down than he remembered, but it suited his purposes. Not the best neighborhood for a stroll even so early in the morning, but he was more concerned about what waited for him in apartment 206.

Laird climbed the short flight of stairs to the second story. The building's dozen units-six on each level-faced outdoor walkways and a tiny gra.s.sless plot that was a pathetic excuse for a courtyard. He warily glanced around. Most of the units were vacant, and the complex's few residents appeared to be inside sleeping.

He knocked softly and used a key to let himself inside the apartment. He closed the door, but before his eyes could even adjust to the darkness, he heard Rusin's voice.

"h.e.l.l of a place you got here," Rusin said sourly.

Laird gaze searched the room until he made out a shadowy figure sitting on the floor. "It's not the Ritz, but we can come and go without being noticed. That's more important than a mint on the pillow."

"Not only is there no mint, there's no pillow. Or a stick of furniture. Or power. Or running water. What kind of operation are you guys running here?"

"An operation that no longer has need for this apartment. At least, we didn't think we did."

Rusin stood up and moved toward him. "Until I botched a job, huh?"

"It happens."

"Not to me."

Laird stepped back and opened the dated vertical blinds that covered the front window.

"What the h.e.l.l are you doing?" Rusin asked.

"Trying to get a little more light in here. I just want to take a look at your hand."

"My hand is fine. I sewed it up myself." Rusin held up his thumb and forefinger and showed him the precise, almost surgical, st.i.tching that ran down to the back of his wrist.

"Very neat. I'm impressed."

"I take care of myself. I'm a professional."

"The Dunn job was far from professional. I'm having to arrange to have the kill completed at the hospital." He paused. "And you blundered with Kendra Michaels and the child. That's unacceptable, Rusin."

"Okay, so send me on my way. I'll find plenty of jobs and clients who appreciate me. But not until you pay me what you owe me." He added, "And tell me what s.h.i.t was making those marks I killed sick. You only told me that I had to stay with them until they were dead and watch for any unusual signs of rapid disintegration immediately afterward."

"That was all you needed to know."

"Is it? I've been thinking about it, and Schuyler deals with all kinds of nasty pharmaceuticals. What if this was supernasty? What if it was contagious?"

"It's not contagious."

"So you say. What the h.e.l.l is it?"

"I'm afraid that's cla.s.sified information, Rusin."

"Bulls.h.i.t. If there's even a chance it's contagious, and it's in my body, it better become uncla.s.sified in the next ten seconds."

"I can tell you this. In the chemistry field, it's what is known as a catalyst."

"A catalyst for what?"

"It reacts with something specific in the bodies of each of your targets. Did you think we were so unsure of your abilities that we wanted you to stab and poison them?"

"It was none of my business. I once worked for a lady in Bangkok who wanted me to strangle her enemies, cut off their b.a.l.l.s, and shove them in their mouths. As long as the customer pays, I give 'em what they want."

"That's why I brought you in, Rusin. You're good."

"For an old guy, you mean."

"For any guy. It's just unfortunate we have to part ways." Laird pulled a thin wallet from his breast pocket and opened it to reveal a syringe. "Here. If it makes you feel better, the stuff in this syringe is used to nullify the effects of the substance. Not that you'll need it." He uncapped the syringe and moved toward Rusin. "If you'll just roll up your sleeve..."

"Get the h.e.l.l away from me with that."

"It will be fine. I've been a.s.sured this is an antidote to the-"

He tensed. "Step back, Laird."

Laird smiled. "I thought you wanted my help. Isn't that why you called and asked to meet me?"

"I'll tell you how you can help me."

"By all means."

"I have a doctor who is already on his way into town. He's on a chartered plane from Seattle, which you will be paying for. We'll meet him at the airport, and you're going to tell him exactly what I need. He'll get the medication and administer it himself."

"Aren't you being a wee bit paranoid? I told you it wasn't contagious."

"It's how I've stayed alive so long, Laird. You want to know my number one occupational hazard? Not the cops, not my marks, but my employers. Instead of thinking of me as a trusted business a.s.sociate, some choose to think of me as a loose end."

"Remember who you're talking to, Rusin. When my partners wanted to go with someone younger, I told them it had to be you."

"I imagine that those partners must be having some pretty serious doubts right now. You know d.a.m.ned well that the cops may have my blood, maybe even a witness."

"And we have every confidence that you'll cover your own tracks. That's just another part of your job, and you do it better than anyone." Laird raised the syringe and moved toward him. "As I said, you're in no danger of contagion, but I'm perfectly willing to send you on your way with a relieved mind. We've been working together for a long-"

Rusin struck his wrist with two quick chops that sent the syringe flying across the room. Before Laird even knew what was happening, Rusin had jumped behind him and yanked his jacket down around the middle of his back, effectively pinning his arms by his sides.

"I told you how this will go down," Rusin said. He pulled the Glock automatic from Laird's shoulder holster. "If you don't mind, I'll hold on to this until our business is included."

"If you insist."

"You're d.a.m.n right I-"

There was a tinkling of gla.s.s and the rattling of plastic vertical blinds.

Rusin grunted, his grip loosened and fell away from Laird. Then, as if his power supply had suddenly switched off, he dropped dead to the floor.

Laird peered down into the darkness and saw the hole just above Rusin's right ear. He glanced back at the window. "h.e.l.luva shot, Briggs. h.e.l.luva shot."

He fished around in his shirt pocket for the tiny Bluetooth earpiece that he'd been wearing for the entire time.

He jammed it into his ear just in time to hear Tommy Briggs laughing. "You were right," Briggs said. "He was definitely slipping. He never should have let you open those blinds. I did good, didn't I?"

Laird glanced at the building across the street, where he imagined that Briggs was already disa.s.sembling his rifle on the rooftop. "Just get your a.s.s over here. We still need to get him into a garbage bag and into the van before it gets any lighter." Laird turned back down at the kindly-faced old man who looked as if he might have fallen asleep reading his grandchild a story. It had been a busy eight hours for Laird, first dealing with Briggs, then getting rid of this aging and too-curious b.u.mbler. But damage control was everything, and they were on a very slippery slope and had to move fast to survive.

And that slope was getting even more perilous thanks to that b.i.t.c.h, Michaels. Smother the anger: they could take care of it.

They could take care of her.

LYNCH PULLED UP IN FRONT of Kendra's building at 9 A.M. sharp, and she climbed inside to find a large Starbucks drink in her cup holder. Lynch motioned toward it. "Venti skinny vanilla latte. That's your drink, isn't it?"

She picked up the cup and let it warm her hands. "You remembered. I'm impressed."

"I doubt you're really that impressed. I heard you order on the way out to Ocotillo Wells. I'm sure you remembered what I ordered and a whole lot more."

"It's not the remembering, it's the noticing. If you take the time and care to notice something and relate it to something else that has meaning to you, whether it's a personality trait, or another observation you've made at some time, the remembering part is easy."

"And what observation did you make about what I ordered?"

She smiled. "It was a hot day, and you ordered a venti chai iced tea. You kept your straw elevated squarely in the middle of the ice cubes, I guess to make your sips as cold as possible."

He wrinkled his brow. "Really?"

"You probably don't even realize that you do it. You push your straw lower as the ice goes down in the cup."

"What possible use could that information be to you?"

"In the context of a criminal investigation? Probably no use at all. It's just a habit with me. But if I saw your half-empty cup sitting somewhere, it might give me an idea how long you had been drinking it before you stepped away. I guess that could be useful in certain circ.u.mstances."

Lynch laughed and shook his head. "In a relationship, you must be what I'd call incredibly high-maintenance."