"Any sign of the target?"
I received a round of negatives in my earpiece.
"The locale is too crowded. We'll tail him as he leaves, over."
That calmed me a bit. We could just hang back, take him down when he's back on the street, where there were fewer . . .
"I've got him." Benedict, from the third floor. "Taking the escalator. Dressed in green gym shorts and a gray sweatshirt with the sleeves cut off. He's also barefoot, over."
"Hold your positions. We will not engage until he's off site. Repeat, hold your positions. Over."
I changed directions, facing the escalator. A minute passed, and I realized I'd been holding my breath. I let it out, slow.
Fuller rose up out of the floor, seeming much bigger than he looked around the office. His manner was edgy, irritated, and his eyes darted this way and that. I squatted behind a display of bath towels, watched him through a gap in the terry-cloth layers.
He passed within twenty feet of me, beelining to window dressings.
"The target's on the fifth floor. I have him in my sights, over."
Holly had her back to him, absorbed in examining a valence. Fuller spotted her, quickened his pace. He reached his hands out before him, huge hands, at neck level.
I stood up, adrenaline surging. It was too far away to take a shot. I broke into a jog, hand going for my gun, and then skidded on my heels when Fuller put his hands over Holly's eyes and played guess who.
She giggled, turned around, and kissed him on tiptoes. Fuller held out his hand, and Holly handed him the Nike bag she'd been carrying. They exchanged a few sentences, another kiss, and then he led her away from window dressings, back to the escalator.
I spun around, absorbed in the price tag on a bronze floor lamp.
"Target and his wife are heading for the escalators. Going up. Everyone stand their ground, over."
I gave them half a minute's lead, then followed the pair up a floor. Women's Evening Wear.
"They're on the sixth floor, looking at cocktail dresses. He's picking one up off the rack, handing it to her. She's shaking her head. He's laughing. Now they're walking over to the dressing rooms. They just went in."
I examined my options. Keep my distance and wait for them to come out, or move in closer to make sure he isn't adding to his body count.
They seemed fine. No animosity. Smiling and kissing.
I decided to hang back. It was just a husband and wife, out shopping. Even as crazy as Fuller seemed, he probably wasn't going to kill his wife in the middle of a busy department store.
Right?
Chapter 20
He's ready to kill the bitch. The excitement of it makes him giddy, light-headed. As soon as she opens that door, shows off that pretty little Dolce & Gabbana dress, he's going to wrap his hands around her throat and squeeze until his thumbs meet his index fingers.
He knocks on her dressing room door. "You okay in there, honey?"
"Just a second. This isn't the right kind of bra, I have to take it off. You really like this dress?"
"I have to see you in it."
"I didn't know you cared about fashion, Barry."
Fuller grins, thinking about the corpse in the back of his SUV.
"There's a lot of things you don't know about me, dear."
Fuller wipes some sweat from his forehead, hands shaking. The store's swamped with customers, and there's no one chaperoning the dressing room. He'll be able to kill his wife in less than thirty seconds, and then slip out before anyone knows what is happening. Remember to take her ring and tennis bracelet, he tells himself. Might not hurt to stop at the jewelry department on his way out and max his credit card on diamonds. He won't get even half their value at the pawn shop, but he doesn't plan on sticking around to pay the bill.
"You ready, honey?" Holly's voice is like a dinner bell.
"I'm ready."
"The shoes don't match."
"I don't care. Let me in so I can look at you."
The door opens. Fuller goes in.
Holly smiles at him, the same fake smile she gives photographers.
"What do you think?"
Fuller smiles back, full wattage, his eyes wide and the muscles in his neck stretched taut.
"I'll show you what I think."
He reaches for her neck.
Chapter 21
I learned to trust my instincts years ago, as a rookie. If a situation didn't feel right, it usually wasn't.
Something about the eager way Fuller followed his wife into the dressing room set me on edge. I'd never met a man eager to play fashion show, and the quick way he convinced Holly to try on the dress made me suspicious.
"Change of plan. All units converge on the sixth floor, at the northeast dressing room. We're taking the target down. Repeat, we're taking the target down. Over."
I hung my star around my neck and tugged out my .38, which was happy to be free of its claustrophobic holster.
Several patrons stared at me, mouths open. I warned them to stay back.
Two steps into the dressing room, I heard gurgling and grunting. A muffled scream. I followed the sounds, found the right door. Locked.
I kicked off my flats, planted my left foot, and snap-kicked the door at knob level, grunting with the force of my effort.
The jamb splintered. The door swung inward. My gun came up.
Fuller had Holly by the throat. He spun her around, in the path of my .38, and I jerked the shot high, firing at the ceiling.
I recovered quickly, leveling the gun, bringing my left hand up to steady it. Fuller's massive forearm was locked around Holly's throat. Her face was a mess of tears, mascara, and spit, and her eyes were squeezed shut in pain.
Fuller was smiling.
"Hello, Lieutenant."
I aimed at his head.
"Drop her, Barry!"
"I don't think so."
His arm tightened. Holly went from red to purple.
My hands had begun to shake. I tightened my finger on the trigger.
"Dammit, Barry! We can work this out! Don't make me shoot you!"
I heard Fuller's shots a millisecond after I felt them, ripping through Holly's belly and slamming into mine. It was like getting kicked in the stomach.
I fired on reflex, my slug winging Fuller in the forehead.
All three of us went down.
The dressing room was carpeted, and the floor felt plush under my back. Comfortable. I looked down at my belly and saw blood and bits of flesh. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I realized my outfit was ruined, and that amused me for some reason.
To my left, lying less than two feet away, Holly Fuller stared at me. She blinked. Opened her mouth to say something, but all that came out was blood.
"Don't talk," I told her.
She nodded, once. Then she closed one eye, and the other continued to stare at me as her life left her body.
Behind her, Fuller was laid out on his back. His head spurted blood with his heartbeat, and I saw bits of bone tangled in his hair. His right hand was clenched around a bloody semiautomatic.
"Die," I whispered.
He didn't.
I heard screams, and then Herb's plump face was staring down at me, filled with anguish. I wanted to tell him not to be so sad, but I couldn't get the words to form.
He pried the .38 from my hand, and touched my cheek.
"It's going to be okay, Jack. It's going to be okay."
Not for Holly Fuller, I thought. And then it was getting too hard to keep my eyes open, so I went to sleep.
Chapter 22
When I woke up, Latham was holding my hand. He smiled at me.
"Hiya, sport. You got out of surgery an hour ago. Had two bullets removed from your abdominal wall."
I looked around, took in all the standard hospital surroundings, and then went to sleep again.
The second time I awoke, Herb was there.
"Good morning, Jack. How you feeling?"
"Stomach hurts," I said. Or tried to say. What came out was something that sounded like, "S'hurt."
"I'll have the doctor up your morphine."
I shook my head and tried to say no.