“I don’t know.”
“He’s scrambling, trying to scare up replacements for the two men who got killed. That’s risky. Some of the people who do that kind of work are already in trouble. Their phones might be tapped, or they might decide that their best move isn’t to take the job, but to turn him in and get credit for cooperating. He’s probably going beyond his usual circle of acquaintances. All he has to do is miscalculate once—talk to somebody he thinks he can trust and be wrong. He’s in a rush today because he thinks we’re on the move.”
“That’s quite a detailed picture of somebody you don’t know.”
“The specifics don’t even matter. Every minute he can’t get to us means the cops might get to him first. The police are trying to find out who the dead men were. When they identify them, they’ll search their houses and cars, talk to anybody who knew them. All kinds of things turn up when the cops begin to look closely.”
“So we’re doing nothing?”
“I’m giving him time to get unlucky, and time to make mistakes, and time to get betrayed. If his name turns up, we’ll get a picture and you’ll identify him.”
“I don’t know if that will help. Even if I’m sure he’s Kit’s old boyfriend, I can’t prove he’s behind everything.”
“Things have changed. Six years ago, you had a theory that Kit Stoddard might have been a victim. This time we’ve got murders we can prove happened. This time if we find out who this guy is, he’s got a problem.”
She rested her hand on his shoulder and gave it an affectionate squeeze. “You’re something, Jack. You always make things sound good. You give me strength.” She stood and walked into her room.
Jack Till sat on his bed and closed his eyes. It had almost sounded as though she was telling him she cared about him. She was beautiful, and that made it difficult to interpret what she said. It was just as likely that she was telling him gently that she knew he was manipulating her. She knew that he had been a homicide detective, and she knew that he had spent a whole career getting people to tell him things that they didn’t want to.
At six, she came in while he was talking to Poliakoff again. She sat down in the chair beside the window and waited until the call ended. Then she said, “Anything new?”
“A few things. The two men who were waiting for us at the courthouse have been identified. Their prints were in the NCIC database. One was either Ralph or Raphael DeLoza, depending upon which part of his rap sheet you’re reading, age thirty-one. The other is Martin Osterwald, age twenty-nine. Have you heard either name before?”
“No.”
“I didn’t think you would have. They apparently weren’t the kind of people who went to Banque. But eventually we’ll look at their pictures, in case we saw them somewhere.”
“Okay. When we’re there, we can do that. Are you getting hungry?”
“I guess I am.”
“Want to go out to dinner? I’ll take you.”
He hesitated. They both knew that whatever happened, she was very likely to be traveling soon, building another false identity and living on whatever cash she had managed to take with her until she was settled again. He didn’t want her to pay for anything, but he didn’t have a way to prevent her that would spare her feelings.
“If you’re hoping for a better date to call up at the last minute, I’ll understand.”
“No, I’ve been waiting for you to offer. It must be at least an hour or two since lunch.”
“You’re a man of incredible self-discipline to keep from saying anything.”
“Where would you like to go? What sort of place?”
“I’ve lost track of the restaurant scene over the years, but saw a restaurant in the tourist magazine in my room that I’ve heard of. And I liked the pictures.” She handed him a sheet from the hotel’s scratch pad with the word Aimee’s and an address.
“Did they have a phone number?”
“They did, and they do. I already called it and made a reservation in the name of Harvey. Presumably you’re Harvey. Now get showered and dressed. You could use a shave, too, Harvey.”
“White tie and tails?”
“A clean shirt would be nice. It doesn’t knock a girl off her feet, but you’ll have to accept me with feet. I’ll see you in about a half hour.” She turned and walked into her room. After a moment, he heard the shower.
Till went to his closet to examine his options. He had a fresh sport coat. He looked in his suitcase and found that he still had a couple of clean dress shirts. He showered and shaved twice, making himself as well-groomed and appealing as he could.
He gave himself a last examination in the mirror. He was always startled when he saw that he no longer looked the way he felt. He supposed that he looked like what he was: a man in his forties who had spent his adult life carrying a gun for a living. His eyes looked cold and watchful, and the wrinkles at the corners and on his forehead were no longer faint crinkles, but sculpted lines.
He heard Wendy come into his room, so he stepped to the bathroom door and looked out at her. She was wearing a simple black cocktail dress that fit her perfectly and made her light skin look like porcelain.
“You look great.”
“Thank you.” She gave him a quick, perfunctory curtsy.
He stepped out, took his sport coat off the hanger, and put it on. He looked in the mirror and he adjusted his cuffs and collar, then shrugged to make the coat hang correctly over his gun. He glanced at her in the mirror. “Actually, you look beautiful.”
“Thank you again. You look identifiably human.”
“It’s a step up. I can’t believe that when you were throwing stuff into a suitcase to leave town, you brought a dress like that.”
She looked down at it for a second. “It’s funny how the mind works. I didn’t think I was going to have to pack a bag again, yet at the same time I knew the things I had that I would put in it.”
“In the bag you weren’t going to pack?”
“Yes. I had in my mind an image of everything I would pack and knew just where it was. Does that make sense?”
“I guess it does. You knew what looked good.”
“I don’t know if that was it, exactly. I just had a sense of the things that would make me feel stronger, more able to go places. Maybe something inside me was reminding me that I had to be ready to move on. A little black cocktail dress takes up almost no space.”
He opened the door to the hallway, leaned against it, and stayed there to hold it open for her while he looked up and down the hallway in both directions. Her eye caught his, and he realized that she had seen him scanning. When he spoke, it was to change the subject. “You said you picked this restaurant partly because of the pictures. What were they?”
She smiled. “The food looked believable.”
“Believable?”
“Yes. You know—not a picture of three waiters in tuxedos and a sexy hostess grinning while they set a thirty-pound rib roast and a forty-pound world-record lobster on a table for two. This one had a picture of a nice room, an unassuming piece of grilled halibut, and a glass of wine. I can believe that if we walk in there, we’ll get something not too far from that.”
Till took a few seconds to scan the parking lot before he opened the door for her, but she didn’t say anything about his precautions. He led her to a blue Cadillac.
“Where did you get this car?”
“Same place as the last one. Before we went for our walk I called the agency and had a guy drive this one here and take the other one back.”
“Why?”
“Because I could.” He opened her door for her.
She stopped without getting in. “Is this a bad idea?”
“Going out for dinner?”