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“You called Devereaux, didn’t you?” he asked Tucker.

“Sure,” she said.

“And you told him I was comfortably settled, with Harry Levine, in Amsterdam.”

“Right.”

“And you told him exactly where.”

“Of course, and that I wasn’t going to do anything about it until the next day. Oh, fuck!” shouted Tucker Poesy, still pissed at her own stupidity. Billy looked down the bar, in her direction. She waved him off. “Sorry,” she mouthed, since there was no way he could hear her from there unless she screamed again. Then she apologized to Walter too.

“Devereaux called O’Malley,” she said, having put two and two together and gotten four. “The sonofabitch. O’Malley gets her boy into action immediately. But he’s a fuck-up artist. You beat it out of him and then beat it out of there. All the while I’m sleeping in a hotel overlooking the canal around the corner.”

“I like that,” said Walter. “The canal around the corner. Sounds like a Dutch country and western song.”

He filled her in again on his travels with Harry. They had gone over this part in Puerto Rico, but Walter could never repeat things too much. Like an athlete, deep into an intense training regime, for Walter, it was the repetitions that were the key to success. The more a fact was scrutinized, the more certain he could be it was a fact. That brought them to St. John, and their first meeting. It seemed an uncomfortable moment for Tucker, but Walter was apparently undisturbed. She noticed that and it actually made her feel better. If he was cool with this, why shouldn’t she be?

“This is where Devereaux fucked up,” he said. “Can you tell me how?”

“Sure,” said Tucker Poesy, by now able to dissect this with the same detachment Walter had. “You were supposed to kill me. That fucking Devereaux-sonofabitch!”

“Exactly right, my dear girl. I was supposed to kill you. I’m sure you do your job very well, but messing around trying to fool me isn’t part of your job description. You were set up. Devereaux knew you were impulsive. He knew you’d make some kind of move on me-even though it made no sense. And he figured I’d kill you.”

“You didn’t have the document,” said Tucker. “He knew you didn’t have it. You would have been nuts to bring it with you. He sent me to get something he knew wasn’t there. But why did he want to get rid of me? Why did he want you to kill me?”

“He didn’t need you anymore. He either already knew where Lacey’s journal was, or was about to know. You had too much information. You were the man-or in this case, the woman-who knew too much. You may not have known precisely what Lacey had written, but you certainly had to know it was worth killing for.”

“He didn’t need me anymore? You mean he needed to get rid of me?” She sounded like she was shocked.

“Yeah. Cover his tracks. Loyalty,” said Walter, holding his hands out like the scales of justice, pretending to be Devereaux. “To you-or to me? Snap decision. Easy. You were an asset that had become a liability. But, like I said, that’s where he made his mistake. He had you figured pretty good, but not me. He was sure I’d kill you, but I didn’t. I let you go once I realized you didn’t kill Harry.”

“You took your sweet time about it.”

“Water under the bridge,” said Walter. “We’re in a tough business, you and me.”

“What now?”

“Devereaux killed Harry Levine-or had him killed. He tried to kill you, through me. And, no doubt, his plans eventually called for getting rid of me too. Everything in due time. It’s time now. It’s his time.”

“Let’s go get the little prick,” Tucker Poesy said.

The house on Kalorama Road was a four-sided, red brick Colonial, with double-hung windows and black shutters, dormers at the top and a beautiful, arched doorway. The neighborhood was as secure as any in the Washington area. So many important people, top officials and those with as much power as top officials, had chosen to live in the upscale Kalorama district of Georgetown. The enormous price tag on the property was no concern for Devereaux. In fact, he bought the house at a substantial discount because, as his real estate agent told him, “A lot of people think the place is haunted.” She had correctly pegged Louis Devereaux as a man who could not possibly believe such nonsense. With someone else, she might have left that out. Crazy as it seemed, selling a haunted house was every bit as difficult as selling one in which someone had been murdered or committed suicide. “These things must be disclosed,” Devereaux’s agent told him. “And when they are, buyers get a little skittish.” To his advantage, these ridiculous concerns served to bring the price down. Even his realtor could not have guessed, but Devereaux would have gladly shared his home with a ghost or two. For sure, it would have been their ordeal.

He arrived home about eight-his usual time. He went straight to his bedroom where he changed into a pair of more casual pants and a pullover top. He washed his face, brushed his teeth-for reasons he never came to understand, he had always brushed his teeth before eating as well as afterward-walked back into his kitchen to mix a drink. Drink in hand, he sat down in his favorite chair in the living room, grabbed the remote from the small table next to him and turned on the television.

“Turn the TV off,” said Walter emerging from the hall that led to the downstairs guest room and private office. He carried a gun, pointed at Devereaux. The television went dark.

“How did you get in here?” Devereaux was quite clearly baffled. It made Walter feel very good to see him as confused as he had been that night outside Il Localino.

“You mean, how did I get past your alarm system? Your wiring-probably installed by the folks you work for, or better said, the folks who work for you-and your backup alarm too? I could tell you, but it would only be new information you’d be unable to use. So, forget about it, Louie. I’m here.”

“What do you…” Devereaux caught himself before saying want. That would have been too melodramatic. It nearly caused a smile to crease his lips. Instead, he decided to wait on Walter. If Walter wanted him dead, he’d be dead already. So, he must want something more. Devereaux felt confident he had plenty of time. Keep his mouth shut, that’s what he decided. Let Walter show his hand.

“Did you think you could stay a step ahead of me forever?” asked Walter. “Did you think I was too old or something?”

“I thought I knew everything about you,” Devereaux answered. “Vietnam. All those special cases afterward. A lot of them weren’t quite as confidential as you thought they were. Hell, you were the perfect combination of skill, great skill, a skill never seen before and perhaps never to be seen again, and vulnerability. There was always something about you, bubbling just beneath the surface, something by which you could be had. You were a figure of literary magnitude. Walter Sherman. Phantom. The Locator. Almost too good to be true. I admired you. You’ve no idea.”

“At first,” said Walter, sounding as if he hadn’t heard a single word Devereaux said, “you figured it would be simple. Maneuver Harry into Tucker Poesy’s web, and she’d get the document for you. You thought that would work. I can understand that. I probably would have done the same. So, we’re on the right track, together, at the start. Right?”

“No argument here,” said Devereaux.

“But Harry doesn’t come, document in hand. And, on top of that, Tucker Poesy scares him off. Now, here’s where I come in. Harry’s gone. Someone close to him hires me to find him, and you-since you’ve obviously got me under your microscope-figure to piggyback on the deal. I’ll find Harry and you’ll have Tucker Poesy follow me. Simple?”

“Your point being?”

“My point? My point is this whole thing was a charade, a puppet show, and you were pulling all the strings.”