“For energy,” he’d said.
When he had his heart attack a while back, he was the only one who seemed surprised.
“I thought we had an unspoken agreement, Jack.” He’s taken on a superior tone. “You don’t question my eating habits, I pretend to ignore it when you make kissy-face on the phone.”
“I don’t make kissy-face on the phone.”
“Yes you do. And for your information, this power bar does contain fiber. It’s in the caramelized peanuts.”
I snort. “The wrapper has more fiber.”
“I’m eating that next.”
This long-dead horse has been beaten many times, so I change the subject. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking about the last crime scene?”
Herb’s turn to snort. “Yeah. Welcome to amateur night.”
I drum my fingers on the steering wheel. “What kind of shooter grinds the engraving off the bottom of his bullets? Think about the misfires.”
“He should be more worried about shooting himself in the face while he’s filing it down. A pro would simply pick up his brass.”
“A pro would also know we would find the slug. Hell, anyone who watched TV knows the word
I left the cartridge with Rogers to take to the crime lab. He ID’ed it by sight, without needing to use acid etching to bring out the markings. A.338 Lapua Magnum. A caliber specifically designed for sniping, and hopefully unique enough to be able to track. I have a team doing just that.
“And did you see his hide?” Herb shakes his head. “Can you imagine the guy, squatting in a bush, facing the sidewalk?”
If you want someone dead, it’s relatively easy to ring his doorbell and shoot him in the chest when he answers. Much easier than shooting him from two hundred yards down the street at a scheduled time.
“This isn’t just about the death,” I say. “This is a game. A bunch of knuckleheads playing soldier, getting their kicks shooting sex offenders long distance.”
I leave the next part of my thought unspoken – that a knucklehead could kill you just as easily as a pro. In some cases, they’re even more dangerous. Soldiers are taught patience and discipline. An amateur takes unnecessary chances and makes big mistakes, exposing more people to risk. This TUHC group might be easier to track down than an expert hired gun, but they might also hurt a lot of innocents before that happens.
My phone rings again. I find it on my seat without taking my eyes off the road.
“Daniels.”
“Is this Jacqueline Daniels?”
A female voice, rote and professional.
“Yes. Who is this?”
“This is the Heathrow Facility, you’re on the list of people to inform.”
The Heathrow Facility is a maximum security center for the criminally insane. I’ve sent a few people there over the years. The arresting officer is always called if one of the inmates dies. They’re also called when an inmate is released, or escapes.
“Who is this regarding?” I ask.
“Alexandra Kork.”
A feeling overwhelms me, like the shower has gone from hot to cold. Kork is one of the most dangerous people alive. I’d met her under another name, and her entire family consisted of psychopathic killers. She almost murdered me, and several people I cared about, in horrible ways.
“What about Kork?” The words are hard to get out, sticking in my throat like chicken bones. A dozen thoughts run through my mind at once, the most pressing being
“Alexandra Kork died this morning.”
I blow out air through my mouth, and my shoulders sag.
“It appears to be a suicide,” the woman continues. “She set herself on fire with some aerosol spray.”
That sounds like Kork. She’d kill herself in a horrible way like that.
“Are you sure it’s her?” I ask. “One hundred percent sure?”
“The body was badly burned, but we confirmed it with dental records.”
I picture Alex’s face, pretty as a model’s when I met her. Not pretty at all after we tangled. She’d gotten close, fooled me completely, made me doubt myself unlike I ever had before.
One of the things I’ve learned as a cop is that everyone considers themself the hero in the story of their life. Even bad guys who killed children and blew up hospitals believed they were good guys. Everyone can justify their actions. Everyone believes they’re in the right.
Kork was different. She knew she was the bad guy, that her actions were evil. It didn’t bother her at all. Or maybe it did. Maybe she finally realized what an awful person she was, and couldn’t cope with it.
“Ms. Daniels? Are you still there?”
“Yeah.”
“There’s no next of kin listed. Would you like us to release her remains to you?”
“No. The state can bury her. Thank you for calling.”
I hang up and pop a few more antacids.
“Are those mint flavored?” Herb asks.
“Alex Kork is dead,” I tell him. “Suicide at Heathrow.”
“World is a better place without her in it. Gimme one of those antacids.”
I pass the roll to Herb, thinking about the last words Alex had said to me.
It’s over now, Alex. You’ve haunted me in countless nightmares, but you won’t haunt me anymore.
Not ever again.
6:21 P.M.
MARY
“WHERE’S THAT PSYCHOTIC CAT you have?”
Mary Streng stares hard at Alex Kork. The woman who broke into their house is taller than Jacqueline, with broader shoulders. Her body is angular rather than curvy, and Mary can see the muscle striations in her bare forearms. Alex has straight black hair, shoulder length. This woman might have been pretty once, but the left side of her face, from her chin to her missing eyebrow, is a knot of pink scar tissue, puckered with patchwork skin graft zigzags and pockmarks from countless stitches.
“At the vet,” Mary answers. “Bitten by a dog.”
Alex winces. No – it only looks like a wince because the ruined half of her face stays immobile. It’s actually a smile.
“That’s a shame. Such a cute kitty, being mauled by a big, bad canine.”
“He’ll be fine,” Mary says. “The dog isn’t expected to recover.”
Alex sits on the sofa next to Mary. She’s tucked her gun – a small-caliber revolver – into the back of her jeans, which rankles Mary.
It’s true, and it hurts. Sharp as her mind still is, her body has grown old and weak. Osteoporosis is shrinking her. Rheumatoid arthritis has turned her hands into agonizing claws. Her figure, once a perfect hourglass, is now shaped more like the box the hourglass came in. What she would give to be young again, just for a minute, to show this young punk-
“Are you sizing me up?” Alex asks.
