Whistleblower

She nodded and swiped at the tears on her cheeks.

'I want you out of the city, first thing in the morning. Go to Mexico with Jack. Anywhere. Just keep out of sight.'

'What will you do?'

'I'm going to take a look at that roll of film, see what kind of evidence it has.'

'And then?'

'I don't know yet. Maybe I'll take it to the newspapers. The FBI is definitely out.'

'How will I know you're all right? How do I reach you?'

He thought hard, fighting the distraction of her scent, her hair. He found himself stroking the bare skin of her shoulder, marveling at how smooth it felt beneath his fingers.

He focused on her face, on the look of worry in her eyes. 'Every other Sunday I'll put an ad in the Personals. Los Angeles Times. It'll be addressed to, let's say, Cora. Anything I need to tell you will be there.'

'Cora.' She nodded. 'I'll remember.'

They looked at each other, a silent acknowledgment that this parting had to be. He cupped her face and pressed a kiss to her mouth. She barely responded; already, it seemed, she had said her goodbyes.

He rose from the bed and started for the door. There he couldn't resist asking, one more time: 'You'll be all right?'

She nodded, but it was too automatic. The sort of nod one gave to dismiss an unimportant question. 'I'll be fine. After all, I'll have Jack to watch over me.'

He didn't miss the faint note of irony in her reply. Jack, it seemed, didn't inspire confidence in either of them. What's my alternative? Drag her along with me as a moving target?

He gripped the doorknob. No, it was better this way. He'd already ripped her life apart; he wasn't going to scatter the pieces as well.

As he was leaving, he took one last backward glance. She was still huddled on the bed, her knees drawn up to her chest. The oversized shirt had slid off one bare shoulder. For a moment he thought she was crying. Then she raised her head and met his gaze. What he saw in her eyes wasn't tears. It was something far more moving, something pure and bright and beautiful. Courage.

In the pale light of dawn, Savitch stood outside Jack Zuckerman's house. Through the fingers of morning mist, Savitch studied the curtained windows, trying to picture the inhabitants within. He wondered who they were, in which room they slept, and whether Catherine Weaver was among them.

He'd find out soon.

He pocketed the black address book he'd taken from the woman's apartment. The name C. Zuckerman and this Pacific Heights address had been written on the inside front cover. Then the Zuckerman had been crossed out and replaced with Weaver. She was a divorcee, he concluded. Under Z, he'd found a prominent listing for a man named Jack, with various phone numbers and addresses, both foreign and domestic. Her ex-husband, he'd confirmed, after a brief chat with another name listed in the book. Pumping strangers for information was a simple matter. All it took was an air of authority and a cop's ID. The same ID he was planning to use now.

He gave the house one final perusal, taking in the manicured lawns and shrubbery, the trellis with its vines of winter-dormant wisteria. A successful man, this Jack Zuckerman. Savitch had always admired men of wealth. He gave his jacket a final tug to assure himself that the shoulder holster was concealed. Then he crossed the street to the front porch and rang the doorbell.

Chapter 6

At first light, Cathy awakened. It wasn't a gentle return but a startling jerk back to consciousness. She was instantly aware that she was not in her own bed and that something was terribly wrong. It took her a few seconds to remember exactly what it was. And when she did remember, the sense of urgency was so compelling she rose at once from bed and began to dress in the semidarkness. Have to be ready to run...

The creak of floorboards in the next room told her that Victor was awake as well, probably planning his moves for the day. She rummaged through the closet, searching for things he might need in his flight. All she came up with was a zippered nylon bag and a raincoat. She searched the dresser next and found a few men's socks. She also found a collection of women's underwear. Damn Jack and all his women, she thought with sudden irritation and slammed the drawer shut. The thud was still resonating in the room when another sound echoed through the house.

The doorbell was ringing.

It was only seven o'clock, too early for visitors or deliverymen. Suddenly her door swung open. She turned to see Victor, his face etched with tension.

'What should we do?' she asked.

'Get ready to leave. Fast.'

'There's a back door—'

'Let's go.'

They hurried along the hall and had almost reached the top of the stairs when they heard Jack's sleepy voice below, grumbling: 'I'm coming, dammit! Stop that racket, I'm coming!'

The doorbell rang again.

'Don't answer it!' hissed Cathy. 'Not yet—'

Jack had already opened the door. Instantly Victor snatched Cathy back up the hall, out of sight. They froze with their backs against the wall, listening to the voices below.

'Yeah,' they heard Jack say. 'I'm Jack Zuckerman. And who are you?'

The visitor's voice was soft. They could tell only that it was a man.

'Is that so?' said Jack, his voice suddenly edged with panic. 'You're with the FBI, you say? And what on earth would the FBI want with my ex- wife?'

Cathy's gaze flew to Victor. She read the frantic message in his eyes: Which way out?

She pointed toward the bedroom at the end of the hall. He nodded. Together they tiptoed along the carpet, all the time aware that one misstep, one loud creak, might be enough to alert the agent downstairs.

'Where's your warrant?' they heard Jack demand of the visitor. 'Hey, wait a minute! You can't just barge in here without a court order or something!'

No time left! thought Cathy in panic as she slipped into the last room. They closed the door behind them.

'The window!' she whispered.

'You mean jump?'

'No.' She hurried across the room and gingerly eased the window open. 'There's a trellis!'

He glanced down dubiously at the tangled vines of wisteria. 'Are you sure it'll hold us?'

'I know it will,' she said, swinging her leg over the sill. 'I caught one of Jack's blondes hanging off it one

night. And believe me, she was a big girl.' She glanced down at the ground far below and felt a sudden wave of nausea as the old fear of heights washed through her. 'God,' she muttered. 'Why do we always seem to be hanging out of windows?'

From somewhere in the house came Jack's outraged shout: 'You can't go up there! You haven't shown me