'It also gives her something.'
'That depends on who you fall in love with, doesn't it?'
Footsteps thumped down the stairs, creaked across the dining room. A wide-awake Milo stood in the doorway, his uncombed hair standing out like a brush. 'Hey, you two!' he hissed. 'Get up! Hurry.'
Cathy rose to her feet in alarm. 'What is it?'
'That was Ollie on the phone. He called to say some guy's in the area, asking questions about you. He's already been down to Bach's neighborhood.'
'What?' Now Victor was on his feet and hurriedly stuffing his legs into his trousers.
'Ollie figures the guy Ml be knocking around here next. Guess they know who your friends are.'
'Who was asking the questions?'
'Claimed he was FBI.'
'Polowski,' muttered Victor, pulling his shirt on. 'Has to be.'
'You know him?'
'The same guy who set me up. The guy who's been tailing us ever since.'
'How did he know we're here?' said Cathy. 'No one could've followed us—'
'No one had to. They have my profile. They know I have friends here.' Victor glanced at Milo. 'Sorry, buddy. Hope this doesn't get you into trouble.'
Milo's laugh was distinctly tense. 'Hey, I didn't do nothin' wrong. Just harbored a felon.' The bravado suddenly melted away. He asked, 'Exactly what kind of trouble should I expect?'
'Questions,' said Victor, quickly buttoning his shirt. 'Lots of 'em. Maybe they'll even take a look around. Just keep cool, tell 'em you haven't heard from me. Think you can do it?'
'Sure. But I don't know about Ma—'
'Your Ma's no problem. Just tell her to stick to Chinese.' Victor grabbed the envelope of photos and glanced at Cathy. 'Ready?'
'Let's get out of here. Please.'
'Back door,' Milo suggested.
They followed him through the kitchen. A glance told them the way was clear. As he opened the door, Milo added, 'I almost forgot. Ollie wants to see you this afternoon. Something about those photos.'
'Where?'
'The lake. Behind the boathouse. You know the place.'
They stepped out into the chill dampness of morning. Fog-borne silence hung in the air.
Victor clapped his friend on the shoulder. 'Thanks, Milo. I owe you a big one.'
'And one of these days I plan to collect!' Milo hissed as they slipped away.
Victor held up his hand in farewell. 'See you around.'
'Yeah,' Milo muttered into the mist. 'Let's hope not in jail.'
The Chinese man was lying. Though the man betrayed nothing in his voice, no hesitation, no guilty waver, still Savitch knew this Mr. Milo Lum was hiding something. His eyes betrayed him.
He was seated on the living room couch, across from Savitch. Off to the side sat Mrs. Lum in an easy chair, smiling uncomprehendingly. Savitch might be able to use the old biddy; for now, it was the son who held his interest.
'I can't see why you'd be after him,' said Milo. 'Victor's as clean as they come. At least, he was when I knew him. But that was a long time ago.'
'How far back?' asked Savitch politely.
'Oh, years. Yeah. Haven't seen him since. No, sir.'
Savitch raised an eyebrow. Milo shifted on the couch, shuffled his feet, glanced pointlessly around the room.
'You and your mother live here alone?' Savitch asked.
'Since my dad died.'
'No tenants? No one else lives here?'
'No. Why?'
'There were reports of a man fitting Holland's description in the neighborhood.'
'Believe me, if Victor was wanted by the police, he wouldn't hang around here. You think I'd let a murder suspect in the house? With just me and my old Ma?'
Savitch glanced at Mrs. Lum, who merely smiled. The old woman had sharp, all-seeing eyes. A survivor's eyes.
It was time for Savitch to confirm his hunch. 'Excuse me,' he said, rising to his feet. 'I had a long drive from the city. May I use your restroom?'
'Uh, sure. Down that hall.'
Savitch headed into the bathroom and closed the door. Within seconds he'd spotted the evidence he was looking for. It was lying on the tiled floor: a long strand of brown hair. Very silky, very fine.
Catherine Weaver's shade.
It was all the proof he needed to proceed. He reached under his jacket for the shoulder holster and pulled out the semiautomatic. Then he gave his crisp white shirt a regretful pat. Messy business, interrogation. He would have to watch the bloodstains.
He stepped out into the hall, casually holding his pistol at his side. He'd go for the old woman first. Hold the barrel to her head, threaten to pull the trigger. There was an uncommonly strong bond between this mother and son. They would protect each other at all costs.
Savitch was halfway down the hall when the doorbell rang. He halted. The front door was opened and a new voice said, 'Mr. Milo Lum?'
'And who the hell are you?' came Milo's weary reply.
'The name's Sam Polowski. FBI.'
Every muscle in Savitch's body snapped taut. No choice now; he had to take the man out.
He raised his pistol. Soundlessly, he made his way down the hall toward the living room.
'What?'
'Yeah, he's back in the—'
Savitch stepped out and was swinging his pistol toward the front doorway when Mrs. Lum shrieked.
Milo froze. Polowski didn't. He rolled sideways just as the bullet thudded into the door frame, splintering wood.
By the time Savitch got off a second shot, Polowski was crawling somewhere behind the couch and the bullet slammed uselessly into the stuffing. That was it for chances—Polowski was armed.
Savitch decided it was time to vanish.
He turned and darted back up the hall, into a far bedroom. It was the mother's room; it smelled of incense and old-lady perfume. The window slid open easily. Savitch kicked out the screen, scrambled over the sill and sank heel-deep into the muddy flower bed. Cursing, he slogged away, trailing clumps of mud across the lawn.
He heard, faintly, 'Halt! FBI!' but continued running.
He nursed his rage all the way back to the car.
Milo stared in bewilderment at the trampled pansies. 'What the hell was that all about?' he demanded. 'Is this some sort of FBI practical joke?'
