wrong, the chain has to stop with him. They can’t afford to have this traced back. If they believe it.”
“They must. Why would they send the invitation?”
“It’s worth the chance. If it’s a trap, they sacrifice the one guy in the field, that’s all.”
“Then it really doesn’t matter whether I’m there or not.”
“It does to me. We don’t know what might happen. Besides, they’ll be looking for a man alone.”
“For a uniform, you mean. Corporal Waters.”
He stopped and looked at her. “A uniform. If I told you I’d completely forgotten about that, would you think I’d lost my mind?”
She grinned at him. “I was never interested in your mind. See how useful I can be?”
“But I don’t want to have to worry about you,” he said seriously.
“Don’t, then. We’ll arrive separately. I’ll just be a fly on the wall. In case you need me. I don’t want to have to worry about you.”
He decided not to argue the point now. “What sort of crowd is it likely to be?”
“The local gentry. Hats and things. And the arts-and-crafts crowd. A few ladies in sandals and woven skirts. Loomers, I call them.”
“Soldiers?”
“Enlisted men? You must be joking. Don’t worry, he’ll spot you straightaway.”
“But I won’t know who he is.”
“Well, that’s rather the point, isn’t it?”
Mills said nothing that evening when he surprised Connolly at the office trying on the uniform, borrowed from one of the drivers. The fit was baggy, as if Connolly had lost weight. Mills looked him over, then, without a word, went to a locked drawer, fishing a key out of his pocket. Embarrassed, Connolly turned and started to change back into his clothes, so he was in his shorts when Mills handed him the gun and the cartridge of bullets.
“You’d better have these,” he said.
Connolly looked at the gun, not knowing what to say.
“I never think to look in that drawer,” Mills said. “I’d no idea they were gone.”
“You don’t have to do this. I’m not—”
“He’s already killed one man,” Mills said simply. “I’m on your side, you know. I always have been.”
18
Later, he remembered the day as overbright, every piece of landscape sharp and hard-edged under the white sun. Emma, pretty in a pale blue dress that seemed part of the cloudless sky, drove him in her car, past the empty east gate and down the switchback road to the valley floor. With the windows down, the air smelled of juniper. The afternoon had been still and expectant, and even now, toward its end, Santa Fe seemed asleep. Connolly fidgeted in the unfamiliar uniform, shifting the gun in his pocket to arrange its outline in a shapeless bulge. His cap, folded, hung over his belt like a protective flap.
“It’s not going to go away, you know,” Emma said. “Can you see it?”
“Only when I look. Shall I keep it in my bag?”
“Then I would have something to worry about.”
“Actually, I’m a crack shot. I grew up in the country, you know.”
“Crack shot with what?” he said skeptically.
“Well, skeet,” she admitted. “You don’t really think you’ll need it, do you?”
“No. Should I leave it here? It’s more trouble than it’s worth.”
“Just keep your hand in your pocket. You know, playing with change.”
“Playing with change.”
“Well, men do.”
They were driving along the Alameda, approaching the Castillo Street bridge at the foot of Canyon Road.
“I’ll walk from here,” he said at the corner.
“Two blocks,” she said. “Goodness, look at the crush.”
The street was lined with cars, some double-parked near the gallery entrance. It seemed the only party in town.
Her voice, cool and efficient, cracked when he reached to open the door. “Michael.” Her eyes were suddenly bright with panic. “You’ll be careful.”
“Nervous?”
“I am, actually. Funny, after all this.”
“I know. This time it’s real.”
“It doesn’t feel real.” She straightened her shoulders. “Don’t worry. I won’t let you down.”
He smiled at her. “You couldn’t. Anyway, maybe it’s just an audition. Maybe nothing will happen.”
She looked at him, her eyes scanning his face. “That would be worse, wouldn’t it?”
He nodded. “Okay, let’s go. Act naturally. Look at the pictures.”
“And not at you. I know.”
“I’ve got Holliday outside. Just in case.”
She looked up at him quizzically, unfamiliar with the name.
“The police.”
“Oh,” she said. “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”
“Take your time parking,” he said, moving away.
Holliday, out of uniform, sat in a car in the next block. Connolly stopped to light a cigarette, and when he spoke it appeared he was fiddling with his lighter. “Everything all right?”
“Could’ve made a fortune in parking tickets here. What’s wrong with these people, anyway?”
“No cops.”
“What’s that in your pocket?”
“My wallet,” Connolly said, looking at him. “I like it in front. You can’t be too careful in a crowd.”
Holliday sighed. “Just watch your back.”
“Spot anybody hanging around?”
“Not yet. Just you.”
Connolly grinned and continued walking, glancing at both sides of the street. The gallery doors were open and people had spilled onto the side courtyard, talking in small groups, their voices like the murmur of bees. Inside the noise was louder, mixed with the tinkling of coffee spoons and ice cubes. A long table had been set up in the front room with a coffee urn and plates filled with sugary sopapillas. At the other end were bottles of wine and cheese cut into cocktail cubes. The crowd was as Emma had predicted, the women in floppy hats and long skirts cinched with silver-turquoise belts, the men in suits with bolla ties. Connolly noticed with a little relief that there were a few other uniforms, all officers, presumably local friends unconnected with the Hill.
He made his way slowly through the crowd, feeling obvious and self-conscious, but no one seemed to notice him. Busy with their friends or the paintings, they assumed he belonged to someone else. And after a while he began to feel the invisible anonymity of a large party, as if he weren’t really there at all. There were fewer people in the two rooms that led from the main room in a circle around the patio, and he wandered through these, looking at paintings, aware that he’d be more easily seen. Cowboys. Pueblo landscapes. Prickly-pear cactus in flower. No one approached him.
He circled back to the main room and took a glass of wine, looking around. Suppose no one came? Or someone had already seen him and decided not to risk contact? Maybe there’d be another message, a proper one this time, with a guidebook and a quiet place. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Emma come in. He stepped back into the second room. Between the paintings were pedestals with sculptures and wide terra-cotta pots painted in geometric Indian designs. There was a painting of the park by the Alameda, the river visible behind the trees, and Connolly stood in front of it as if he’d found the prearranged meeting place. There were the bushes where they’d found Karl. He peered at the lower right-hand corner for the artist’s name. Lothrop, in tiny block letters.
“Hello,” a voice said. “The gentleman with the turquoise, isn’t it?”
