She sat and looked straight at me for a full fifteen seconds. Her eyes seemed to glow from behind her bangs like a cat’s and she had the calm, unrushed air of someone in complete control of herself and everything around her.
“You’re from out of town, so you probably don’t know who we are,” she said.
I didn’t answer.
“So we’ll start with some ground rules,” she said. “We’re not like the police. Or the FBI. We don’t care about guilt or alibis. We have no rules or procedures. All we’re here to do is talk about a proposition. Something we can both benefit from. Any bullshit from you, and the conversation ends.”
“OK then,” I said. “No bullshit. What can we do for each other?”
“We can help with your current problem. You can do us a small favor in return.”
“What current problem?”
“Your FBI problem. They don’t like you very much. Not anymore. Not now they think you killed their agent.”
“They’re mistaken.”
“We know.”
“How do you know?”
“Because we killed him.”
“You did? Why?”
“No reason. We have lots of balls in the air, any given moment. Every now and again one gets dropped. It’s no big deal.”
“It is from where I’m sitting.”
“OK,” she said, after a moment. “Truth is, it was a mistake. Our guy didn’t watch him long enough. We didn’t know he was an undercover agent.”
“An agent disguised as a tramp,” I said. “But why kill a tramp?”
“That’s not relevant.”
Then I made the connection. The Social Security cards. Raab was carrying one. It was old and filthy and used. The guy downstairs had another. They were stealing identities. From tramps. And probably selling them. Rosser had mentioned illegal immigrants using the railroads. They were exactly the kind of people who’d need new papers. Maybe that was how Raab had got caught up with these guys.
“So Agent Raab was killed by mistake,” I said. “That’s nice to know. His family will be delighted. But how does it help me?”
“It doesn’t,” she said. “In itself. But if we give you the guy who pulled the trigger, that would work. Might even throw in the gun. They run ballistics, you’re free and clear.”
“Why would you do that?”
“When the FBI pulled you in, you met three main guys?”
“Right. Rosser, Varley, and Breuer.”
“Good. That’s what we heard. So this is what you do. Contact the FBI. Tell them you have the real shooter, and you want to bring him in. But you’ll only hand him over to the same three guys you already met. Say you don’t trust anyone else. Can you do that?”
“I know someone. They could set it up. But why those three guys?”
“We have a problem with one of them.”
“Which one?”
“Mitchell Varley.”
“What sort of problem?”
“His continued existence.”
“Intriguing. Why?”
“Ancient history.”
“Not that you’re one to bear a grudge…”
“Let’s just say our paths have crossed before. More than once.”
“They have? Excellent. I always enjoy a good bit of vengeance. What did he do?”
“Doesn’t matter,” she said, and I saw her left hand slip down from the table into her lap. “But my guy’s going to correct the situation.”
“How?” I said.
“With a. 22. One shot, close range. Straight through the temple. But don’t worry. You’ll be in no danger. The bullet won’t even come out the other side. It’ll just rattle around, turning his worthless brain to mush.”
“And that’s your small favor?”
“Put our guy and Varley together. That’s all we want.”
“Then I’m sorry. I can’t help.”
Air hissed from between the woman’s clenched teeth.
“You were with Varley for what, an hour?” she said.
“Less,” I said.
“And now you’re ready to die for him? Must have been some conversation you guys had.”
“That sounds vaguely like a threat.”
“No, not a threat. Just Plan B. Because aside from the chance to rid the world of Mitchell Varley, there’s still this thing with the dead agent. I’ve got to deal with it somehow. If I’m not giving you the shooter, I’ll have to do something else.”
“Not my problem.”
“Absolutely your problem. The feds already thought you did it. Escaping confirmed that. Now they’ve got a hard-on for you like you wouldn’t believe.”
“So?”
“So we leave your body where it’s easy to find. They’ll close the case on the spot. Never even look in our direction. So, time to lose this sentimental crap with Varley. Otherwise…”
“There is no sentimental crap with Mitchell Varley. He barely said two dozen words to me. And frankly, I wasn’t impressed with what he did say. I couldn’t care less what happens to him.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
“Well, let’s just think about it for a moment. I bring your guy in. He immediately kills Varley, who’s only there because I specifically asked for him to be. How’s that going to look? I’ll be lucky if the others don’t shoot me on the spot.”
“They won’t shoot you. They’ll thank you.”
“For what? Getting their friend killed?”
“No. For saving them.”
“How am I going to do that?”
“Seen In the Line of Fire? At the end. Like that.”
“You want me to take a bullet?”
“No. Just make it look like you were willing to. Appearance is everything. The second Varley gets hit, you yell at the others. Get down, he’s got a gun, like that. Then jump in front of them. It’ll look like you saved Rosser and Breuer, not set up Varley.”
“What happens to your guy?”
“He goes for the door, under cover of your heroics.”
“And after that?”
“His problem.”
“What if he doesn’t make it?”
“Then it’s my pawn for their queen. Varley’s worth it.”
“Does your guy see it the same way?”
“He knows it’s a risk, obviously. But I’ve made it worth taking.”
“What if he goes after one of the others first? Or me?”
“He won’t.”
“Why not?”
“He has his instructions,” she said, standing up and moving toward the desk. “He’ll follow them. That’s what
