Silence

“Everybody but the two men. We would have liked to ask them some questions, but they were both DOA.”

“Have you got IDs on them yet?”

“Not yet. When a guy has three driver’s licenses on him, he may as well have none. The bodies have been fingerprinted, so we’ll probably have names before long.”

Till said, “I don’t know what to say, except to thank you for doing this. If I had just pulled up in front of the DA’s office and tried to take her in, we’d be dead.”

“This is a win. Now that we’ve got those two out of the way, are you going to bring your client in to see the DA today?”

“I’ll let you know when I’ve decided.” He looked up and saw Wendy Harper standing in the open doorway between their rooms.

“Do that.”

“Thanks again. I owe you.” Till ended the call and put his cell phone into his pocket.

“What was that?” she asked.

“Good news. I asked a friend of mine who’s still in the department to see what would happen if you and I were to drive up to the DA’s office and try to walk in.”

“What did happen?”

“Two guys with guns came out of parked cars. Both of them were killed.”

“Oh, my God! Was anybody else hurt?”

“No. The cops are all fine.”

She stepped closer until she stood over him, looking down into his eyes. “You didn’t tell me.”

“Tell you what?”

“That you were planning something like that.”

“It wasn’t my operation. It was Max Poliakoff’s. He didn’t tell me until just now, and it’s been over for hours.”

She looked at him closely. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Same reason he didn’t tell me. Until those two guys showed up, there was nothing to tell.”

“Do you think they were the same two who killed Louanda?”

“The odds are they were, but we can’t know that for sure. There may be prints or blood or something in her house in Nevada that ties them to the scene. We may have seen them at some point. They could have been in a crowd, or stopped at an intersection or something, and we’ll remember the faces. But I never got a look at them when they were chasing us. Did you?”

“No. I saw their car, and I saw that there were two heads in it.” She sat down beside him on the bed. “This is my fault. I should never have decided to leave Los Angeles. I was scared. I hated being scared, and I saw a way to fix it. I had started out okay, trying to find Kit Stoddard. But as soon as I got beat up, everything changed. I changed. I decided that I had already given enough to the memory of Kit. That was what I told myself she was by then—just a memory. And I had this belief that if I could just get away and stay away for a time, then her boyfriend would stop looking. I had the idea that my having done nothing to harm him would persuade him that I could never do anything, and he would realize that he should leave me alone. So I left.”

“Look, Ann. I—”

“Wendy.”

“What?”

“Wendy. I told you already, I can’t be Ann Donnelly anymore. Yesterday, when I left, I gave that up. Using that name now doesn’t help me. All it does is point out to everyone who doesn’t already know it that there are people with that name who are connected with me. Being connected with me is dangerous.”

“Less dangerous than it was yesterday.”

“Does that mean it’s over? We’re going to Los Angeles now?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Why not? If the police shot the men who were following us, then what is it that you’re worried about?”

“I’m not exactly worried, but I’m taking precautions. I’m resisting the flow of events. When you’re trying to outsmart somebody, you shouldn’t let a rhythm build up. We left San Francisco; they attacked us on the road. We lost them; they went to L.A. to wait for us. We set up our own ambush for them, and got two men. Now what? The logical, almost inevitable next move is to drive to L.A. now, today.”

“So you’re avoiding predictability.”

“I’m not making the move that’s called for at the moment when the rhythm demands it. What is the man who killed Kit Stoddard doing right now?”

“I don’t know.”

“He’s scrambling, trying to scare up replacements for the two men who got killed. That’s risky. Some of the people who do that kind of work are already in trouble. Their phones might be tapped, or they might decide that their best move isn’t to take the job, but to turn him in and get credit for cooperating. He’s probably going beyond his usual circle of acquaintances. All he has to do is miscalculate once—talk to somebody he thinks he can trust and be wrong. He’s in a rush today because he thinks we’re on the move.”

“That’s quite a detailed picture of somebody you don’t know.”

“The specifics don’t even matter. Every minute he can’t get to us means the cops might get to him first. The police are trying to find out who the dead men were. When they identify them, they’ll search their houses and cars, talk to anybody who knew them. All kinds of things turn up when the cops begin to look closely.”

“So we’re doing nothing?”

“I’m giving him time to get unlucky, and time to make mistakes, and time to get betrayed. If his name turns up, we’ll get a picture and you’ll identify him.”

“I don’t know if that will help. Even if I’m sure he’s Kit’s old boyfriend, I can’t prove he’s behind everything.”

“Things have changed. Six years ago, you had a theory that Kit Stoddard might have been a victim. This time we’ve got murders we can prove happened. This time if we find out who this guy is, he’s got a problem.”

She rested her hand on his shoulder and gave it an affectionate squeeze. “You’re something, Jack. You always make things sound good. You give me strength.” She stood and walked into her room.

Jack Till sat on his bed and closed his eyes. It had almost sounded as though she was telling him she cared about him. She was beautiful, and that made it difficult to interpret what she said. It was just as likely that she was telling him gently that she knew he was manipulating her. She knew that he had been a homicide detective, and she knew that he had spent a whole career getting people to tell him things that they didn’t want to.

At six, she came in while he was talking to Poliakoff again. She sat down in the chair beside the window and waited until the call ended. Then she said, “Anything new?”

“A few things. The two men who were waiting for us at the courthouse have been identified. Their prints were in the NCIC database. One was either Ralph or Raphael DeLoza, depending upon which part of his rap sheet you’re reading, age thirty-one. The other is Martin Osterwald, age twenty-nine. Have you heard either name before?”

“No.”

“I didn’t think you would have. They apparently weren’t the kind of people who went to Banque. But eventually we’ll look at their pictures, in case we saw them somewhere.”

“Okay. When we’re there, we can do that. Are you getting hungry?”

“I guess I am.”

“Want to go out to dinner? I’ll take you.”

He hesitated. They both knew that whatever happened, she was very likely to be traveling soon, building another false identity and living on whatever cash she had managed to take with her until she was settled again. He didn’t want her to pay for anything, but he didn’t have a way to prevent her that would spare her feelings.

“If you’re hoping for a better date to call up at the last minute, I’ll understand.”

“No, I’ve been waiting for you to offer. It must be at least an hour or two since lunch.”

“You’re a man of incredible self-discipline to keep from saying anything.”

“Where would you like to go? What sort of place?”

“I’ve lost track of the restaurant scene over the years, but saw a restaurant in the tourist magazine in my