were building up a down payment. Then he would make out a check to a different name, hand it to the same man, and keep his 20 percent in cash. Deal closed. Of course, it was money laundering. He didn’t like that part of it, but he had liked getting an under-the-table payment in cash. Everything had seemed fine, even after the man had stopped showing up. After he had missed four consecutive weeks, David had begun to see the three hundred thousand in the escrow account as found money.
That was when the man’s boss had come to the office. His name was Maggio. He had explained to David that Mullins had been a professional bagman, merely delivering Maggio’s money. If David would simply hand over the check for seven hundred and fifty thousand, he would be on his way. It was then that David had seen it all, as though it were carved in his forehead. Mullins had fooled them both, but Maggio was never going to believe it.
David had considered calling the police. He would be disbarred and convicted of money laundering, tax evasion, and some currency-reporting violations. He had considered asking Maggio for time to pay the money back. But he could tell that this man was not the sort for that. Had he actually said that he had killed Mullins? No. David had inferred it from the way he had spoken about Mullins in the past tense from the beginning, always with a weary, philosophical distaste. Finally, David had written out the check for seven fifty, and begun to pack his bags so he could be gone before the check bounced.
Her voice jarred David. “He doesn’t have any money with him. Did you take care of that?” She was talking about him.
The blond man beside David said, “There’s five hundred in cash and two thousand in traveler’s checks in his flight bag.”
“Good,” she said. She turned in her seat so she could see David’s face. “David, remember. When you get to Morocco, take a cab from the airport to your hotel. Spend a few days resting up and getting used to the climate. Don’t go right to the bank and start withdrawing lots of money. They could put you under surveillance for a day or two just because you’re a foreigner.”
“Don’t worry,” said David. “Once I’m on that plane, I’m a different person. I’m never going to hurry again.” The car coasted to a stop on a quiet street lined by brownstones. “Why are we stopping?”
“We’re going to change cars here,” said the curly-haired driver. “Just sit tight while we shift your luggage to the other car.”
David sat alone in the back seat while the others got out. He watched them through the rear window until the trunk lid went up and he couldn’t see them anymore. After a few seconds, the blond man opened the door and said, “Come on.” When David was out, the man took his arm and ushered him around the back of the car.
David didn’t see the gun come out, and the silencer never touched the back of his head, so he never felt anything. He saw the dark woman looking into his eyes with an expression of intense curiosity. The bullet passed through the back of David Cunningham’s skull and emerged high on his forehead, and the blond man gave him a hard push from behind. His body toppled forward against the rear bumper and bent at the hips over the rim of the open trunk, so his head and torso were inside. The two men grasped David Cunningham’s legs and heaved them upward to push him the rest of the way in, and the woman closed the lid over him.
In a moment the woman had taken David’s place in the back seat, the two men were in the front, and the car was making its way toward the Queensboro Bridge.
The curly-haired man looked over his shoulder at the woman. “Morocco?” The blond man beside him chuckled.
The dark woman said, “One of the things he thought he was running from was the federal government. Was I supposed to tell him Biloxi?”
“It just has a ring to it, that’s all: ‘Your money is in a bank in Morocco.’ ”
“Just make sure you bury him deep,” said the woman. “And I keep thinking about the clothes. Maybe you should strip him first, and burn the clothes someplace far away.”
“All right,” said the curly-haired man. “You going straight to the airport this time?”
“Yes. Drop me at the United terminal.” She tapped the blond man on the shoulder. “So bring me up to date.”
The blond man said, “The girl we have on hold in Chicago is getting restless.”
“Is everything ready for her at the other end?”
The blond man shrugged. “Pretty close.”
“When it is, move her.” She stared out the window at the buildings as they drifted past. She muttered, “I know you haven’t killed Jane yet. If you had, you would have been falling all over yourselves to tell me.”
23
Jane arrived in Minneapolis and registered at the Copley Hotel because it was too big and ornate and comfortable for a woman who didn’t want to be noticed, then bought the best street map the gift shop had and went out to find an apartment and do some shopping. She had very specific requirements for the apartment, so she wasted very little time.
Sid Freeman had always been proud of his little stronghold, even in the days when he was calling himself Harlan J. Hall or Mrs. Dilys Mankewitz and he had not yet reinforced it with steel and stone. But even in those days, Jane had been alert to its vulnerability. Sid required that every visitor approach the house from the same direction and move along the rise above the lake shore so that his lookout—usually Quinn, when he was around—could study the visitor through a rifle scope. Sid and his sniper had an elevated, unobstructed view of the path all the way from the other end of the lake to his door. What Sid had not provided was a way of keeping a third party from seeing the path too.
Jane visited an apartment in a big house two blocks west of Sid’s. It was slightly higher on the hill than Sid’s house, and obscured by the leaves of two long rows of tall oak trees along the old, quiet streets.
The apartment was on two levels, with a kitchen and small living room on the second floor and a staircase that led to a bedroom at the peak of the house. It had once been the attic, so it had a low sloping ceiling and was hot, but the landlord had installed an air-conditioning unit in the front window. It had a separate entrance down an enclosed staircase to the driveway. Jane walked back to the front window and studied the view of the lake over the air conditioner, then took out a pen to sign the lease.
Jane left her apartment and went out to buy all of her furnishings at once. At a sporting goods store in a mall she found a sixty-power spotting scope on a tripod. At another sporting goods store she bought a nightscope with infrared enhancement. She had known Sid for years, and if those were what he used, they were what was necessary. The electronics were slightly more chancy, because she wasn’t yet sure how much of what she bought would work at this distance. She knew that the only way to solve it was to buy everything that might work: two video cameras, a directional microphone, a tape recorder, a scanner that the salesman slyly assured her would pick up conversations on cell phones. Then she went to a giant appliance discount store and bought an air-conditioning unit exactly like the one in the front window of her apartment.
Jane set up her gear in the late afternoon. She knew that night was the time for watching the path, because Sid dealt with people who tried to stay indoors in the daytime. She took the motor and refrigeration coils out of her new air conditioner so it was nothing but a metal box with louvers, and used it to replace the original one. She put the video cameras inside it, plugged them in to run on AC power, and aimed them between louvers at a spot on the path through the park that was open and close enough so that with the zoom lens set properly she could get a clear picture of anyone visiting Sid Freeman’s house. Then she placed the spotting scope and the night-vision scope in the air conditioner beside the cameras.
The directional microphone took a bit more thought. It had a dish-shaped receiver that was too big to escape notice in a window, and putting it behind a pane of glass or a set of blinds would muffle sounds. It occurred to her that the proper way to use it was to make it look like a TV satellite dish and place it on the roof.
Jane spent fifteen minutes trying to decide whether the roof was merely her best hope or her only hope, because best hope was not good enough for Jane Whitefield. Her parents had brought her up without concealing that the world was a place composed of materials that were much harder and more enduring than human flesh and bone. Nothing she had seen since then had caused her to forget it.
