Want To Play (Monkeewrench)

the same caliber gun the killer used, and further note that I examined said gun with your permission and saw no evidence of recent firing.’

‘You’re covering your ass.’

‘Absolutely. The first time I don’t will be the time a killer leaves a gun dirty and covered with blood and wrapped in a sign that says “I Am the Murder Weapon.” ’

She swung the door open and gestured him into a stark, utilitarian kitchen with sparkling white tile and a stainless sink that looked like it had been spit-shined. Expensive pots and pans hung from a rack above a black granite countertop that was lined with the sort of appliances only a serious cook would have.

A covered pot simmered on low flame, filling the air with the savory aromas of garlic and wine. For some reason, he couldn’t imagine Grace MacBride doing anything remotely domestic, but she obviously had a softer side, a side she went to great lengths to hide.

He didn’t bother wondering why she was cooking at eleven o’clock at night, assuming almost everything she did would be a bit out of the norm. ‘You have a dog?’ he asked.

Grace frowned at him. ‘Ye-es. Oh. The water bowl. Crack detective work.’

Magozzi ignored the comment. ‘Where is he?’

‘He’s hiding. He’s afraid of strangers.’

‘Hmm. Is that something he picked up from you?’

She gave him an irritated look, then led him through an arched doorway into the living room, oddly placed at the rear of the house instead of the front. It was the polar opposite of the rest of the house – surprisingly warm, with overstuffed wing chairs and a big leather sofa that held an assortment of colorful down-filled pillows. A glass coffee table was stacked with computer magazines and ponderous-looking textbooks on computer programming languages. A willow basket of miniature pumpkins sat in the corner next to an urn filled with dried flowers and gourds. Another glimmer of her softer side.

He paid particular attention to the paintings, all originals, that covered the walls – an eclectic collection of stark black-and-white abstracts that had to be by the same artist as the painting in Mitch Cross’s office, and two soft watercolor landscapes.

She knelt down in front of a fine mahogany cabinet that sat in the far corner of the room and slipped in a key. The interior was lined with thick red velvet and held the very formidable MacBride arsenal. She pulled out a Ruger .22 and handed it to him by the barrel.

He examined the gun, pulled back the slide, checked the load. Empty. Nothing in the chamber. And it was spotless with a light sheen of oil, as spit-shined as the kitchen sink.

‘I don’t suppose you’d want to turn this over to me . . .’

She exhaled sharply.

‘I’ll take that as a no.’ He handed it back to her, then gestured toward the rest of her weapons. ‘Nice collection. A lot of firepower.’

She was silent.

‘Just what is it that you’re so afraid of?’

‘Taxes, cancer, the usual.’

‘Guns aren’t very effective against either of those things. Neither are steel doors.’

Still silent.

‘Neither is erasing your past.’

Her eyes flickered a little.

‘You want to tell me about that?’

‘About what?’

‘About what planet you and your friends lived on until you showed up here ten years ago.’

She looked off to the side, mouth clamped shut. Biting back temper, he decided.

‘And just how much time have you wasted traveling that particular path?’

He shrugged. ‘Not much. It was a real short path. I’ve got a computer wizard at the office tearing his hair out trying to get past your firewalls. Actually, he’s now your biggest fan. Thinks you all should hire out to Witness Protection.’ He watched for the slightest reaction, but she didn’t even twitch. ‘You know, if you were in the program, telling me would save us all a lot of trouble.’

She ignored him, put the Ruger away, locked the gun cabinet, then stood up and folded her arms across her chest. ‘Is that all? Because if it is, I’d like to get back to my workout.’

Magozzi turned his attention to one of the watercolors, a city scene busy with uniformly happy people, remarkably detailed for the medium. A young artist, he thought, mixing the styles of the masters while searching for his own. The sociable subject matter seemed strangely out of place in a house designed as a fortress, owned by a woman who had clearly been born without smile muscles. He wondered what had made her buy it. ‘Our people have been working the registration list you gave us.’

‘And?’

‘And it’s slow.’

‘Of course it’s slow. And stupid.’

‘Excuse me?’

‘That list isn’t going to do you a bit of good, and you know it. Even the dumbest killer wouldn’t leave a name and address and telephone number so your uniforms could come knocking, and this one is not dumb . . .’

He opened his mouth to reply, but he wasn’t fast enough.

‘ . . . and don’t give me that song and dance about following procedure. Following the almighty procedure is what always bogs cops down. It wastes time and resources and energy that you damn well better be spending laying a trap for this guy, because he is rolling, and if he hits again, the victim is on your head, because you had a chance to stop him if you hadn’t been so damn intent about crossing names off a list and checking out my .22 . . .’

‘We did lay a trap for this guy,’ Magozzi snapped bitterly, suddenly furious that this strange, secretive, paranoid woman with no past was lecturing him on how to do his job; furious that this case was spiraling out of control with bodies stacking up like cordwood; furious at her lack of respect and her refusal to co- operate; and especially furious that he felt like he was missing something obvious about the whole damn case. ‘Tammy Hammond’s wedding reception was on the Nicollet tonight. Not only did we have ten guys on site, but Argo Security had another twenty and the damn place was safer than the White House. And guess what? We were still too late.’ She just stared at him for a moment while his angry words registered, and then he saw all the righteous indignation drain from her eyes, leaving blue mirrors of devastation. Christ, that had to be real, he thought. No way you couldn’t fake a look like that.

‘Oh my God,’ she whispered, and he heard her real voice, and saw her real face, and for just an instant felt a brand-new kind of guilt, as if he’d let her down personally.

In the next instant the look of devastation was gone, replaced by a fury that exceeded his own and a hatred directed squarely at him. ‘You idiots.’ Her voice was low, quiet, and she let the words hang there for a minute, making sure he knew she meant them. ‘You were too late? We told you this was going to happen, we told you where, and now someone else died because you were too late? ’

He felt his defenses kick in, knew they were wrong, but couldn’t stop them. ‘We were still scrambling around for permission to even be on that boat when this guy was murdered. Maybe you should have called us a little earlier to tell us one of your psycho players was using your game as a template for a killing spree. We weren’t too late. You were.’

Christ, he sounded like a grade-school kid, batting away blame, hoping it would land on someone else. That made him angrier yet.

‘Where were you between two and four?’

Her eyes seemed to harden and chill, blue water freezing. ‘At work. Alone. No witnesses, no alibi. Everybody else left at noon. You want to arrest me, Detective? Make yourself feel better about blowing it?’

This was all wrong. Cops and witnesses – if that’s all she was – weren’t supposed to be adversaries, but this woman had been down on cops long before he met her. He was just the current target.

He moved his shoulders inside his coat, trying to loosen the muscles that felt like coiled springs. ‘What I want