“I don’t want to talk about them. I’m more interested in this one bad girl.” He ran his hands under her shirt.
“Dan,” she complained through an irrepressible grin. “My guests. They’ll—”
He kissed her neck, and she moaned softly, grabbing his shirt to pull it up over his head.
* * * *
That night found Morgan in Brookline, in a neighborhood that was pure old money, filled with colonial houses with broad yards. It was some of the most expensive suburban square footage in the country.
The afternoon with Jenny—especially her awkward return to the party, adjusting her clothes and pretending they hadn’t been doing what they were just doing—was now a glowing, but regretfully fading, memory.
He drove his Shelby Cobra down Heath Street, where Collins lived. Some two hundred feet from Collins’s gate was a car parked on the street. He made out two men sitting inside as he passed.
He knew a stakeout when he saw one. Morgan drove on.
“We have company,” he said. “Collins’s house is being watched.”
“To be expected,” Bloch said in his ear. “Find your own way in.”
“Gonna have to be the backyard. Shepard, a little help?”
“Take your next right,” the IT wiz instructed. “Park three hundred and fifty feet along—there’s a dark spot there with no security camera coverage. You’re going to have to run through the yard of another house, then jump the fence to Collins’s place.”
Morgan parked where Shepard suggested and approached the house. This wasn’t exactly a high-crime area. The area was surrounded by a low brick wall. Morgan braced against a sycamore tree and hoisted himself, straddled the top of the wall, then pushed off, and landed on the other side.
He ran along the yard and took cover behind the tool shed. “How am I doing?”
“So far, so good,” Shepard said. “But you’re not there yet.”
Morgan looked around the corner of the shed, estimating how far he had to go. The backyard had more open space and was in full view of the back windows of the house.
That’s when he heard it—the muted pounding of paws on the ground, approaching him fast from the direction of the house.
Dog. A Doberman pinscher, to be precise. Sleek black coat, ninety pounds of lean muscle, and a bite made to pulverize bone. His bones, to be precise.
Morgan took off running, moving as fast as he could. He was halfway there when he heard the thump of dog’s paws behind him, getting closer and closer.
Morgan held his breath. He was going to have to time this to the millisecond. He listened for the steps, and then the final one—when the dog launched into the air—before taking a running leap.
Morgan dodged faster than the dog was expecting, and the Doberman caught only air. He stumbled as he fell, causing him to tumble and hit a tree trunk with a whimper.
That gave Morgan the opening to cover the rest of the distance to the fence. As he pulled himself up, he felt a tug at his foot—the dog’s jaw was clamped on his heel. It was growling, pulling. Morgan kicked down, wrenching his foot free, and pulled himself over the fence.
He took a moment’s rest and then, panting, crossed Collins’s backyard to the door.
Collins was divorced, never had any kids. He’d inherited the house, an old redbrick colonial, from his family. Too large for one man to live in alone, Morgan thought. He examined the windows, but they were solid wood, and all were locked. So he went to the back door and picked the deadbolt. He stepped inside and shut the door behind him.
“I’m in,” he murmured.
He made his way through the house, stepping lightly, trying not to make a sound. It was a real old-fashioned, old-money New Englander—with old wallpaper dotted with paintings of ships and harbors in ornate frames. He moved up creaky stairs, making a vague guess about where Collins’s bedroom was. He hoped he wouldn’t startle the old guy too much, then fully realized where he was, who he was sneaking up on, and acknowledged what would happen if Collins had tried the same thing at Morgan’s house.
Sure enough, when he pushed open the one upstairs door that was closed, Morgan found himself facing down the barrel of a .357 Colt Python snub-nose revolver, held by General James Collins, in a ratty white T-shirt and boxer shorts.
“Crap on a cracker,” the old warhorse rumbled. “Is that Dan Morgan or the tooth fairy?”
“Hello, Jim.”
He didn’t lower the gun. “Are you here to try killing me?”
“Jesus, Jim, of course not. I’m here to talk. “
“Last thing I heard you weren’t in the talking business.”
Morgan shrugged. “I’m not in the breaking-into-houses-in-the-middle-of-the-night business either. You’re being watched.”
“Yeah,” Collins replied. “I noticed.” He let the gun droop and took a step back. “I’ve also been noticing you since you met my neighbor’s dog.”
Morgan grimaced. “Any idea who it is? The watchers, not the dog.”
“Who knows?” Collins shrugged, heading back to sit on the edge of his big wooden bed. “NSA, DoD, FBI? Go ahead. Put together any three letters, and there’s a possibility that’s them.” He emitted a hollow laugh.
Morgan took a look around. The place was messy, with clothes, books, and papers piled on the nightstands, the dresser, and the floor. “You becoming a hoarder in your old age?”
“That’s General Hoarder to you, plebe,” Collins retorted wearily. “What do you want, Dan? Pretty certain it’s not whether I wear boxers or briefs to bed.”
“No,” Morgan said. “Is there any chance we might be able to sit down somewhere?”
“What, the mattress isn’t good enough for you?” Collins didn’t expect an answer. Instead, he seemed to have a little conversation inside his own mind and grunted, “All right. Come on.”
Collins grabbed a frayed tartan robe and led Morgan down to the living room without turning on a single light. They sat on dusty couches opposite each other, a fireplace with a marble mantelpiece and brass pokers between them. Collins still held his .357
