The Cold Spot

made their run. The sound of gunshots and bullhorns scared the amateur into dropping his camcorder.

When Chase heard the hot Asian correspondent say that the driver had broken through the roadblock and nearly clipped a teenage tourist visiting with her history class for the weekend, Chase knew that Jonah’d had trouble putting together a new string. This time there’d been no driver and his grandfather had been forced to double as the wheelman himself.

They interviewed the girl while her friends mugged and hooted for the camera.

But she was dead-eyed and mechanical in her answers, pretty but stiff with ashen blurs already appearing under her eyes. She understood now just how close she’d come to wiping out of the game and being left shattered in the street without any reason, thought, or mercy.

3

D espite the goofiness with the chopper and all the rest of it, Jonah was back pulling notable scores within a year. Chase had been worried for the first few months after the botched museum heist so he kept in touch with Murphy, an old-time safecracker who’d done a nine count in the pen, took a bullet in the hip during his last job, and decided to retire. Now Murphy ran a used car lot in Fort Wayne, Indiana, with his two adult sons, and passed messages for the pros. He sold cars with clean papers to crews operating in the Midwest, and he always kept an ear out for any buzz or action.

Chase checked in a few times to find out what the word was on Jonah. It had taken a while for the stigma to fall away but eventually everybody just blamed Buzzard Allen for the troubles during the museum heist. Buzzard’s friends apparently didn’t like him enough to argue the point too emphatically.

Murphy asked, “You want me to give your grandfather a message?”

“No,” Chase said and got on with his life.

For three years he worked his way mostly south under different names, stealing cars or driving getaway on various easy jobs. He stayed out of the circuit he had known and wound up in Tennessee running moonshine for a couple of months, listening to the locals talk about the federal government like they thought Lincoln was still in charge. Every time someone mentioned revenuers he’d burst out laughing. He couldn’t help himself. He hadn’t realized they really said shit like that.

They started acting like he might be under-cover for the Treasury Department and he finally took off.

He met Lila while he was driving for a four-man string knocking over jewelry stores in northern Mississippi. They were a flashy bunch who liked to blow up gas stations for diversions. Nobody had died yet but that was bound to change. When Chase came on board for the job he talked them down from TNT to simply planting homemade smoke bombs in the kitchen of the one fairly up-scale hotel in town. Same effect-a lot of confusion-but no one would get hurt.

They liked to argue among themselves and draw little diagrams and math equations with graphs and vectors before they decided on any move at all. It made them feel smart. You’d think with all the notations and planning one of them might’ve brought a flashlight, but the first thing they did when they got inside Bookatee’s Antiques & Rustic Curio Emporium (Gold, Silver & Jewelry) was pull up the shade to get some street light in the place.

Chase knew this crew wasn’t going to last long, but he’d recently lost a bank account of stashed funds when the guy he’d bought his fake identification from went down in a federal sting. The name was useless now and the money had gone with it. He needed to rebuild a quick cache. Otherwise he’d never have worked with these nitwits in the first place.

The crew assured him that Bookatee had money and knew jewelry. This was where you came for the good merchandise. So at midnight Chase waited down the block in a ’69 Mustang with the lights off while the others boosted the goods. He’d rebuilt the Mustang’s engine from damn near scratch and it hummed perfectly in tune with the crickets and katydids, so that he could feel the darkness throbbing. Sirens erupted in the distance. The fire engine was actually clanging on its way to the scene. He looked over his shoulder through the back window and watched a bloom of smoke rise against the silver-tinged clouds.

It was only because he was glancing in that direction that he spotted the police cruiser easing around the corner behind him. Mostly hidden in the shadows of a large maple, he slid lower in his seat. It was a warm night and hopefully the cop wouldn’t spot the muffler vapor. The driver slowed in the middle of the road, then veered to the curb ahead of him. Chase cursed beneath his breath. A female deputy sheriff climbed out and craned her neck. She’d noticed Bookatee’s window shade.

He sat up and drummed his fingers along the top of the steering wheel. She was pretty as hell and her body language somehow got to him-how she moved with poise and a solid, confident power. She stood at the outer rim of the streetlamp’s circle of illumination. Why wasn’t she calling it in yet, asking for backup? Probably because she didn’t want to pull anybody off the fire detail where they might be needed.

Chase noted her full lips, dark eyes, and the short, feathered black hair that framed her valentine-shaped face. It was a haircut he disliked on most women, but somehow it worked on her. He drummed his fingers harder. She had some muscle and meat to her and she jiggled in all the right places beneath her uniform. He couldn’t stop staring.

When she stood on tiptoe trying to get a look inside the front window, going for her billy club and not her sidearm, he knew he had to move. She was assertive but too optimistic.

He slid out of the ’Stang without closing the driver’s door, moved silently in a wide arc so he’d come up directly behind her. She was still on tippytoe and he liked the way the shadows edged her curves, the streetlamp casting a soft pale light and the moon throwing off a much more vivid liquid silver, accenting every detail. Then someone inside the shop knocked over a vase or some shit and the noise made her stick the billy club back in her belt and start to draw her.38. Goddamn idiots.

He sped up. She was sharp and fast enough to sense him while he was still sneaking up on her. He was maybe five feet away when she turned and swung the barrel toward him. He dove at her, his hand flashing out, and after a brief struggle in which she tried to knee him, he managed to wrestle the gun free from her. She elbowed him in the gut and came in again with a right cross to his chin. It rattled his teeth and he saw stars, but once he held her own pistol on her she settled back. They faced each other.

She controlled her fear. Chase watched as she tightened herself around it, tamping the panic down, and he felt a surge of respect for her. It wasn’t easy to keep calm looking into a gun.

“You’ve got mean eyes,” she said.

She should only run into Jonah. “If you think so, then you’ve never really seen anybody with mean eyes.”

“I think I have.”

“In this town? Get real.”

It made him itchy, the way she looked at him, and he hated holding on to the gun. He tossed it from one hand to the other, like it was red-hot.

“My, but you’re a fast one,” she said.

“You’ve got some speed yourself, lady.” It was about the finest compliment a driver could pay.

“You set that hotel fire?”

“It’s just a smoker, I didn’t want anyone hurt.”

“People can still be hurt stampeding outta the building. You ever think’a that?”

He’d always hated the Southern accent until he heard it on her. There was flint in her voice, a lot of heat.

“Well, I am a bad guy,” he said, reasonably. “Just not too bad.”

“Stop doing that.”

“Doing what?”

“Tossing that hardware. You’re likely to shoot me without even meaning to.”

Chase almost apologized. He relaxed his hold on the.38 and pointed it down at the sidewalk.

“There’s somethin’ truly goddamned infuriating about having your own gun aimed at you,” she told him.