According to Quinn, the FBI agent leading the investigation, Martin Dubois, had received his own letter from the killer. In it, the killer had promised to take a victim tonight, at a recently reopened historic opera house in Chicago. He didn’t dare them to stop him, but the challenge was obvious.
“So what you were debating was whether to tell me in advance or not, wasn’t it? Quite possibly our best chance to catch this guy, and you don’t think we should bother showing up.”
A kernel of rage rolled around my gut. I could feel Jack’s gaze on me, studying me, appraising my reaction. I closed my eyes to slits, then took a deep breath. Took another. Opened my eyes and looked at him.
“Could be a setup,” he said, words coming slow, deliberate, almost as if guiding me back on track.
I considered that. Saw the truth in his words. “Playing with the Feds. Leading them on a goose chase.”
“Playing, yeah. Goose chase…?” He pulled off his sunglasses. “Helluva challenge.”
“Killing someone in a busy public place-after you’ve given the FBI a heads-up? That’s not just a challenge. What better way to prove that no one is safe than to tell the Feds where you’ll strike next, and still pull it off.”
“Yeah.”
“So you think he’s really going to do it?”
A long pause now, really thinking it through. Then a nod. “Yeah. Think he’s gonna try.”
My nails dug into my palms as I kept my voice steady, dispassionate. “Are we going to be there to stop him?”
“Gonna try.”
Jack called Quinn back. Quinn and Felix had already planned to be there-not that Jack had been about to tell me that before we made up our own minds. As he slid into the car, I stared out the window. After a few minutes of his driving and my window gazing, he said, “You okay?”
“Just thinking of something and feeling stupid.”
“’Bout what?”
“Quinn.” When he didn’t answer, I glanced his way. “When you told me he was a cop, I figured you meant ‘cop,’ like me-like I was. Street cop. Maybe detective, but definitely local or state. But now he tells us about this tip-off. A beat cop gets the drop on an unpublicized tip-off to the FBI? Right.” I shook my head. “Quinn’s a Fed, isn’t he?”
“FBI?” He shrugged and started to say something that I knew from his expression would be, if not a complete disavowal, at least suitably neutral.
“FBI, CIA, DEA, NSA, or whatever other acronyms they have. You know what I mean. Federal level.”
“That’s a problem?”
I twisted in my seat. “Yes, it’s a problem. You tell me he’s a cop, and I figure he’s from some little force in Podunk, Maine.
“He’s clean.”
“Says who? Says you? A federal agent has federal jurisdiction. Federal contacts. Access to federal databases. I’m not comfortable-”
“Nadia? His story’s solid. He’s not a plant. Not a threat, either. He flips? I flip harder.”
I remembered what Quinn had said earlier, that Jack had more on him than vice versa.
“Not a threat,” Jack repeated. “He was? Wouldn’t have let you meet him.”
I leaned back in my seat. “I know. It’s just…federal makes me nervous. It’s a cop thing. On the streets, you don’t deal with them that much. Every now and then, we’d have the horsemen ride in, scoop up a case-”
“Horsemen?”
“RCMP.” When his look didn’t change, I said, “Mounties. Mounted police.”
“They still ride horses?”
“Only in parades…and tourist photo ops.”
“The red uniforms?”
“It’s suits these days. Disney owns the uniform copyright anyway. I once asked a Mountie whether his dress uniform tag said ‘Property of Walt Disney.’ He wouldn’t tell me, but he did offer to let me take his off and check for myself.”
Jack shook his head. He pulled into the slow lane, and set his cruise control two miles over the speed limit. Then he looked at me. “About Quinn. Makes you nervous? Best thing you can do? Keep your distance.”
“You mean stick to business. No socializing, no chatting, no jogging together…”
“Right.”
I shook my head. “You said he was clean, and I trust you.” I glanced at him. “You did say that, didn’t you?”
A hesitation, then a soft exhale. “Yeah.”
We’d agreed to meet Felix and Quinn at a baseball diamond in Chicago. When we arrived, Quinn and Felix were right inside the gates. I saw Quinn first, a tray of hot dogs and sodas in his hands, wearing worn jeans and a T-shirt that pulled tight over his broad shoulders. His gaze lighted on me, and he grinned. My stomach did a little flip. I blamed it on the smell of the food.
“Got you a hot dog,” Quinn said, thrusting it out like a bouquet of roses.
Beside me, Jack made a noise, half grunt, half sigh.
“Don’t glower, Jack,” Quinn said. “Got you one, too.”
I took mine with thanks. Jack just looked at the tray.
Felix walked up behind Quinn and raised a half-eaten hot dog. “I can assure you, Jack, they’re quite fine. He isn’t trying to poison us…yet.”
“One could argue that all hot dogs are poisonous,” I said, as we fell into step and headed for the bleachers. “If you eat enough, they have to be at least as lethal as arsenic.”
“Shhh,” Quinn said. Then he held out the tray again. “Jack, have another.”
“Someone’s in a good mood,” Jack said.
“Someone’s in a fucking fantastic mood. We are finally going to nail this bastard.”
Quinn grinned at me, and I felt an answering rush of excitement. I was finally on my target’s trail, so close I could narrow my eyes and visualize him in my scope.
When I smiled back, Quinn’s grin grew and he swung out of the way to let me head into the bleacher row. He tried to follow, but Jack cut in front of him. Quinn waited for Jack to pass, then darted into the aisle below, passed us and vaulted over the bench to sit on my other side, still grinning, looking like a kid who’s outwitted the teacher. I couldn’t help laughing.
“You think he’ll show?” I said, as we settled into the bleacher seats.
“I sure hope so, because if he does, he’s toast.” His eyes gleamed. “This bastard has taken his last victim. We’re bringing him down and I cannot fucking wait to see it.”
“Got that impression,” Jack said.
Quinn only rolled his eyes, enthusiasm undimmed, so stoked he was practically bouncing in his seat. As I watched him, I felt a pang of envy. Quinn felt no need to emulate Jack and treat this with quiet professionalism. I could only sit there, basking in his fire, struggling to remember what it felt like to be that open, that unguarded.
Felix pitched his trash into the distant can with perfect aim. “I know you’re hoping to be the one to snap on the cuffs, Quinn, but remember, there’s a good chance it won’t be us.”
“That’s fine. Sure, I’d love to take him down myself, but if it’s the Feds or the locals, good enough.”
“He’ll be caught,” I said. “And that’s all that matters.”
As he nodded, our eyes met.
“Great idea,” Jack said. “But a plan would help.”
“Already got one.” Quinn pulled two pieces of cardboard from his pocket, then fanned them, and leaned closer to me. “If you don’t have any plans for this evening, I thought maybe we could take in an opera. I hear it’s going to
