not just to warn her but also to solicit her help.
She was on the inside.
She could get information they couldn’t.
Su-Moon wasn’t enthused.
“What makes you think she’d do that?”
“Maybe she won’t,” Waverly said. “But we’re going to warn her anyway. What’s the harm of asking?”
Su-Moon pulled the blinds back and looked out.
The alley was full of life.
A thick fog was lifting.
She turned to Waverly and said, “The harm is that Bristol might use her against us. When she confronts him-
True.
Waverly remembered.
“That doesn’t just happen,” Su-Moon said, “not without some kind of connection, an emotional connection. Emotions trump reasoning every time. I don’t mind warning her. If we do and she doesn’t take it, that’s her problem. Getting mixed up with her beyond that is a train wreck.”
Waverly exhaled.
“Let’s do this,” she said. “I’m going to go downtown and shadow Bristol. In the meantime, you go down to the library. Remember that entry in Bristol’s journal about the rooftop blowjob?”
“Yes.”
“That was dated 1948, March or April or May, somewhere in that time frame.”
“March I think.”
“Okay, March. Go through every big-city newspaper that the library carries and see who was murdered in that timeframe, no matter where in the country.”
A crowded but uneventful trolley took Waverly into the guts of the financial district where she bought a coffee and took a position as far down the street from Bristol’s building as she could while still maintaining surveillance. Thirty steps farther down, next to an alley, a bad sax player squeaked out jagged notes with a bent rhythm. Passersby occasionally tossed coins into an open case.
Waverly didn’t know what she expected to see.
It was possible, though unlikely, that the man who attacked them last night would show up and disappear into Bristol’s building, confirming that Bristol was behind it-as if there was any question. If that happened, she’d follow him. If she could find out who he was, it might be worth breaking into his house.
She wore a blue, long-sleeve shirt tucked into gray cotton pants.
A black baseball hat tilted down over her face.
Ten minutes passed, then half an hour.
Bristol’s face didn’t show-not going in, not coming out.
A sliver of sun cut between two buildings.
Waverly stepped over and got in it.
Suddenly a man emerged from Bristol’s building.
It was Sean Waterfield, the Marlboro man who took her to dinner, the one who may or may not be in cahoots with Bristol. He turned in her direction and walked at a brisk pace on the opposite side of the street with his hands in his pockets. She leaned against the building, brought the coffee up to her mouth and kept the brim of the hat low. Her instinct was to trust him, to intercept him, to tell him everything that happened, to solicit his help, to let him take her in his arms, to let his lips meet hers.
She resisted the impulse.
He passed without looking her way.
She watched him as he walked away.
Did she just make a mistake?
Maybe.
It wasn’t irreversible, though.
She could call him later if she wanted.
Maybe she would.
Time passed, then more.
Lots of people came in and out of Bristol’s building. None of them were Bristol or the man from last night, or anyone else of interest.
Fifteen minutes later a cab pulled up.
Street parking was full.
It double-parked in the traffic lane.
A car behind it paused, then honked and swung around.
There was a woman in the back of the cab. Her face was pointed towards the building. Suddenly Bristol emerged, wearing a dark suit and carrying two briefcases, one in each hand. He walked quickly to the cab, opened the door and slid in. Almost immediately the vehicle took off.
Damn it.
He was getting away.
Suddenly Waverly spotted a cab heading her way. She jumped in front of it, smacked the hood as it skidded to a stop and jumped in.
“Do a one-eighty.”
The driver stared as her, astonished he hadn’t run her over.
“Now!”
The vehicle spun around.
“Follow that cab up there,” she said.
“You want me to catch up to them?”
“No, just stay back and follow.”
“Okay.”
A beat then, “I’m a Russian spy,” she said. “That’s my target up there.”
The man laughed.
“You speak pretty good English for a Russian spy.”
“They teach it to you at spy school.”
78
In the wrong lane and heading directly into the front end of an 18-wheeler, River had one thought and one thought only, to avoid a head-on hit at all costs. It wasn’t even a thought, really. It was more of a chemical reaction in his brain, a reaction that made him jerk the steering wheel to the left with all his might.
The vehicle reacted like a startled snake.
The center of gravity shifted violently.
River felt it in his gut but kept his eyes on the mountain of steel speeding at him.
He might clear.
He might not.
