Midas

happened at La Cucina. Not just a connection, a lead. A way to find out who’s behind all this. Only your guys are ignoring it. Because they don’t want to find out who’s behind it.”

“I can’t believe that, Jay.”

“How about if I make you believe me?”

“And how are you going to do that?”

“I’ll catch the guy who did it.”

“Excuse me?”

“I’ll catch the guy who blew up the two restaurants. The guy the lying scumbags you work with don’t want caught.”

“You’re a good cop, Jay. And you can make all the connections you want. But you’re a crazy son of a bitch if you even think about getting in the middle of this.”

“I am a crazy son of a bitch, Wanda. That’s why you’ve gotta find something out for me. Just one thing. If you can do it without getting yourself killed.”

“What do you want to know?”

“Jacks,” he told her.”

“What?”

“Jacks. The little kid’s game. The little pointy things.”

“Whatever you might think, I’m still a girl. I know what jacks are. What about them?”

“I want to know if your boys found any in La Cucina. After the bombing. But be careful. I’m not screwing around here. Don’t go anywhere without other people. Other people you know and trust. Don’t get caught alone. And especially watch out for anyone official who’s involved in this investigation.”

She paused again. Then: “While I’m being careful. . and while, as usual, I’m spending my life trying to give you something you need to know. . what exactly are you going to do?”

“I’m the new chief of police,” Justin Westwood said. “I’m gonna do my fucking job.”

PART TWO 16

Special Agent Hubbell Schrader had never thought of himself as a violent man.

He had never struck his wife, or any other woman, no matter the provocation, nor had he so much as spanked any of his three children when they were still of spanking age.

He rarely raised his voice, he did not grind his teeth, he had never experienced even the remotest form of road rage, he did not have a residue of anger that he carried around with him, as so many law enforcement officers he knew carried with them, and as best as he could remember, going all the way back to childhood, he had never even been in a fistfight.

Which is why he was so surprised when he woke up several mornings ago to realize that he had, in his life, killed six people.

He had no regrets about any of the first five deaths. They had all come in the line of duty and all of them had been fully investigated and validated. Three of the killings were, in fact, viewed so positively he could trace his latest promotion-Special Agent in Charge of the New York office of the Federal Bureau of Investigation-directly back to them. They had occurred at the end of a kidnapping case; the six-year-old daughter of the U.S. senator from Oregon had been taken, part of a protest against the senator’s stand in favor of gay marriage. At least that’s what the kidnappers had said. Schrader knew that was bullshit. Kidnappings were never political. Kidnappings were only and always about one of two things. They were either personal-someone couldn’t have a child but wanted one; someone hated the parent and wanted to deprive him or her of a most beloved possession-or they were about money. Nothing in between. The senator’s daughter was about money. But the people who snatched the kid weren’t bright enough to pull it off. They left a trail so traceable they might as well have scattered breadcrumbs leading to their doorway. Schrader had broken the case easily but the endgame got messy. Three of the kidnappers-two men, one woman-used the little girl as a hostage. There was a shootout. One agent serving under Schrader took a bullet in the leg, had his kneecap shattered, and was now on permanent disability. Schrader took out all three perps. The little girl was saved, Schrader was proclaimed a hero-got his fifteen minutes of fame on the front page of the New York Post and even had some movie producer give him thirty-five thousand dollars as option for his “life rights,” although nothing ever came of it other than his wife got a long weekend in Bermuda and his kids’ college funds got padded. Within a few weeks of the rescue, he was put in charge of the New York office.

Schrader had been surprised at the fuss. He did not think what he’d done had been anything special. It was part of the job. It was what he was paid to do. Find a problem. Solve the problem. That’s how he always described himself: a problem solver. Whatever it takes. He always figured that if he had a card with a motto on it, that’s what would be printed in neat little letters underneath his name.

Whatever it takes.

The other two killings had not been nearly so productive or celebrated. The first one had come at a raid of a militia camp in Montana. Some idiot came running straight at him, gun pointed, as if it were some kind of cowboys and Indians movie. Schrader calmly fired twice, both bullets found their target, and the idiot went down. The next killing came while preventing a terrorist attack on Dulles Airport. Or a supposed terrorist attack. One man was detained by airport employees when he refused to have his carry-on bag searched. The man shot and wounded a security guard, then escaped and, luggage in hand, ran to the boarding area. The FBI was summoned and the guy was quickly surrounded. He was given an order to drop the bag and step away. Instead, he frantically went to open the overnight luggage and the agents, including Schrader, opened fire. The lunatic died instantly and Schrader received credit for the kill. When the bag was later searched, nothing was found. No bombs, no weapons, nothing that could remotely be considered dangerous. No drugs, even. Schrader never found out the cause of the man’s panic and he never had a burning desire to discover it. He’d done what he had to do. That was the way Hubbell Schrader saw not just his job but life: You do what you have to do.

Whatever it takes.

After Schrader killed the guy at the militia camp, the Bureau sent him to a shrink. He had four sessions and they talked about his sleep habits and his relationship with his wife and kids and any anxieties he might have. He told the shrink he was sleeping fine, his relationships were good, and he didn’t have any anxieties. After the fourth session, she said she believed him and he was returned to active duty. He went through the same thing after the event at the airport, only this time it took only two sessions. They didn’t bother to head-shrink him after the shooting of the kidnappers. They just promoted him. He had no guilt, no remorse whatsoever, felt no questioning about his motives or his actions over any of those five deaths.

The sixth victim was different.

Schrader didn’t exactly feel bad. . but he felt something.

It wasn’t the same as the others. Yes, it was in the line of duty. But still, things weren’t as clear-cut. It wasn’t a life-or-death situation. There was no immediate danger to another person. This one was a lot more complicated. He’d killed someone because he’d been told to kill someone. Because the target was a potential threat.

The question was: to whom? Schrader had been told that he was a threat to the security of the United States. But he wasn’t totally convinced of that. He had doubts.

Maybe that was it. Maybe that’s why he was feeling edgy. Hubbell Schrader had never had doubts before. But this was definitely different. He hadn’t killed a rabid militiaman or a kidnapper or someone he thought was going to blow up an airport waiting room.

He’d killed a cop. A bomb squad cop.

Chuck Billings. Not a bad guy. Smart.

Too smart.

Still. .

And then there was the airport manager. Lockhardt.