Xu shook his head, wondering why he’d think of his mother now, wondering, too, if she would rock him now, tell him he was smart, that he’d figure his way through this fiasco, and everything would be all right. Had she known then he would kill again? And again?
As for his father, he was grateful to the loser for two things—he’d forced him to learn Mandarin and had sent him to Beijing to visit his grandfather before the old man dropped over dead during Xu’s last visit when he was seventeen.
He looked down at his watch again, saw a streak of blood on his left wrist. How could he have missed it? He scrubbed his skin until the dried blood flaked off. Was it Milo’s blood, or the woman’s? What was her name? Pixie, that was it, like some lame rip-off of Tinker Bell.
No matter. Soon Billy Cochran would be dispatching Clive Cahill to hell. He knew Cochran as an angry man who’d killed before, a three-time felon set to transfer out to San Quentin in the morning. Cochran had very little to lose, and was enough of a veteran inmate to know how to kill Clive without being caught. Cochran had been eager enough to accept the offer Xu had made when he’d visited him—he was leaving an aging grandmother who needed money badly. Cochran was vicious enough and would feel no remorse, but there was always the question of whether he could pull it off. He’d been caught three times, after all. Xu wished he could do it himself, but it wasn’t possible.
Nine-twenty-nine—one minute until Cochran killed Clive. Xu himself had set the time. That was when the TVs were turned off and the prisoners were herded to the showers before they returned to their cells for the night.
Nine-thirty exactly. Cochran should be smoothly slipping his shiv into Clive’s back to penetrate his heart, and he’d fall dead without a sound, leaving trails of his blood to mix with the water going down the shower drain. Cochran would be gone in the morning, and there was no missing that fool. Xu looked through the big window into Morrie’s Deli and thought about a corned beef on rye. He realized he hadn’t eaten all day, but not yet, not just yet.
Cindy’s death might be more problematic, and a pity, really. He thought of the last time he’d had sex with Cindy, what a delight she was as she slid her fingers beneath her thong and shimmied it down her legs. Yes, a pity. Once, a long time ago, he’d thought they might work together again.
The best he could find was a scared little Asian woman, maybe five feet tall, and one hundred pounds. She’d spoken to Cindy to gain her trust; he’d made sure of that. He’d found Lin Mei himself, out on bail, and he’d found she had a little boy. She didn’t have Cindy’s physical strength, and that might be a problem if Cindy spotted the blade at the last second. Still, he had more faith in Lin Mei than in Cochran. She was an immigrant, and he’d been right to think she’d believe him absolutely when he looked her directly in the eyes and told her in fluent Mandarin her son would die if she failed in her task.
It was nine-thirty-five now, and it was over, one way or the other. He looked into the rain-soaked night and imagined fireworks, bursting balls of sparkling red shooting out of the top of the Hall of Justice.
He prayed the whole nightmare was over.
He pulled his collar up on his Burberry rain jacket and walked down Seventh Street toward the Bayshore Freeway, where his Audi was parked in a safe underground garage.
As he cranked the engine he realized he’d forgotten the corned beef on rye. It was a cop deli, too, probably delicious.
Harry pulled his Shelby into the driveway, cut the engine, and turned to face Eve. She had asked him about every detail of the crime scene in Bel Marin Keys. They had fallen back on talking about the brutal murders as dispassionately and professionally as they could, but it was difficult.
Eve said, “At least Savich should have a real shot with the Cahills tomorrow morning. We’ve got them isolated in the marshal holding cells, out of contact. They shouldn’t find out about Milo’s murder until Savich springs it on them. There’s a good chance one of them will talk, since Xu killed their lawyer this time, their only contact with Xu and the person they’ve been pinning their hopes on to get them out. What’s left for them to try?”
Eve opened both her car door and her umbrella, and ducked under it. She stepped onto the driveway and took her first good look at Harry’s house. Even in the dark with the rain pouring down, she could see enough to be surprised at how big it was, probably worth a bundle even in this depressed market. She liked the shake roof and the big windows that gave it a colonial sort of feel even without the columns. She ran through the rain from Harry’s Shelby to the front door. A bright porch light was a welcoming beacon. There were even ferns hanging from under the porch ceiling, still looking perky, though it was nearly Thanksgiving. She imagined the tree-filled yard would be spectacular in the spring and summer.
“I like your house; it’s the showcase of the neighborhood, isn’t it? You’ll have to tell me how you snagged it.”
He gave her only a curt nod. It was odd, Eve thought, but Harry had seemed a bit unwilling to bring her here, but, as she reminded him, he’d been to her condo, and now it was time for her to see his digs.
His wife’s digs, he’d said, not looking at her.
Since she’d left the Suburban at the marshals’ pool at the Federal Building, he’d offered to take her home. She knew he hadn’t realized he would be making a stop first.
“Everything is beautiful. You have a gardener, don’t you?”
He nodded. “His name is Mr. Sanchez. He’s been with me six years, comes once a week. His son helps him now.” He paused for a moment as he stuck his key in the front door, looked over his shoulder at her. “I just realized I don’t know his first name. He’s always been Mr. Sanchez to me. His son goes by Junior Sanchez.” He smiled. “Not Sanchez Junior.”
He pushed open the door, turned off the alarm, and stepped back for her. “Come on in.”
Eve shook out her umbrella and slipped it inside a copper umbrella pot. She stood in a small square entryway with a mirror on the wall above a curvy modern table for mail and flowers, but the beautiful Italian cachepot was empty. The gardeners didn’t work inside. He pointed her to the living room, where a big easy chair, an ottoman, and a big-screen TV were displayed front and center, and a pile of newspapers had been tossed in a haphazard stack on the floor beside the chair. Sure, there was a sofa, chairs, and a coffee table, all with an Italian country flavor, but it was obvious he never sat there. Other than the pile of newspapers, nothing else was out of place. No beer cans, no running shoes. Two
Still, everything was so “guy,” she had to smile. She looked at the walls, saw they were covered with framed travel posters—of Lake Como, the Alps, Parliament on the Thames—all in full color, inviting you to step right in. She waved toward the posters. “Do you like to travel, Harry?”
“Yes.”
She turned to him. “Only a simple yes? No explanation, like whether you’ve been to all these places and which one is your very favorite in the whole world?”
“That would be Lake Como, I guess. The hiking is great around there. I like Inverness for hiking, too.”
She said, “I’ve never been to Inverness.”
“It’s stark, usually cloudy, often raining, and almost, well, painfully real. Would you like some coffee?”
