"Some of it's public record," Catherine said. "Some of it took a warrant. And some we're still checking into. But the general outline of it is correct, isn't it?"

"That can't be true," Helena Cameron said from the doorway. "Is it, Craig?"

25

Craig Stilton's head swiveled between Helena and the CSI. He took a step toward Willows, then stumbled and threw a hand out toward the rack, as if to steady himself. Willows reached for him in case he was fainting.

He had often found it advantageous to let people underestimate him. He twisted from her reach, catching himself on the gun rack and coming up with a Glock 9mm in his fist. Loaded, of course – Drake had just confirmed that.

The detective, Vega, was drawing his own weapon as Stilton darted across the room, the Glock aimed at Helena Cameron. He grabbed the elderly woman, wrenching her around in front of him.

"Freeze, Stilton!" Vega ordered.

"I'm sorry, Helena," Stilton said. He pressed the muzzle of his borrowed gun against her temple, hiding her so her body was between him and the cops. Helena was as small and frail and weak as a baby bird, fallen from its nest before its time. "I didn't mean for you to get involved in this."

"Craig… I don't understand."

"It's simple, Helena. Everything they said is true."

Helena's eyes filled, her mouth hung open, that lower lip quivering like mad now. If Stilton hadn't been holding her up, she would have fallen onto the floor. "No. It can't be."

That was how he had been able to do it, because she trusted him so. Stilton had been skimming from the Cameron accounts for years. A little here, a little there, out of their pockets and into his. Bix Cameron figured it out when he had barely started. He was going to expose Stilton, so he had to die. Just Troy's bad luck that he was with his father at the time.

Of course, he only shot Troy the first time. It took Drake to finish him off ten years later. Stilton had believed Troy was dead; he wouldn't have left him out there to die slowly. He was a thief, but he was no monster.

But it had killed him to see how Bix spent his money. Stilton watched it flowing out for years, trying to get him to stop wasting it on one more hotel, one more casino, one more private apartment for whichever showgirl he was sleeping with behind Helena's back. Stilton knew he could put it to better use. He had worked hard for this family, for decades, and they paid him a reasonable salary. But it wasn't enough. Not nearly. Not when Bix was wasting it thoughtlessly.

Then, of course, the economy fell apart. What Helena had left took a big hit when the markets tanked. When she died, Daria would have been able to look into her finances, and she would have had questions Stilton didn't want to answer. So he'd had to make sure they both went about the same time, in a way that appeared natural. He had done his research, found that although selenium poisoning would show noticeable physical symptoms, it was rare enough that most doctors would run through scores of other tests before they stumbled upon it. And then death would present as congestive heart failure, which could be natural. To slow things down even more, he interfered whenever Dr. Boullet tried to make appointments to diagnose the problem.

"It's true, Helena," Stilton said. "I can't say I'm proud of it, but time was running short. I had to do something."

"It's over now, Stilton," Sam said. "You're not walking out of here without bracelets on."

"Wrong," Stilton argued. "You can't risk shooting Helena, and the two of us are going for a ride."

He didn't believe Helena could survive such a ride. The poisoning had weakened her; that and age and stress had parked her on the edge of a cliff, and at the bottom of the cliff was death. Stilton had dragged her close to the rim, and now he had two hands on her back, ready to give the final shove. None of that mattered, though – all that mattered was that the cops couldn't take a chance on killing her themselves.

Neither of them had a safe shot. Stilton's head was exposed, but he kept bobbing it back behind Helena. Even if they hit him, there was a chance his gun would go off. In her condition, Helena couldn't risk so much as a flesh wound.

"I won't hurt her if you let me walk," Stilton said. "I'll let her go someplace safe, and you'll never see me again."

"You have to know that's not how these things work," Sam told him.

"It's how it's going to work this time. Unless you want to take responsibility for her death. I've got nothing to lose, but she does."

"Think about this, Stilton," Willows said. "Think about what it'll be like out there. On the run, always looking over your shoulder, cringing every time you see a police car. We'll be watching your bank accounts, freeze your credit. Are you sure it's worth it?"

"I have plenty of money," he said. "Tucked away around the world. Sit on a beach somewhere instead of going to jail? Yeah, I think it's worth it." He tugged Helena toward the door. She dragged her feet, and he gave her a rib-crushing jerk. "Come on, Helena. Don't make this diffic -"

The shot rang out in the small space, loud and echoing off the walls, and the bite of acrid smoke reached Catherine's nose while she was still working out what had happened. Stilton's head snapped back, his hands flinging out to the sides, the gun sailing from his open hand and tearing a chunk of plaster from a wall. Blood jetted from the small entry hole in his right temple and gushed from the exit wound opposite. Helena screamed once, then collapsed.

Drake McCann stood there, legs spread, smoke still wafting from the barrel of the gun in his hand. He looked shell-shocked, eyes wide and jaw slack.

"Drop it!" Sam barked, spinning around and aiming his weapon at McCann.

Drake's expression didn't change, but his fingers went limp and his gun clattered to the floor. "She… she never deserved any of this," he said quietly.

Catherine crouched at Helena's side and put her hand to the woman's throat. There was a pulse, weak but steady. Helena drew halting, shallow breaths. Catherine fumbled for a phone to call for an ambulance. Behind her, she heard handcuffs being snapped over McCann's wrists. Dustin Gottlieb came tearing into the suite, demanding to know what had happened, tears spotting his cheeks when he saw.

As she sat waiting for the paramedics, Catherine thought about the two bodies in Doc Robbins's morgue, perhaps side-by-side in drawers. Robert Domingo, a wealthy man from a poor community, and Troy Cameron, a poor man from a rich family. In the greater scheme, she knew, she was one cog in the machinery of state, and whatever inequalities and injustices had affected the lives of the two men, her role, and that of the people she worked with, was to make sure that in death each was treated the same. Nobody took precedence because of personal health, no human being was so unimportant that he or she didn't deserve their fullest efforts.

Sam led McCann, in handcuffs, out of the suite. McCann had killed Troy Cameron in the course of his job, protecting the Cameron estate. Now he had killed Craig Stilton while protecting Helena. He would never do time for either killing, and that didn't bother Catherine in the least. This shooting, like the other, would be ruled justifiable. Both were unfortunate; neither was homicide.

Of all of the people with whom Helena had surrounded herself, he might have been the best at his job, the most loyal and honorable.

And he was, it seemed, a very skilled marksman, with just enough of a different angle on Stilton that he'd been able to take the shot. It was still a risky play, but it had paid off.