It was a potentially dangerous situation, he would say, and he would be right. From that point of agreement, they would immediately diverge. Marc thought the police should handle dangerous situations, that most cops were good cops and could be trusted. Tucker was beginning to have his doubts, especially after today’s interview with Sergeant Lewis.

Slowly, Tucker said, “I’m asking for a favor, Marc. I need to borrow your gun for a little while. No questions asked.”

“That’s a fine thing to say to a criminal lawyer.”

“Yeah, I know. But I’m saying it. You still keep the gun here, don’t you? In your desk?”

Marc nodded.

“Well, then?”

“You aren’t going to rob a bank, right?”

“Very funny.”

“Well, how the hell should I know what you’ve got in mind? When you were writing the one about a terrorist group, you damn near ended up with a working bomb, and that one set on a runaway train got you blacklisted by Amtrak. I shudder to think what’s next.”

Tucker had no qualms in allowing his friend to believe he needed the gun for some reason associated with his latest novel. Lightly, he said, “You’ll find out when you read all about it. The gun?”

Marc hesitated, but they had been friends a long time, and so he unlocked a lower drawer of his desk and produced the holstered gun. Handing it across, he said, “I just cleaned it the other day. The clip’s full, chamber’s empty.”

“Gotcha. Thanks, Marc. I really appreciate this.”

When Tucker stood up to leave, Marc said only, “I don’t know what’s going on, Tucker, but watch yourself.”

“You bet. Say hello to Josie for me.”

“I will.”

They didn’t shake hands, though later Tucker wished they had.

He continued with his meal even after he felt more than heard someone slide into the booth behind him. He heard the waitress come and brightly recommend this week’s chicken dish, heard a low voice order the chicken with a slight indifference that seemed to miff the waitress. Either that, or she was upset that her charms had no effect on this particular customer.

Save it, sweetheart. He’s made of ice.

When she’d gone away, he leaned back, making a show of sipping his coffee and looking around casually, a satisfied diner relaxing after his meal. He spoke in a low voice without turning. “It’s no good. Mackenzie’s suspicious. He won’t buy another accident, especially if Gallagher disappears.”

“You’re sure?” The answering voice was also low.

“Absolutely. And she’s looking to him for help, that’s clear, so he’s going to be with her. I don’t know what he’ll do next, but if I were in his place…I’d get her out of Richmond. Fast.”

“And go where?”

“I don’t know.”

“We need better information.”

“I’m aware of that.” He heard his voice stiffen and strove to make it once more calm and casual. There were some men it just didn’t pay to get angry at, and this man headed the list. “Mackenzie’s been all over the country in the last ten years, researching and promoting his novels. Believes in immersing himself in a subject if he needs it for one of his books—and some of those subjects have been fairly esoteric.”

“For example?”

“Explosives—the kind you can put together from ingredients in most kitchens. Computer hacking. Survival training. Weapons. Defensive driving. He’s taken courses through the FBI on topics ranging from antiterrorism to psychological profiling. He has a degree in electronics, and a measured IQ of over one-eighty, which puts him solidly in the genius range. And he was a fucking Boy Scout. Probably thinks he’s MacGyver. Oh, and one last thing. From what I’ve been able to gather, he’s always been interested in the paranormal. You should see all the books on his shelves.”

The ice man’s voice was grim. “In other words, the perfect person to keep Sarah Gallagher safe.”

“I’d feel safe in his keeping, and I don’t like the bastard.”

“Why wasn’t I told of this before?”

“I didn’t know before.” He forced the irritation from his voice. “Even with my resources and all the social networking out there, it takes a good twenty-four hours to search deep background on somebody unless that person is a criminal. Mackenzie isn’t. And despite being famous in his field, he has a surprisingly small online presence, and that’s almost entirely about his books.” He fell silent as the waitress returned and served the chicken dish to the ice man. Once again she tried flirting, and once again her customer was indifferent.

Wave your boobs in my face, sweetheart, and we’ll talk. Hell, we’ll do a lot more than talk. But she wouldn’t, of course. They never did.

When she’d flounced away, he spoke again. “If Mackenzie didn’t have a certain amount of celebrity, I wouldn’t have been able to find out as much as I did this quickly.”

But you won’t thank me, will you, you icy son of a bitch. Oh no.

“What else do you know?”

Oh no, no trouble at all. Don’t mention it, really.

“Tax records, voting record, credit report, school records—”

“What do you know about him that will help us?”

He was silent for a minute or two, pushing aside his dangerous anger as he considered all the varied information about Tucker Mackenzie that had been dumped into his retentive brain. When he spoke, it was slowly. “He’s a puzzle solver. Creative, of course. Intuitive. Stubborn. Highly loyal to friends. Athletic; hiking, climbing, and swimming are some of the ways he keeps in shape. He knows how to get information. He knows how to work alone. He knows how to think ahead. Plays a mean game of chess. Grand master.”

“What are his weaknesses?”

“He might not take Gallagher’s predictions as seriously as she does.”

“Why not?” Interest quickened in that low voice.

“It’s just a hunch, but I don’t think he believes. He’s debunked a few psychics in the past, and I hear he’s so good at it he might have made a career out of it. In fact, I’m surprised you don’t know more about him than I do.”

“We can’t be everywhere.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” he muttered.

Ignoring that, the ice man asked, “What else? Weaknesses?”

“Hell, I don’t know. He could be reckless. Cocky maybe, at least until he figures out what he’s up against. He’ll underestimate you in the beginning, I’d bet money on that. I’d say he likes to believe himself in control of any given situation; the kind of guy who never loses his temper if he’s losing a game, and smiles while he’s already planning how to kick your ass next time. And—I don’t know if he could kill someone up close and personal. I don’t know if he’s got that in him.”

“Maybe he doesn’t. But she does.”

He was tempted to glance back over his shoulder but didn’t. Instead, he lit a cigarette despite the NO SMOKING signs posted and blew a lazy smoke ring. “Whatever you say.” Quite deliberately, he didn’t ask what he was supposed to do next. He hated that shit, he really did.

Not that the ice man waited for him to ask.

“All right, maintain the surveillance until you hear from me.”

“If he’s going to move, he’ll move quickly.”

“I know. So be ready.”

“Me? What comes next is up to you people. I’m just here to watch, report—and clean up the mess.”

“You’re here to do whatever we need you to do.” The ice man’s voice was silky.

“I’m not your fucking hired thug.”

“You’re my dog if that’s what I need you to be. Shall I order you to sit up and bark?”

He smoked furiously, hating the bastard. And hating himself. He glared at the waitress, who had started toward him the instant he lit his cigarette but now decided instead to clear off a couple of tables.

“Be ready. Understand?”

“Yes.”

A moment later, he was alone in the back of the restaurant. He didn’t see the ice man leave. Hell, he didn’t even hear him leave. And he should have. He really should have.