Maybe, seeing that, I should have been worried. At least wary. If anything, it was almost comforting. I saw it, and I recognized it, and it didn’t bother me. With a man like Jack, a career killer of his caliber, you know there has to be something hard, something dangerous under that calm, impassive exterior. Seeing it and seeing no anger there, feeling no sense of danger directed at me was oddly reassuring.

The last thing I remembered that night was Jack’s voice, his thick brogue making even his clipped sentences almost musical as he told the story of a job gone by. I’d been up a hundred dollars in the betting, but almost falling over drunk, and he’d suggested I sit, close my eyes, rest for a minute. While I did, he told his story and I hung there, fighting sleep, clinging to his words, wanting to hear the end and then…thankfully dreamless sleep.

The next morning I awoke on the forest floor, Jack’s coat draped over me. He was propped against a tree-more dozing than sleeping-and roused when he saw me up. We gathered our things, including the beer cans, then headed off in search of breakfast and news.

The morning papers mentioned the killing. Just mentioned it. Few details had been released, and certainly nothing about the killer’s “challenge.” I suspected the Feds were scrambling to come up with a way to break the news themselves, with their own slant.

As for us, we’d go back to doing what we’d been doing all along, pursuing our leads in hopes that we’d roust the killer from the rear, through his identity and contacts in the underworld. Far from a foolproof plan, but it was a damned sight better than sitting on our hands waiting for more people to die.

HSK

He watched the typed messages scroll up the screen and, with each, his hands gripped the chair arms tighter. He’d logged in for a quick check before he dropped off his next letter at the courier’s. In it, he forewarned the Feds of his next night-time strike-an overnight train to California. He’d even provided the train number. That should be fun, and hopefully more challenging than the opera house. On the way he’d make his daytime hit. He hadn’t worked out the location or the specifics yet, but he knew what he wanted: a young working-class male. And it was probably time for another visible minority.

But now he was reading something that had sent all thoughts of his plan from his head. The big news on the boards? Little Joe Nikolaev was dead. He wanted to believe the timing was coincidental, but a smart man assumes connections exist until he can prove otherwise.

Rumor had it that Little Joe opened his mouth once too often. One of tonight’s posters claimed to know a middleman who’d been approached by Little Joe about a job just a few days earlier. Sounded like wannabe bullshit…until he read the next lines.

REDRUM: LJ wanted him to whack two broads. First thing I thought was: whores. LJ buys himself some company, blabs too much pillow talk, wants them offed. No big deal. Only one of them was old enough to be my grandma. The other was younger but, still, doesn’t sound like whores to me.

He stared at those lines, watched them jiggle up the screen, pushed by the flurry of responses that came after them.

Evelyn.

His fingers dug into the chair arms. Now the pieces clattered into place. Rumors of hitmen on his trail. Jack showing up at the opera house, with a young female partner on his arm-Jack, who never took partners. A young woman and an old lady show up at Little Joe’s, asking questions that put a price on their heads.

Evelyn, the goddess of destruction, always looking for disciples to sacrifice on the altar of her ego. Evelyn and her schemes, endless schemes, sucking you in, then tossing you aside when something new and shiny caught her eye.

A snap of her wrist and she’d yanked her favorite hound back to her side, foisted her new acolyte on him, then set the pair on his trail.

He could be wrong. There were plenty of assumptions in that argument. But a careful man took action before action was required. If Jack was on his trail, and if Evelyn knew about the Nikolaev connection, then he had a tap to shut off…before it leaked.

He looked at the letter. Could he still do it? Not that particular train, but he’d find another. He wasn’t about to let Evelyn spoil his plans.

THIRTY-SIX

“Gallagher,” Evelyn said before her door even closed behind us. “Maurice Gallagher called the hit on Sasha Fomin, the one Kozlov witnessed.”

And with that, she swung us back on the trail without a word about what had happened in Chicago. The opera house murder had yielded no clues, so she’d plowed past it. An inconsequential distraction from the hunt.

“Gallagher in Vegas?” Jack asked.

Evelyn snorted. “Where else? That spider hasn’t left the Fortuna in thirty years. As long as he’s alive, that’s where you’ll find him. Hell, even when he isn’t alive, that’s where you’ll find him.” She looked at me. “He’s built himself a mausoleum inside the casino. You meet some strange ones in this business. More than our share of psychiatric case studies.”

“Go figure,” Jack murmured. “Guess we’re off to Vegas, then.”

“Should be a quick trip. You’ve built up enough credit with Gallagher, all the work you’ve done for him.”

“Been awhile.”

Her head shot up. “He hasn’t been calling you?”

“He calls. I don’t answer.”

“What? You get a client like Maurice Gallagher on the line, you thank God for a steady income, Jacko. You don’t go telling him you’re too busy.”

“Don’t tell him that.”

“Good.”

“I tell him I’m not interested.”

“You what? For fuck’s sake, Jack!” She turned to me. “About those psychiatric case studies? Case in point.”

“Is this going to cause a problem, Jack?” I asked. “If he’s pissed off at you-”

“Not pissed off. Just not happy. We’ll work around it.”

Evelyn opened her mouth, but Jack cut her off by grabbing my suitcase.

“Better repack,” he said.

“Do I need the push-up bra?”

“It’s Vegas.”

“Damn.”

I’d really hoped to avoid my makeover for a few hours, but Jack insisted that we arrive and leave in character. Made sense, but he didn’t need jeans so tight they gave him a wedgie with every step.

Jack wore a golf shirt, chinos and loafers. Quite preppy…until you slicked back the dark hair, undid all three buttons on the shirt and added a half-pound of gold-chain, watch, rings, earring, even a tooth. Toss on mirrored sunglasses, and you took the persona from banker to loan shark. A five-minute trip to the bathroom and you’d be back to banker.

My outfit wasn’t nearly so versatile. I got a blowzy blond wig, painted-on jeans and cowboy boots. No five-minute change was making that more respectable…or more comfortable.

When we got to the airport, there was a guy soliciting donations outside the terminal doors, tucked behind a pillar, out of sight of security. When I saw the red pot beside him, stuffed with dollar bills, I thought Huh, a bit early for the Salvation Army Christmas drive, isn’t it? Then I saw the sign beside the pot: Your Dollar Accepted Here.

I slowed, and steered Jack closer to read the smaller print.

Protect yourself today, it said. Pay your dollar, and sign the list.

“Fuck,” Jack muttered. “What’s he gonna do? FedEx the cash?”

“And the list, don’t forget, because I’m sure the killer is checking ID first.”

“Con artists. Fucking bottom-feeders.”

I looked around. “I should notify security.”