Suddenly, I had to have air.

Thrusting Klapec’s head at Slidell, I rushed outside.

Gnawing at a thumbnail, I paced, waiting for Slidell to emerge. Waiting for the CSS truck to arrive.

Seconds dragged by. Or maybe they were minutes.

I heard the muffled sound of Slidell’s phone.

My eye drifted to the myrtles and the hint of golf course beyond. I crossed to the hedge, wanting a peaceful vista to calm my nerves.

And tripped over something lying in the shadows.

Something with bulk and weight. Dead weight.

Heart hammering, I scrabbled to my knees and turned.

Glenn Evans lay faceup on the lawn, eyes vacant, blood oozing from a hole dead center in his forehead.

37

SLIDELL BURST FROM THE GARAGE, HEAD SWIVELING, GUN TWO-fisted by the side of his nose.

Seeing his alarm, I realized I’d cried out.

Slidell ran to me and peered down at the body.

“What the fuck?”

Heart pounding, I stumbled to my feet and drew back toward the myrtles.

Slidell stared at Evans a very long time. Then he spoke without looking up.

“Pinder owns a white Dodge Durango. Vehicle showed up at her house an hour ago. Gunther was driving it.”

I struggled to put Slidell’s words and Evans’s death into a framework that made sense.

“Something else.” Slidell’s eyes rolled up and locked onto mine. They looked sunken and aged in the yellow glow oozing from the coach house windows. “Evans and Lingo were out of town the entire week Klapec disappeared. Including the twenty-seventh.”

For a moment neither of us knew what to say. We just stood there.

Had we gotten it all wrong? Had Rinaldi?

In the stillness I heard a twig snap behind me. Slidell’s Glock shot up and pointed in my direction.

I was turning when a gun muzzle kissed the base of my skull.

A man’s voice said, “Do this right or you both die now.”

Adrenaline fired to every cell in my body.

“Toss the gun.” Almost a hiss.

I saw a glint as Slidell’s eyes flicked sideways.

“Don’t do it, Detective.”

In my peripheral vision I could see the curl of a finger on the far side of a trigger guard. I could smell cleaning oil and old gunpowder.

“More police are on the way,” Slidell said.

“Then we’re going to move fast, aren’t we?” The words came machine-gun quick.

“It won’t work, Vince.”

The muzzle slid forward to the soft flesh under my jaw.

“What won’t work is me going to prison.”

“Being in jail is better than being dead.”

“Not for guys like me.”

I felt the front sight dig deep into my jugular, felt my blood pulse against the nub of steel.

“The gun. Now!” Staccato.

“Let’s all stay calm.” Slidell extended the Glock to arm’s length, then tossed it in Gunther’s direction.

“Pick it up,” Gunther ordered, mashing down on my back.

As I bent, he bent with me. I could smell pricey aftershave and stale body sweat.

With trembling fingers I scooped the Glock and handed it over my shoulder. Gunther took it and jerked me up by the collar of my jacket.

“The cuffs.”

Slidell unclipped and tossed his handcuffs. Again, I was forced to bend and retrieve them.

“Cell.”

Slidell tossed his phone. Gunther kicked it into the myrtles.

“Walk toward me, hands on your head.”

Ever so slowly, Slidell raised his arms, interlaced his fingers, and dropped his hands to the top of his head. Then he began inching in our direction.

“Faster.”

Slidell stopped. I could see fury working in his eyes. And something else. Fear.

“Don’t play with me, fat boy.” Gunther sounded dangerously amped.

“You don’t have a chance,” Slidell said.

“Yeah?”

I heard the swish of fabric behind me.

Slidell’s eyes went wide.

Lights exploded in my brain.

Then there was nothing but blackness.

I became aware of pain first: Throbbing in my head. Burning around my wrists. Aching in my shoulders.

Then sounds: The grinding hum of a motor. The murmur of tires on pavement. Soft thumps and clanks as things jostled around me.

Smells: Gasoline. Rubber. Exhaust.

Shifting and swaying told me I was in a moving vehicle.

I tried to sit up, realized my hands were tied behind me.

I opened my eyes. Darkness.

A new sensation. Nausea.

I lowered my lids. Swallowed.

Memory crept back. Evans. Gunther. Slidell’s shocked look.

Deduction. Gunther had knocked me unconscious and thrown me into a car trunk.

Dear God. Where was he taking me?

Sudden terrible thought. Was Slidell dead?

I listened for clues. My battered brain couldn’t interpret what my ears sent its way.

Breathing through my mouth, I lay still and counted the left and right turns. Willed myself not to vomit.

Finally, the car stopped. Doors opened. I heard male voices. Then silence.

Again, blindly groping for a sense of control, I counted. Sixty seconds. One twenty. One eighty.

The trunk lid flew open and I was hauled upward. Trees arced past my vision. Brick. Pillars.

My stomach roiled. I tasted bile and felt tremors under my tongue.

A familiar back stoop.

Fear shot through me. We were at the Annex. Why?

Dragging me from the car, Gunther prodded me toward the porch, muzzle once again pressed to the base of my skull.

I stumbled forward, grasping for comprehension. For details to remember. To recount. To reconstruct.

Back door open. Kitchen windows casting rectangles of light on the lawn. Purse tossed, contents scattered like wind-blown leaves on the grass.

Gunther shoved me up the steps. I entered my home on trembling legs.

From somewhere in the house I heard frenzied rattling and scraping. Birdie? Too loud. Then what? I couldn’t tell. Blood jackhammered in my brain.

Gunther paused, licked his lips. For the first time I had a view of his face. He looked like someone’s older brother, a tennis coach, a preacher at the church. His eyes were green, but shifting wildly. His hair was chestnut and neatly side-parted. He had one thing right. Switch-hitter though he was, with his feminine good looks he’d be grade-A prime in prison.

Moving almost imperceptibly, I flattened my back and shoulders to the wall beside the jamb and raised up on my toes. Something clicked, and the light falling through the door changed subtly.

Where was Bird? I listened for the jangle of the bell on his collar. Nothing.

Pushing hard, Gunther forced me through the swinging door into the dining room, then through to the hallway.

Slidell’s back was to us. He was hunched, wrenching at cuffs chaining his wrists to the newel post of the staircase.

“Easy, Detective.” Agitated and tense.

Slidell whirled as best he could.

“You’re going down, you dickless shit.” Slidell’s voice was ragged from exertion and rage.

“Then what have I got to lose with two more corpses?”

Moving me into Slidell’s field of vision, Gunther jammed his gun into my trachea and forced my chin upward.

Slidell hauled on the cuffs, fury radiating from him like heat.

Gunther forced the barrel so deep I cried out in pain.

Slidell’s fingers curled into fists. “You hurt her I’ll fucking kill you myself.”

“Don’t see how you’ll manage that. Turn around.”

Slidell didn’t budge.

“Move! Now! Or your buddies will be scraping her brains off the wall with a sponge.” The calm was gone and Gunther again sounded psychotically overwrought. Was the man roller-coastering on speed or some other drug?

Eyes burning with hatred, Slidell began a slow pivot.

Lunging forward, Gunther arced the gun fast toward Slidell’s temple. It connected with a sickening crack.

Slidell went down and lay still, cuffed arms crooked heavenward as if he were a supplicant in prayer.