Sympathy for the Devil (31 page)

"Yes, um, I suppose they would. Probably. Yes."

"So, is it possible that the pupil dilation you so alertly observed might have occurred in response to his memories of the orphanage, rather than any lie he was telling you about it?"

"Yes, quite possible," she said with a sigh. "Sorry."

"And if he was lying about where he went, he probably wanted to spend a few days getting laid. Men do that, I understand."

"Yes, they do. I didn't mean to waste your time. I apologize."

"Idiot," he said. Then, after a moment he added, "There
is
something you should do tomorrow. Just in case your original instincts about Masterson were correct. Are you listening?"

"Yes, of course."

"See if you can find out what flight Masterson took when he went on leave, and where it brought him. Just to be on the safe side. I'll show you how to get into the airlines' computer system - it's not difficult at all."

"Yes, all right. I'll take care of it tomorrow."

Chapter 29

"Can you do it?"

The Rialto Bar and Grille in Fairfax wasn't busy at this hour, so Nestor Greene was careful to keep his voice down. His companion had been doing the same.

The man sitting in the booth opposite Greene had lifeless brown hair, a quiet brown herringbone sport coat, and a blue button-down shirt open at the collar. He looked like somebody who'd be sitting in your living room trying to sell you car insurance. He certainly didn't look like a professional killer.

I guess that's sort of the point
, Greene thought.

The contact who had put this meet together had told Greene that nobody seemed to know the brown-haired man's real name, or even what name to call him by, since he changed identities with every job he did. The contact had said that some in the underworld referred to the killer as 'The Grocer's Boy,' although nobody was sure why. One story had it that his father, or maybe foster father, had been in the business, too, using a small grocery store as a cover. He had supposedly trained the kid in every aspect of the killer's trade. The Grocer's Boy, the story went, had killed his first man when he was fourteen years old.

On the table between them Greene had put a small paper bag, the kind people carry their lunches to work in. The killer opened it and looked inside at the plastic baggie in which Greene had put the vial of poison and the hypo, but didn't take it out of the bag.

"Does it have to be done this way?" the killer asked. "I'm not objecting, just asking."

"It has to look like a natural death, and you can bet there will be a damn thorough autopsy afterward."

"So any kind of natural death is acceptable?"

Greene thought a moment, then nodded. "I would say so. But if you use another method, it has to be foolproof. It can't look like a... a hit."

"I understand. Just checking to see what my options are." The killer paused for a small sip of the Scotch and water that was in front of him, only the second sip he had taken since sitting down. "The price is fifty thousand," he said.

Greene nodded glumly. So much for making a profit on the cash Mary Margaret Doyle had sent. Good thing more money was coming his way once the job was done.

He had been told that this man would charge fifty grand. And he had been warned not to haggle over the killer's fee.

"Half now, half when it's done?" Greene asked. "I understand that's customary."

"Not with me, it isn't. You pay me the whole fifty when the job's finished. If, for some reason, I can't get it done, you don't owe me a dime." He gave Greene a friendly-looking smile, as if he'd just agreed to buy the million-dollar whole life policy. "That isn't very likely, though."

Greene tried not to show his surprise. He had brought all of Mary Margaret Doyle's fifty thousand, in case the killer had demanded the full fee in advance. Greene had been prepared for that; he had not expected to pay nothing up front at all.

"You're thinking that it's stupid of me to trust you like that," the killer said.

"No, I wouldn't -"

"A guy tried to cheat me out of a fee, once. I killed him, and it was messy. There hasn't been any problem since. Nobody cheats me."

"Yes, I can imagine. Well, you don't have to worry about me making that kind of mistake."

"I'm not worried. Especially since you're going to give me a look at your driver's license."

"My - why the hell do you want to see that?"

"To determine your real identity, Mr. 'Smith.' Just in case you get an attack of the stupids between now and when it comes time to pay me. I want to know who to come visit."

"Well, I'm not sure I want to -"

"No license, no deal. But you're paying for my drink, either way."

Greene slowly reached for his wallet. He put it on the table, found his license, and handed it over.

The man they called The Grocer's Boy studied the license for a few moments, then held it up to the light and bent it back and forth a few times.

"What the hell are you doing?" Greene asked.

"Making sure it's genuine. There are ways you can tell, and this one looks legit." He handed the license back. "Thanks, Mr. Greene. Now all I need is a phone number where you can be reached."

"What do you want that for? You already know where I live."

"I want it so I call you when the job's done and tell you where to send my money," the killer said patiently.

"Very well." Greene pulled the cocktail napkin from under his glass and reached in his shirt pocket for a pen.

"No need to write it down. Just tell me. Twice."

Greene recited his cell phone number, then repeated it.

"Fine. Take care, Mr. Greene. I'll be in touch."

Then he slid out of the booth and was gone before Greene could come up with a clever exit line. Just as well. Nestor Greene wasn't feeling very clever at the moment.

Quincey Morris's flight touched down at Virginia's Richmond International Airport a little before noon, and by 1:00 he was checked into his room at the Crowne Plaza, smack in the middle of downtown.

He wasted no time plugging his laptop into the room's Internet port and was reading his fourth story about the Stark campaign when someone knocked on his door. Morris peeked through the fisheye lens, then turned the knob to admit Libby Chastain.

"Good flight?" Morris asked after they had exchanged a quick hug.

"I'm beginning to think that may be an oxymoron," Libby said. "But, on the plus side, nobody hijacked the plane, they didn't lose my luggage, and I sat next to a cute guy who travels for IBM, but is based in Richmond. When we reached the terminal, he demonstrated that Southern gentility isn't dead yet, by saying something like 'Ah am honored to have had as a travelin' companion a lovely and charmin' lady, such as yourself.'"

"I've often felt the same way myself, Libby, but I was too shy to say so."

"I bet." She gave the room a quick scan. "This is a nice change from chain hotels. Good choice. My room's on 14, and has quite a lovely view of the city."

"I'm glad you like the accommodations, although I chose the Crowne Plaza because of its proximity to the Stark rally that's going to be held here, day after tomorrow. We could even watch it from that window, but I suspect we'd be a little too far away to do any good."

"And have you worked out some fiendish plan for getting me close to Senator Stark without getting gunned down by the Secret Service?"

Morris smiled at her. "Fiendish plan? No, that's the other side, remember? The team that Stark may be playing for, which is what we're here to determine."

"Why Richmond, anyway? You didn't say when you emailed my plane ticket."

"It was Masterson's idea. Stark's devoting all his energies to Virginia this week. The other primaries are in states like Montana and the Dakotas - more sheep and cattle than people, and not a heck of a lot of electoral votes. Masterson says the campaign's relying on TV ads for those."

Libby walked over to one of the beds and sat down. "That explains Virginia, not Richmond."

"According to Masterson, Stark's speech in Kanawha Plaza, which you can see from yonder window, by the way, is the only one this week where he's likely to be walking a rope line."

"Pressing the flesh as he goes, I assume."

"That's the whole point of having the rope line. There's no guarantee that
your
flesh will be among that getting pressed, though. You said you don't have to touch him."

"I don't. Magic isn't an exact science - in fact, it isn't science at all, although math comes in handy sometimes. But if you can get me within, say, twenty feet, I should be able to tell if he's been anywhere near black magic."

Libby noticed that Morris was frowning. "What?" she said.

"As I was listening to you, a quote popped into my head, or part of a quote. 'When you look into the abyss, the abyss also looks into you.'"

"It's from Nietzsche," Libby said. "Um. Let me think a second." She closed her eyes, then recited, "'He who fights monsters should take care that he does not himself become a monster, for when you look into the abyss'... et cetera."

"I've always admired that memory of yours," Morris said. "So, within twenty feet or so, you'll know if Stark is playing for the bad guys. Question is, will he be able to tell that you're one of the good guys?"

"That hadn't occurred to me," Libby said pensively. "Yes, he probably will." She shrugged. "So what? It's not like he'll be able to do anything about it with all those people around, even if he were so inclined."

"Yeah, I guess," Morris said. He rubbed the burn scar on his neck. "But I'm leery about him knowing who you are. Once they get their mark on you..."

"I'm a big girl, Quincey, and a Witch of the White by choice. I'll take my chances - assuming there's a risk, which there probably isn't. I
am
a little surprised though that we're going to have only one chance to put ourselves near Stark. I thought getting up close and personal with the voters was what these guys lived for."

"It's our best chance this week," Morris said. "And considering what may be at stake, I figured we'd best not waste any time. Look here."

The screen of his laptop displayed the list of Stark's speaking engagements for the week, in various cities across Virginia. Each venue's name had comments typed under it.

"I put this together after talking to Masterson," Morris said. "Check it out - in Newport News, he's giving a speech at some big country club. Members only invited. He probably plans to hit them up for fat contributions. In Norfolk, he's speaking at the Lions Club breakfast, then the Rotary at lunch. Gotta be a member to get into either one."

"Couldn't Masterson get us in?"

"He says no. Apparently the Secret Service can only keep people out - known felons, cranks, people like that. The campaign decides who get in."

"How very cozy. So his only outdoor event is here in Richmond."

"Yep. And there's gonna be a rope line. If we get there early enough, we should be able to position ourselves in the front of the crowd, or at least pretty close. Well within twenty feet of Stark, I figure."

"And then we'll see," Libby said quietly.

"Then we'll see. We'll probably be standing for hours. I hope you brought comfortable shoes."

"So now that you're properly armed," Ashley said, "I assume it's time to go kill ourselves a Senator?"

"Looks like it. I bought that fancy rifle case to transport the weapon on a plane. But it looks like we can just drive to where we're going to pop him."

"Which would be where, exactly?"

"The Commonwealth of Virginia, which we visited just yesterday. Different part of it, though."

She looked over his shoulder at the computer screen. He tried not to let her soft breath on his neck distract him.

"Where are we going to do it?"

"Looks like it'll have to be Richmond. It's the only place where the son of a bitch is going to be speaking outdoors. He's got a rally planned for downtown in someplace called Kanawha Plaza. The rest of his schedule is all indoor stuff.

"Richmond it is, then. I assume we'll leave in the morning."

"You assume correctly. Stark speaks there the day after tomorrow. It'll be good to have an extra day to get ready."

"We'll need reservations." She signed theatrically. "I don't imagine there's anyplace nearly as nice as the Hay-Adams in Richmond."

"Don't be a snob. Richmond's a pretty nice town, as I remember. Besides - anywhere we stay, even the filthiest hovel, is a lot better than Hell, babe."

"Good point. Do you want me to find us a hotel in Richmond?"

"Already got one. No hovel, either. It's a nice place called the Crowne-with-an-e Plaza. And apart from what looks like pretty nice rooms, it offers another advantage."

"The suspense is killing me."

"It overlooks Kanawha Plaza - from a distance of about 500 yards."

"I just love it when you talk dirty!" She leaned over and kissed him, hard.

"We'll need reservations in a name other than Malachi Peters," he said, once her tongue was out of his mouth, "and a credit card in the new name for when we check in. Think you can help us out with that?"

"I don't see why not."

"One of the many things I love about the Internet is that a lot of hotels will not only let you make a reservation online - you can even reserve the room you want."

He clicked the mouse, and a diagram of the Crowne Plaza came up on the screen. Peters moved the cursor until it rested on one room. "Get this one - 1408. There's one floor above it, but it's all luxury suites, and they're booked for this week. I checked."

"You're looking to get high up."

"As high as I can, and the fourteenth floor should do just fine. Gives me a nice angle of fire. The trees are already budding down there, and I want to get above them. This'll do it."

She nodded approvingly. "So, if all goes well, we'll be able to put up the 'Mission Accomplished' banner the day after tomorrow."

"Yeah, I hope so." He turned in his chair and looked at her squarely. "And then what?"