Mirror Image

“You don’t understand how calculating she was,” Avery said, leaping to Tate’s defense. “She became everything he could possibly want. She laid a trap, using herself as the perfect bait. She was pretty, animated, and sexy. But more than that, someone who knew Tate well coached her on the right buttons to push to elevate lust to love.”

“The one who wants to kill him.”

“Right,” Avery said, nodding grimly at Van, who had voiced her hypothesis. “He must have sensed, as Zee did, that Carole was an opportunist.”

“When he approached her, why didn’t she run to Tate?”

“I’m not sure,” she admitted. “My theory isn’t without holes. Maybe being the bereaved widow of a public official held more allure than being a senator’s wife.”

“Same status, but no inconvenient husband,” Irish speculated.

“Hmm. Also, she wasn’t sure Tate would make it to the Senate. Or maybe her coconspirator made it financially profitable for her. In any case, once they were married, it was her responsibility to make life miserable for Tate—a job she did with relish.”

“But why was someone out to make him miserable?” Irish asked. “It always comes back to that.”

“I don’t know.” Avery’s voice was taut with quiet desperation. “I wish to God I did.”

“What do you make of the latest message?” Irish asked.

She raked a hand through her hair. “Obviously, they’re going to make their move on election day. A gun of some kind will be the weapon of choice.”

“That gets my vote. No pun intended,” Van added drolly.

Irish shot him an irritated glance, then said to Avery, “I don’t know. This time the symbolism seems a little too obvious.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m not sure,” he admitted, gnawing on his lip. Absently, he picked up Avery’s glass of brandy and took a hearty swig. “What happened to the subtlety of the earlier notes? Either he’s testing your mettle or he’s the cockiest son of a bitch I’ve ever run across.”

“Maybe he’s cocky because it can’t be stopped now,” Van said moodily. “It’ll go down no matter what. Everything is already in place.”

“Like Gray Hair?” Avery asked. Van shrugged.

“What about the footage you shot earlier today in Houston? Any more of him?” Irish asked Van.

“Nope. He hasn’t turned up since Fort Worth. Not since Avery’s been staying home.” His eyes were mellowed by marijuana, but the look he gave her was meaningful enough for Irish to intercept.

“Okay, what don’t I know, you two?”

Avery moistened her lips. “Van thinks it’s possible that Gray Hair is watching me, not Tate.”

Irish’s head swiveled on his thick neck around to the photographer. “What makes you think that?”

“It’s just an idea. A little off the wall, but—”

“In every one of the tapes he’s looking at Tate,” she pointed out reasonably.

“Hard to tell. You’re always standing right beside him.”

“Avery.” Irish took her hand, pulled her back down onto the sofa, and squatted in front of her. He covered her hands with his own. “Listen to me now. You’ve got to notify the authorities.”

“I—”

“I said to listen. Now shut up and hear me out.” He reorganized his thoughts. “You’re in over your head, baby. I know why you wanted to do this. It was a terrific idea—a once-in-a-lifetime chance to make a name for yourself and save lives in the meantime.

“But it’s gotten out of hand. Your life is in danger. And as long as you let this continue, so is Rutledge’s. So’s the kid’s.” Since she appeared to be receptive to his argument, he eased up onto the couch beside her, but continued to press her hands beneath his. “Let’s call the FBI.”

“The feds?” Van squeaked.