Exit Strategy (Nadia Stafford 1)

That promoted exactly the kind of paranoia that gated communities preyed on. I'd pulled a hit in a "high security" private club, in the middle of a golf tournament, and let me tell you, I've done harder--much harder.

But of course the media was already playing it up, making it sound like he was some kind of phantom who'd slipped past not only the armed guards at the gate, but a fully armed home security system.

Fully armed, my ass. How many people rearm their system when they're indoors entertaining, with friends coming and going? My guess was that the homeowner had reactivated it when she'd learned of the murder. If the system had been off, the Feds would figure it out, but I doubted that tidbit would make it to the six o'clock news.

Jack needed to call Quinn before we got back to Evelyn's, so he stopped at a Cracker Barrel near the state border. I went in to grab coffees to go, then got sidetracked by the display of old-fashioned candy. When I returned to the car and found Jack wasn't back, I put the coffees and candy inside and went to look for him.

Jack was twenty feet away from the phone booth, standing by the edge of the parking lot. When I walked up behind him, he looked back at me, his eyes unreadable behind his dark shades.

"What happened?"

He looked my way, but said nothing.

"Quinn told you something, and now you're trying to figure out whether--or how--you should tell me." My mind leapfrogged to the obvious. "Another killing. Already? He just finished--"

"Not yet."

I stopped. "Not yet what? The killing, you mean? He hasn't done it yet, but he's announced it already? Come on, Jack, don't make me drag it out of you two words at a time, or I swear--"

He motioned for me to sit with him on the edge of the restaurant porch, and started talking.

The FBI knew where the killer was going to strike next. While it would have been nice to claim that they'd deduced this through painstaking hours of statistical

and behavioral analysis, the truth was far more disturbing. They knew because he'd told them.

According to Quinn, the FBI agent leading the investigation, Martin Dubois, had received his own letter from the killer. In it, the killer had promised to take a victim tonight, at a recently reopened historic opera house in Chicago. He didn't dare them to stop him, but the challenge was obvious.

"So what you were debating was whether to tell me in advance or not, wasn't it? Quite possibly our best chance to catch this guy, and you don't think we should bother showing up."

A kernel of rage rolled around my gut. I could feel Jack's gaze on me, studying me, appraising my reaction. I closed my eyes to slits, then took a deep breath. Took another. Opened my eyes and looked at him.

"Could be a setup," he said, words coming slow, deliberate, almost as if guiding me back on track.

I considered that. Saw the truth in his words. "Playing with the Feds. Leading them on a goose chase."

"Playing, yeah. Goose chase...?" He pulled off his sunglasses. "Helluva challenge."

"Killing someone in a busy public place--after you've given the FBI a heads-up? That's not just a challenge. What better way to prove that no one is safe than to tell the Feds where you'll strike next, and still pull it off."

"Yeah."

"So you think he's really going to do it?"

A long pause now, really thinking it through. Then a nod. "Yeah. Think he's gonna try."

My nails dug into my palms as I kept my voice steady, dispassionate. "Are we going to be there to stop him?"

"Gonna try."

Jack called Quinn back. Quinn and Felix had already planned to be there--not that Jack had been about to tell me that before we made up our own minds. As he slid into the car, I stared out the window. After a few minutes of his driving and my window gazing, he said, "You okay?"

"Just thinking of something and feeling stupid."

"'Bout what?"

"Quinn." When he didn't answer, I glanced his way. "When you told me he was a cop, I figured you meant 'cop,' like me--like I was. Street cop. Maybe detective, but definitely local or state. But now he tells us about this tip-off. A beat cop gets the drop on an unpublicized tip-off to the FBI? Right." I shook my head. "Quinn's a Fed, isn't he?"

"FBI?" He shrugged and started to say something that I knew from his expression would be, if not a complete disavowal, at least suitably neutral.