"What the fuck is this?" a man's voice echoed. "I was taking a piss, okay? You try getting to the bathroom in there."
There, partway down, two cops had a guy spread-eagled against the wall. He was beefy, with a crew cut, no older than me, wearing a rented ill-fitting tux.
"You guys had better explain to my date why I'm not in there, 'cause if she thinks I cut out on her, after I blew five hundred bucks..."
One of the officers saw me watching and gave a "move along" wave.
"Fuck," Jack muttered as we continued past. "You see another route?"
"No, and I'll bet you Mr. Silver Hair didn't get stopped by the cops. Too old to fit their damned profile."
Jack stopped and exhaled, pretending to watch traffic for a break to cross.
"Maybe if we walked back and took the same alley he did. It's not the safest move, but we need to go after--" I stopped as I turned in the direction of the alley. "Or maybe not."
There was the silver-haired man, jogging across the road, a cashmere cardigan in his hand. His wife, waiting on the other side, took it and pecked his cheek. Then they headed into the opera.
"Fuck."
I took a deep breath, working past the sharp disappointment. "I second that. So should we--?"
The intermission buzzer sounded.
"Head back in," Jack said. "Try afterward."
Our postshow plan was to get outside ahead of the crowd and watch for any middle-aged men exiting alone. Sounded great. Failed miserably. We even split up, and each of the four of us followed a lone man over forty-five...only to discover he was just bringing the car around for his wife or girlfriend.
Chances were that the killer wouldn't walk back alone to his car. He'd follow someone as far as he could. So when our first idea failed, we tried hanging out in the main lot, looking for men veering off from a group. Again, abject failure.
Finally, as the last of the opera-goers dispersed and we started looking obvious standing around, we admitted defeat and headed back to the motel.
* * *
THIRTY-FIVE
Earlier this evening I'd envisioned two possible scenarios. One, the killer would see he had no chance at success, and cut his losses. Two, he'd try, fail and be caught. Even when I'd considered the possibility that he'd kill someone, I'd been certain he'd be caught before he could escape. To succeed, and so easily, without a single apparent slip...I'm an optimist, but there's a point at which realism and optimism collide, and we'd reached it. Tonight only proved that we were in over our heads and it was starting to seem that nothing short of handing over two hundred million would stop the killings.
I didn't remember the trip to the motel or the walk to the room. The next thing I knew I was sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at myself in the mirror. I'd run my hands through my hair so many times I must have looked like Medusa--all snaky curls and jutting bobby pins. I'd caught my dress in the car door and dragged the hem over ten miles of wet road. I looked like bedraggled alley cat. And I didn't care.
Fixing my wig and my dress wasn't going to change what had happened tonight and would happen tomorrow and every day after that because all our running around solving the puzzle was for nothing if we couldn't stop this bastard. I'd been right there, less than a hundred feet away when he'd killed that man, and there hadn't been a damn thing I could do about it.
Failure. Complete, abject failure.
A rustle across the room. Then a cigarette package appeared, hovering over my lap. I shook my head and it vanished.
"You want a drink?" Jack asked.
I wanted to say no, but I knew he was trying to be considerate, so I nodded. I thought he'd meant he'd grab something from the minibar--assuming there was one. When the door clicked and I turned to see him leaving, my mouth opened to say "Please don't go." But before I could get the first word out, he'd left. And the room got very, very quiet.
Just me. Alone with my thoughts when I so desperately didn't want to be.
Someone rapped at the door. I didn't even check the peephole, just yanked it open, thinking Jack had forgotten something. Heart tripping with relief that he'd returned.
Quinn stood there, deep lines etched between his brows.
"I thought you'd left," I said.
"I have a bit of a drive and I'm...not ready to make it. I circled back, and I saw Jack leaving as I was pulling in. I thought maybe you could--we could--use some company."