This idea came from left field, so I put on some real left field space music. Eno, “Music for Airports.” I closed my eyes and let it space me out, take me to a place that was huge and open and vague. And I thought.
I thought about enemies. The list of my enemies was long, but it got shorter as I thought which ones would fit something like this and how; which ones might jump at the bait; what bait that would be; and, mostly, which ones I really wanted to stick it to. And then I thought of one who had actually screwed me, and that still hurt. I looked him over, strengths and weaknesses, habits and hates. I really wanted it to be this guy, so I parsed him twice. Finally I had to admit it. Even though I wanted him to match, he actually did. Perfectly.
Great. Step two. How to set the trap, and who in my folder of New People could set it best.
I’m not sure how long I sat there on that steamer trunk thinking. I do know the Eno was over, and my ass was sore, so I guess it was a while. That didn’t matter. What mattered was that I had a plan. I knew who I would be. Even better, I had just the right enemy.
I took a big breath and smiled. “There’s always a way,” I said, and I opened my ID folder. I pulled one from the middle of the pack. “And this is it,” I said.
I looked at the picture. This would be fun.
* * *
—
He had plenty of people didn’t like him,” Mallory said. He looked around at the other ex-Team members gathered by the security control panel in the exhibit hall. “But he didn’t have any enemies. I mean . . .”
“Nobody who’d want to actually kill him,” Snyder said, nodding his head.
“Fuck,” Szabo said. “I wanted to kill him plenty of times. But not seriously.”
They were all quiet, thoughtful, for a long moment.
Tremaine broke the silence, sounding a little reluctant. “Um,” he said. “Don’t suppose one of the towelheads . . . ?”
“No fucking way,” Mallory said. “They’re all being good little fanatics.”
Szabo nodded agreement. “They want this whole thing to go smooth and easy,” he said. “They’re on best behavior.”
“Um,” Taylor said, frowning. “This girl he was banging . . . ?”
“She was all broke up about it, crying her ass off,” Snyder said. “Why would she kill him?”
“No, I mean, not her. But, you know,” Taylor said, shaking his head. “Maybe somebody, you know. Who was with her before? And they were, like . . . jealous?”
They thought about that for a minute. It was Szabo who spoke first. “Naw,” he said. “I don’t buy it.”
“Well, fuck-a-shit-piss,” Tremaine said, his Cajun accent making the words sound kindly somehow. “They’s a reason it happened here and now. So if it ain’t the chick, what the hell? Hey, Lieutenant?”
Szabo shrugged and stroked the stubble on his chin. “I dunno. Maybe it—” He broke off abruptly, tilted his head to one side.
“What?” Snyder asked.
“He said something, just before he bought it,” Szabo said slowly. “How a beard changes your face—and whose face it changed.”
“What the fuck,” Taylor said.
“Shit,” Tremaine said. “That girl’s ugly, but she got no beard.”
“But if Tremaine is right—” Szabo continued.
“’Course I am right,” Tremaine said. “Right about what, Lieutenant? The girl’s beard?”
“Here and now there’s only one guy with a beard,” Szabo said. “Not counting the ragheads.”
“That metrosexual guy? He’s just darling,” Snyder said.
“Yeah, him. Miller,” Szabo said.