Mirror Image

The mating ritual had begun. Fancy recognized it. She knew the rules. Hell, she’d invented most of them. In two hours—possibly less, if they got hot sooner—they’d be in bed somewhere.

Following her heartbreak over Eddy, she’d sworn off men. They were all bastards. They wanted only one thing from her, and it was the same thing they could buy from the cheapest whore.

Her mother had told her that one day she would meet a guy who truly cared for her and would treat her with kindness and respect. Fancy didn’t really believe it, though. Was she supposed to sit around, bored out of her skull, letting her twat atrophy while she waited for Prince Charming to show up and bring it back to life?

Hell, no. She’d been good for three days now. She needed some laughs. This Jim, or Joe, or John, or whatever the hell his name was, was as good as any to give her some.

Like a freaking Girl Scout, she had run Carole’s errand, but she wasn’t ready to return to the hotel suite and sit glued to the TV set as the rest would be, watching election returns. She would get there eventually. But first, she was going to have some fun.

* * *

Finding a parking place anywhere close to the hotel was impossible. Irish finally found one in a lot several blocks away. He was heavily perspiring by the time he entered the lobby. If he had to bribe his way into the Rutledges’ private suite he would do it. He had to see Avery. Together they might figure out what had become of Van.

Maybe all his worries were for nothing. Maybe they were together right now. God, he hoped so.

He waded through the members of an Asian tour group who were lined up to check in. Patience had never been one of Irish’s virtues. He felt his blood pressure rising as he elbowed his way through the tourists, all chattering and fanning themselves with pamphlets about the Alamo.

From amid the chaos, someone touched his elbow. “Hi.”

“Oh, hi,” Irish said, recognizing the face.

“You’re Irish McCabe, aren’t you? Avery’s friend?”

“That’s right.”

“She’s been looking for you. Follow me.”

They navigated the congested lobby. Irish was led through a set of doors toward a service elevator. They got inside; the gray doors slid closed.

“Thanks,” Irish said, wiping his sweaty forehead on his sleeve. “Did Avery…” In the middle of his question, it occurred to him that her correct name had been used. He glanced across the large cubicle. “You know?”

A smile. “Yes. I know.”

Irish saw the pistol, but he wasn’t given time to register the thought that it was actually being aimed straight at him. Less than a heartbeat later, he grabbed his chest and hit the floor of the elevator like a fallen tree.

The elevator stopped on the lowest level of the hotel. The lone passenger raised the pistol and aimed it toward the opening doors, but didn’t have to use it. No one was waiting.

Irish’s body was dragged down a short hallway, through a set of swinging double doors, and deposited in a narrow alcove that housed vending machines for hotel employee use. The space was lit from overhead by four fluorescent tubes, which were easily smashed with the silencer attached to the barrel of the pistol.

Covered with shards of opaque glass and stygian darkness, Irish McCabe’s body was left there on the floor. The assassin knew that by the time it was discovered, his death would be obscured by another.

* * *

Prime time had been given over solely to election returns. Each of the three television sets in the parlor was tuned to a different network. It had turned out to be a close presidential race—still too close to call. Several times, the network anchors cited the senatorial race in Texas between the newcomer, Tate Rutledge, and the incumbent, Rory Dekker, as one of the closest and most heated races in the nation.

When it was reported that Rutledge was showing a slight edge, a cheer went up in the parlor. Avery jumped at the sudden noise. She was frantic, walking a razor’s edge, on the brink of nervous collapse.

All the excitement had made Mandy hyperactive. She’d become such a nuisance that someone from the hotel’s list of baby-sitters had been hired to keep her entertained in another room so the family would be free to concentrate on the returns.

With her mind temporarily off Mandy, Avery could devote herself to worrying about Tate and wondering where Irish and Van were. Their disappearances didn’t make sense. She had called the newsroom three times. Neither had been there, nor had their whereabouts been known.

“Has anyone notified the police?” she had asked during her most recent call. “Something could have happened to them.”

“Listen, if you want to report them missing, fine, do it. But stop calling here bugging us. Now, I’ve got better things to do.”

The phone had been slammed down in her ear. She wanted to drive to the station as quickly as she could get there, but she didn’t want to leave Tate. As the hours of the evening stretched out, there were two certainties at play in her mind. One was that Tate was about to win the Senate seat. The other was that something dreadful had happened to her friends.

What if Gray Hair had been stalking her, not Tate, as Van had suggested? What if he’d noticed her interest in him? What if he’d intercepted Van this morning as he reported to work? What if he’d lured Irish away from the TV station?