uproar he’d caused.

The murders were a work of genius carried out by an idiot. How many times had he worked through Manson’s crimes himself, imagining how much more panic they could have caused if they’d been done right…if the killer had left so little evidence that it looked as if he’d never be caught.

When he’d come up with this plan, he’d thought of the Manson killings. He’d considered reenacting them, but he didn’t have the stomach for that kind of bloodbath. At his age, too, such theatrics seemed a tawdry way to get attention. So he’d done the murders his way, and added the Manson link to set people’s minds and fears buzzing. It’d worked beautifully. But now the time for that game was past.

He’d tossed Moreland to the Feds early, so they’d know the whole Manson angle was a crock. Then they’d concentrate on their theory that the killer was a hitman. He wasn’t worried about that—his cover was secure—but the increased pressure on the profession should make his colleagues think twice about coming after him. They’d turn their attention to protecting themselves, which was what they did best anyway.

Yet after he’d made his decision, he’d realized the tip-off could prove even more useful. It was all a matter of how the Feds played the hand he’d dealt them.

As he was considering this, the agents left the hospital. Disappointment thudded into the pit of his stomach. They were alone. He’d hoped they might have Benjamin Moreland with them. Not that he’d expected them to arrest Moreland, but he’d thought they might remove him for questioning, perhaps even take him into protective custody. That would have made things easier.

He shook off the disappointment. No matter. He could still use this. The Feds had been here, and staff could confirm that. Good enough.

In his letter, he’d promised a demand, but hadn’t planned to make one. Just part of the game. Game…A week ago it had been a mere plan. A simple plan for a simple, practical purpose. Now it had become so much more. A huge, intricate game, the patterns, possibilities and plays becoming evident only as it unfolded before him.

What if he made that demand? He wouldn’t ask for much. Just a small token from the people of America. One that could never be paid, no matter how insignificant it might seem. But payment wasn’t the point. It didn’t matter. What mattered was the game, and this would take it to a whole new level.

* * *

TWENTY-SEVEN

“Very nice,” I said, looking around our hotel room.

The living room of the suite was bigger than my bedroom back at the lodge. Better furnished, too. It even came with flowers—the kind that need water. The last time I had a hotel room with live flowers was…well, never. I was impressed all to hell.

“And a kitchen. Wow. Fridge, stove, microwave. Is this a hint about dinner? I should warn you right now, the only thing I cook is microwave popcorn. And I usually burn that.”

I crossed the room and opened the door. Inside was a bed. One bed.

“For you,” Jack said. “Couch folds out in here.”

I opened the other door. “A Jacuzzi tub? Hot damn.”

I walked to the counter, took the bottles of shampoo, conditioner, lotion and mouthwash from the basket they’d haphazardly been tossed into, and arranged them on the counter as Jack laid my bag on the bed for me to unpack.

“You like those?” he said, motioning at the tub. “You should get one. Use some of the money.”

I laughed. “How big of a paycheck am I counting on?”

He shrugged. “Big enough.”

I started refolding the towels, which had been put on the rack crooked and seam-side out. “I’ve considered a hot tub for the guests. Nothing fancy, but it would add to the ‘romantic getaway’ allure. The only drawback is hygiene. They don’t strike me as the most sanitary things.”

“Use chemicals, don’t they? Keep ’em stocked. Change the water. Should be fine.”

“We have plenty of fresh water, so that’d be easy enough.”

“Then get one. For your room, too. A tub. Not the guest rooms. Yours.”

I grinned. “I must be looking at a real windfall here.”

“Just a job.” He turned to leave. “Pizza okay?”

I said that it was, and he went to order while I washed up.

We spent a couple of hours discussing the case over the pizza, laying out scenarios and theories. There was lots of fodder for theorizing now, as if there hadn’t been enough before. Why create a fake Manson