seeing the carousel brass ring zipping by, as you try to reach a little farther, knowing that any moment, the music could stop and you’d lose your chance. Jack just sat there, hands never leaving the reins, as if, by being patient enough, the ring would come to him.
For the next ten minutes, he chatted with Volkv, letting the old con take the conversation where he liked, around and around, never veering any closer to the prize. I held my tongue only by clamping my mouth shut so hard my jaw ached.
“Russians ain’t so bad,” Jack said, relaxed in his chair, one arm hooked over the back. “I had to pick, I’d go with them over the Yakuza any day. Look at those bastards wrong, and it’s permanent retirement time.” He stretched his legs. “Speaking of retirement, I don’t suppose Leon’s retirement plan is up for sale.”
Volkv laughed. “So that’s what you’re after? You got balls, buddy. My advice would be the same I gave to old Leon: buy yourself a lottery ticket instead. Odds of cashing in are a hundred times better.” He leaned forward. “You want the truth? Plan’s not mine to sell. I never asked Leon for the details—my life might not be worth much, but it’s all I got. All I know is that he saw something he shouldn’t have. Someone.”
Jack let Volkv ease back into small talk. Five minutes later, the guard announced our time was up. I made it as far as the parking lot before I let out a growl of frustration.
“Goddamn it! We were so close. A few more minutes…” I took a deep breath, retaking control. “Well, let’s analyze what we’ve got. Kozlov crossed a hitman back in his mob days. As for how he crossed him—”
“He saw him,” Jack said as he opened the car door.
I stopped, fingers grazing the handle, and looked over the roof at him, but he just climbed in and started the engine. As I slid into my seat, he continued, “Kozlov witnessed a hit. Probably the one that got him fired. Didn’t just let his guy get whacked. Saw the hitman. Maybe even recognized him. Been sitting on it all these years.”
“And he called in the marker?”
“Maybe. Or maybe Kozlov wasn’t the only one retiring.”
I frowned over at him as he pulled out of the parking lot.
“Gotta clean up before you retire. Clip the loose ends. Otherwise—” He shrugged. “No sense quitting. Always looking over your shoulder.”
I took a moment to unravel this and fill in the missing parts. “You mean that if a hitman wants to retire to a normal life, he needs an exit strategy, to make damned sure there’s nothing, and no one who can finger him?” I twisted to look at him. “Do you think that’s what this guy is doing? Tying up all his loose ends by killing witnesses?”
“Could be.”
* * *
TWENTY-NINE
When I rapped on Evelyn’s door, she shouted a muffled welcome. We found her in the living room, tapping away on her keyboard, gaze fixed not on the monitor, but on the TV across the room. Before I could say hello, she gestured for silence and pointed at the television screen.
“—have confirmed the existence of a second letter, reportedly from the person responsible for the killings,” a news anchor was saying. “In it, the alleged killer speaks disparagingly of the federal agents assigned to the investigation—”
“Disparagingly?” Evelyn snorted. “Like I speak ‘disparagingly’ about the damned property taxes in this neighborhood.”
“—agents are defending their actions, stressing that at no time did they consider the psychiatric patient a viable suspect. However, as several staff members at the hospital have confirmed, the FBI has taken a serious and ongoing interest in Benjamin Moreland—”
Evelyn waved us to the computer. On the monitor was the letter from the killer.
Dear Mr. & Mrs. Citizen,
For two weeks now, I have been taking lives where I wish, and the federal agents assigned to catch me are no closer to their goal today than they were after the first death. In jest, I left a small trail of bread crumbs for them to follow—pages from a book, a letter claiming kinship with the subject of that book, a hair plucked from the arm of one who is indeed kin to that subject.
The joke is that the man to whom the hair belonged is one Benjamin Moreland, a schizophrenic who has been in a mental institution for the last six months. When I led the FBI to Mr. Moreland,