Chapters (66)
- Title Page
- Copyright Notice
- Dedication
- Acknowledgments
- Prologue
- Chapter 1
- Chapter 2
- Chapter 3
- Chapter 4
- Chapter 5
- Chapter 6
- Chapter 7
- Chapter 8
- Chapter 9
- Chapter 10
- Chapter 11
- Chapter 12
- Chapter 13
- Chapter 14
- Chapter 15
- Chapter 16
- Chapter 17
- Chapter 18
- Chapter 19
- Chapter 20
- Chapter 21
- Chapter 22
- Chapter 23
- Chapter 24
- Chapter 25
- Chapter 26
- Chapter 27
- Chapter 28
- Chapter 29
- Chapter 30
- Chapter 31
- Chapter 32
- Chapter 33
- Chapter 34
- Chapter 35
- Chapter 36
- Chapter 37
- Chapter 38
- Chapter 39
- Chapter 40
- Chapter 41
- Chapter 42
- Chapter 43
- Chapter 44
- Chapter 45
- Chapter 46
- Chapter 47
- Chapter 48
- Chapter 49
- Chapter 50
- Chapter 51
- Chapter 52
- Chapter 53
- Chapter 54
- Chapter 55
- Chapter 56
- Chapter 57
- Chapter 58
- Chapter 59
- Also by Ward Larsen
- About the Author
Ingrid looked back into the house, then pulled an overcoat from a hook near the door. She wrapped it round her shoulders, stepped outside, and shut the door quietly.
“What’s this all about?” she asked.
“You didn’t return my call.”
Her eyes cast down to the well-polished Italian marble. “No, I didn’t.”
“Arne isn’t returning them either. He’s turned off his phone and I can’t find him.”
“Has he done something wrong?” she asked.
“No. He’s on leave—it’s a medical issue. Has he told you any of this?”
“Yes, I saw him a few days ago. He said he’d quit, and that you and he had had a row.”
“We did. But that’s over and done. Arne and I have always had our differences, but I have a great deal of respect for him, both as a policeman and a person. Ingrid … I spoke with his doctor yesterday. Arne is ill, very ill. He needs to see a specialist right away.”
“What’s wrong?”
Sjoberg told her.
“Dear God, no. How bad is it?”
“They won’t know until they get in and do a biopsy.”
She seemed to stiffen. “Paul, do you think … do you think he might know about this?”
“I don’t see how. His doctor and I have been trying to reach him for days, but he seems to have taken a run after this killer we’ve all been hunting—which is another reason I’d like to talk to him.”
Sjoberg saw a woman who was visibly shaken. She almost seemed to age right there in front of him, her back more bowed, her face coming drawn.
He said, “Please, Ingrid. If you can reach him in any way, tell him to come home. He needs to see a doctor. That’s the only important thing—the rest we can manage.”
He turned to leave.
“Paul—” she said.
He turned.
“Thank you.”
Sjoberg nodded, then raised his collar and opened his umbrella, and stepped once again into the wet morning.
Back on the porch Ingrid stood gripping the door handle. She made no effort to turn it—it was more a matter of connecting herself to something steady when she realized what she’d done. Her ex-husband was ill, perhaps terminally. Certainly despondent.
And she had just sent him a gun.
* * *