“In which case we’d be looking for what?” Mahoney spoke up from the back of the room. “Disks? A laptop? E-mails?”

Agent Spears nodded. “Keep going,” she said. “There’s nothing terribly sophisticated about those files. They can pretty much be stored anywhere.”

You could feel the energy in the room dip. We were all ready for some good news. And then we got it.

“For what it’s worth,” Spears went on, “there seems to be only one set of prints on the hardware upstairs. We’re running them through IAFIS now.”

Chapter 51

“I DON’T UNDERSTAND any of this, Tony. Why can’t you at least tell me where we’re going? Is that too much to ask?”

The truth—and Nicholson had only come to realize it that afternoon—was that he didn’t have the stomach for cold-blooded murder. Not by his own hand, anyway. He’d always believed that if he had to, he could easily put a pillow over Charlotte’s face or slip something lethal into her morning coffee, but that wasn’t going to happen, was it? And now it was too late to have her hit by someone else, which would have been a snap.

He threw a few last things into his duffel, while Charlotte harped at him from the far side of the bed. The Louis Vuitton bag he’d set out for her was still empty, and his patience was running out. He badly wanted to punch her in the face. But what good would that do?

“Darling.” The word nearly caught in his throat. “Just trust me here. We have a plane to catch. I’ll explain everything once we’re away. Now, pick out a few things and let’s go. Let’s go, sweetheart.” Before I get really angry and murder you with my bare hands.

“It’s about those men from the other night, isn’t it? I knew something wasn’t right with them. Do you owe somebody money—is that it?”

“Goddamnit, Charlotte, are you listening at all? It’s not safe here, dimmy. For either of us. The best we could hope for would be jail at this point. That’s the best, do you understand? It only gets worse from there.”

Depending on who gets to us first was the rest of his thought.

“We? What do you mean, we? I haven’t done anything to anyone.”

Nicholson rushed around the bed and threw an armful of clothes from her closet into the bag, hangers and all.

Then the red leather jewelry box he’d bought her in Florence, forever ago—a lifetime ago, when he’d been young, in love, and most definitely dumb as a bag of bricks with a hard-on.

“We’re leaving. Now.”

She trailed after him, more afraid of being alone than anything else, which he was counting on. That got them as far as the front hall before Charlotte melted down completely. He heard something between a moan and a scream, and turned to see her half-crouched on the polished slate floor. Black lines of makeup ran down her cheeks with the tears; she always wore too much of the stuff, like some kind of tart, and he should know.