“Well, our boy’s never been arrested, naturalized, federally employed, in the military—no big surprises. He doesn’t have any known aliases either. And he doesn’t cross-reference in any Bureau file, under Tony or Anthony Nicholson.”

“I don’t think he’s our killer,” I said.

Mahoney stopped what he was doing and gave me his attention. “Because?”

“There’re too many loose ends here,” I explained. “Nicholson’s obviously one of them, but that’s all he is, Ned. It’s like that old story about the five blind men and all the elephant parts.”

“Which makes Nicholson what—the asshole?”

I had to laugh. Mahoney is never without a quick response, and he’s at his best when the pressure’s on.

“I think someone came after the same thing we’re looking for, only they got to him first. Which just means they have more puzzle pieces to work with than we do.”

“Or”—Mahoney held up a finger—“he staged his own disappearance. It wouldn’t be hard—drop a few suitcases, bust up some furniture, and he’s halfway over the Atlantic with his little snuff film collection while we’re still dusting the house for prints.”

We batted possibilities around some more, until another call came in. Whatever it was got Mahoney excited—again. He punched an address into his laptop.

A few seconds later, we were following the GPS onto the Beltway toward Alexandria—but not to Nicholson’s house.

“Avalon Apartments,” Mahoney said. “Nicholson came up on a tenant database. Guess he missed a payment or something.”

“A rental?” I said. “In the same town where he already lives?”

Mahoney nodded. “Lives with his wife,” he said, “who I’m betting is at least fifteen years older than whoever we find behind door number two. What do you say—twenty bucks?”

“No bet.”

Chapter 54

TONY NICHOLSON LEANED forward from the backseat, as far as the cuffs would allow. He could see that the lights on the second floor were on.

“We don’t need to be here,” he said. “She doesn’t know anything. I promise you.”

The one who had ruined Nicholson’s leg opened the passenger door. “Who knows?” he said. “Maybe you talk in your sleep.”

He got out and went to the front door. Then he used one of Nicholson’s keys to let himself in.

Nicholson was thinking that he still might be able to save himself, and maybe Mara. He had a surreal image of her beautiful face trapped inside a plastic bag.

The driver was tall and blond—like him—with pale eyes and a square forehead. He looked more intelligent than the spic. Maybe he was more reasonable too.

“Listen,” Nicholson said in a whisper. “I do know what you’re looking for. I can help you get it, but not without some kind of exit strategy for me.”

The man sat straight and still, staring out the windshield as if Nicholson hadn’t spoken.

“I’m willing to make a deal, is what I’m saying.”

Still nothing from the front seat.

“For the disk. Of Zeus. Do you hear me? I’ll tell you where it is.”