She shrugged. One of her knitting needles slipped and fell with a clatter to the floor.

“Whoosh,” Martin said.

“Naturally, not a market for that kind of thing in commercial applications. As a weapon, though—”

“Good god. Do we know what dry cleaners—”

Mrs. Womack went back to her knitting, serene as Whistler’s mother.

“Elegance Dry Cleaners, Mr. Grady, right here in Dallas. Isn’t that funny? It was right under your nose the whole time. Did you ever get your clothes cleaned there?”

His mind went blank, and for a second he couldn’t honestly remember whether he had or not. His suit coat itched over his shoulders.

“Agent Mendoza believes that the surviving partner, Edward Julian, is the one responsible for the burnings. Whether he’s targeting people he doesn’t like, or people who might have caused trouble, or just likes the thrill of it, we don’t know.”

“What about this terrorist—el Haddiz?”

“Ah.” Mrs. Womack found this serious enough to put her knitting in her lap, fold her hands, and give him her full attention. “Mr. el Haddiz is quite probably making a deal to buy the formula, or at least some garments treated with the product. You can imagine how effective those might be in some of the warmer climates notorious for political unrest.”

He couldn’t think of anything to say. Carling’s monitors beeped a steady gentle rhythm. He saw her eyes twitch under the fragile lids and hoped she was dreaming.

“Did she know any of that?”

“Some. Not all.” Mrs. Womack picked up her knitting again and adjusted the angle of her glasses on her nose. “I imagine Mr. Marshall’s establishment does a lot of business in uniform cleaning. Police uniforms, for instance. Girl scout uniforms. Marching band uniforms.”

The scope of it made him dizzy. He shrugged his jacket off and piled it in a heap on the floor, loosened his tie, and put his head down on the cool sheets of Carling’s bed, next to her loose empty hand.

“My god,” he whispered. Mrs. Womack made a dry sound of agreement. Her knitting needles clacked.

Chapter Thirty-five

Velvet

Velvet was three-quarters of the way through a fifth of Scotch by the time she heard the front door rattle. All those damn locks. Fire hazard, that’s what it was.

Fire hazard. That was so funny it was sick. The Scotch went down warm on her tongue, scorched her throat, added fuel to the bonfire in her stomach. Nice and warm now. In a minute or two she’d forget all about it, all about the dead man in the garden with his dimples all shot off. She’d forget the look on that rich man’s face as he cried.

Robby got the door open and slammed it, jammed the locks shut as fast as she could. Velvet watched her with unfocused eyes and smiled.