A guy stood in the shadows of the alley where she’d been waiting. She couldn’t see much of him, but he was kind of short and well dressed. The camel-colored coat looked expensive enough to carry its own insurance policy, and he was wearing a suit underneath.

Not bad. Not bad at all. She pasted a glittery smile on and turned to face him, letting her coat fall open. The wind, delighted, crawled in.

“Hey yourself,” she said. Should she try to get back across to him? No, with her luck she’d fall on her ass. “I’ve been waiting.”

He said, “You should be dead by now,” and took a step forward into the light; neon from the Alley made his face Easter bunny pink. She knew him, didn’t she? Such a wimpy-looking geek; he looked just about ready to cry. “Damn it, nothing’s going right. Why aren’t you dead?”

He had a gun—not a big gun, like Paolo’s, just a little .25 automatic. She almost told him she’d seen bigger.

And then he fired. The snap of the shot echoed.

Velvet toppled forward to cold stone.

She’d remembered, stupidly, where she’d seen him. At the dry cleaners. Mr. Julian.

Chapter Thirty-nine

Martin

It was sleeting outside, a vicious-looking gray slime that coated everything that wasn’t moving. Not only that, the windows were fogged over. Martin Grady wiped at the windshield again and squinted.

“This won’t do,” Mrs. Womack said, and fiddled with the defroster. “My goodness, American cars certainly aren’t what they used to be. Go ahead and use the wipers, Marty. This is just dreadful.”

The wipers dragged a sullen path over slushy ice and smeared a couple of inches clear. Through it, and the veil of falling sleet, he saw a big white truck across the street in an empty pay parking lot. Its exhaust puffed white smoke in the air like an exhausted runner.

They were just sitting there. Waiting.

“If we lose them—” Agent Jennings said, leaning over the seat to squint out himself. Mrs. Womack finished adjusting the defroster. A blast of cold air whistled through the car.

“We won’t lose them,” she said. “Did you put on that scarf I gave you, Bryce?”

“Yes ma’am.” He only sounded a little sarcastic. Martin adjusted his own scarf—the bright blue one—tighter around his throat. “We’ve got to do something, and soon.”

“I quite agree. What is that noise?”

It was a steady booming sound. Until she mentioned it, Martin had been afraid it was coming from the engine. Agent Jennings pointed off to the right.

“Some kind of dance club. Over there.”

“At three o’clock?” Mrs. Womack clucked her tongue. “Don’t they shut those things down?”