Motivated by both a need to distract the huntress and a bit of jealousy (he found he desired Kathryn even more than Calista), he’d waited outside Boling’s house, planning to beat him to death, a robbery gone wrong. Or coma him, at the least. But the man still hadn’t returned when March got the text about foolish Stan Prescott down in Orange County and he’d had to leave.

He’d followed Boling later and then decided he liked the idea of a bike accident better than an obvious attack.

March regarded his shaved scalp in the mirror. He didn’t like it. He looked a bit like Chris Jenkins, now that he thought about it. And reflected that it was ironic that Jenkins—former military, crack shot, familiar with all sorts of weapons, with friends among the security and mercenary crowd—was the businessman who never got out into the field to run the assignments.

And Antioch March, who was essentially a misplaced academic, was the one creating such bloody havoc.

But it worked to everybody’s advantage. Jenkins lacked the finesse to set up the deaths the way March did, the intellect to foresee what the police and witnesses would do.

March, on the other hand, had no talent for dealing with clients. Negotiating, vetting to make sure they were not law, structuring payment terms, maintaining the Hand to Heart website.

March finished his juice.

The client is extremely satisfied…

Which, March thought, was the ultimate goal of his father, the salesman, as well.

He flopped down in the sumptuous bed. He had many plans to make. But at the moment he preferred for his thoughts to dwell upon, who else? The captivating Kathryn Dance.

Chapter 67

At CBI headquarters once more.

Dance had hit the restroom to scrub the face wound. There’d be a bruise, that was for sure, a good-size one. A scar? Maybe.

She turned the corner to the Gals’ Wing. It being the weekend, the office wasn’t staffed with assistants. She walked past Maryellen Kresbach’s station and into her own office.

“Hey.” Jon Boling, sitting in the chair across the desk, smiled.

“Jon!” She strode to him fast and started to throw her arms around his shoulders. Then saw him wince in anticipation. She stopped fast.

“How are you?”

“Fine. Relatively speaking. But sore. Really sore.” His face was bruised and he had two bandages, on his cheek and neck. His wrist was wrapped in beige elastic.

“What happened?”

“Lost the brakes on Ocean.”

The main street leading down to the beach in Carmel. Very steep.

“No!”

“They felt funny when I started off, so I got about a half block from the store…the store I was at. And I pulled over. That’s when they popped. Both of the brake shoes.”

“Jon!”

“I steered into bushes, and that slowed me down. Went through them and hit the curb and a car at the stop sign.”

“The brakes?” she asked. “You think they were tampered with?”

“Tampered with? Why would… Oh. Your unsub, you’re thinking?”