Simesky would make a panicked call begging for help and an ambulance, explaining that he’d gotten the gun away from the stalker and shot the psycho himself.

Plan your acts and act your plans …

But sometimes there were variations.

Kathryn Dance.

Her appearance could help smooth over one matter he’d been worried about—that there might be some suspicion if only he and Myra were left alive. If Dance survived too the scene would seem a bit more legitimate. Though he’d have to orchestrate it so that, of course, she couldn’t see him as the shooter.

Simesky would shoot Dance in the back, paralyzing but not killing her, then he’d murder Davis and Harutyun. After they were dead, Simesky would call out something like, “Edwin, no! What are you doing?”

Ideally Dance would be conscious and she’d hear his cry. She’d later report the story to the police, confirming that Edwin was the sole shooter. If not, and she died, well, no huge loss.

After all, Simesky thought angrily, you could’ve gone out to dinner with me, bitch. What would it’ve hurt?

Chapter 58

SIMESKY GLANCED AT his Rolex.

Three minutes to go.

Myra Babbage would be heading toward the safe house now, moving up the drive. Easing closer to the living room, Simesky couldn’t detect the sound of the tires because of the thick walls, but, over the noise of the game on TV, he could hear Dance saying, “What’s that? You hear something? A car?”

“I think so. Wait, no, I’m not sure.” The voice was Davis’s.

Two shots in Kathryn’s spine. Two in Harutyun’s head. Two in Davis’s.

What should Simesky shout? “My God, it’s him! That stalker!” Was that credible? Maybe: “Edwin, Jesus, no!”

In the living room Davis’s phone trilled. “Hello … Hi. Yeah, we’re inside.” Then, to the others: “It’s Myra. She just got here.”

Harutyun said, “You know, we didn’t tell her to make sure she wasn’t being followed.”

Simesky thought he heard Dance say something to the effect that Edwin did a lot of research but it would be pretty unlikely that he even knew who Myra was, let alone been able to find and follow her.

Ah, if you only knew …

One minute, according to the Rolex.

Dance was saying, “No, Congressman, please stay back from the window.”

“We know who it is.”

“Still, let’s just be on the safe side.”

Out of sight in the den Simesky pulled on latex gloves, opened his computer bag and removed the pistol, a cold one—stolen. That was one thing about this great country; if you wanted an untraceable gun you could get one, real easy. He knew it was loaded and he knew exactly how it worked. And he’d already fired it a dozen times to extract some GSR, gunshot residue, now in a Baggie, which he’d plant on Edwin’s hands. But he checked the weapon again.

Two shots, then two, then two.

“Peter?” the congressman called from the living room.

Simesky replied, “Be there in a sec. Anybody want coffee?”