Gregg Hurwitz - Last shot

Tim rode down to the basement. He wound through endless white corridors before stepping out into the ambulance bay. Bear's truck was in the far corner; Tim could see the scattering of files across his dash. He headed over, passing parked ambulances, one after another.

An EMT with a shaved head sat on the tailgate, face buried in a newspaper. The headline read FUGITIVE MAKES APPEARANCE AT DEPUTY'S MOORPARK RESIDENCE. Tim cast his mind back through the chronology. Yes, that had been yesterday. This morning had begun, decades ago, with the sniper attempt on Dolan and Dean at the Vector investor meeting.

Without lowering the paper, the EMT called out, "Want me to take a look at that neck, pal?"

Tim raised his hand to the cut. A dribble of blood. The paramedic at Game had gotten in only three of five stitches before Tim had bolted for his father's. "No, thanks."

He got about halfway to Bear's rig when he stopped. Bear looked up through the windshield, puzzled. Tim raised a finger to Bear, turned around, and walked back to the EMT, standing before the wall of newsprint.

Pete Krindon, freelance techie and man of infinite disguises, lowered the paper. His eyes went to Tim's neck, and he frowned. "Sit down." He threw a file in Tim's lap and snipped at the old stitches with a tiny pair of scissors. "Who sutured this? Dr. Frankenstein?"

As Pete pulled the old sutures out, Tim stared down at the top page. A blank e-mail, sent at 12:43 P.M. on June 3, carrying an attachment. Forwarded from tuffnuff@pizzazzu. net to tess_jameson@westindentistry. com. The subject line read, simply, Highly Confidential. Tess must've found it by running a key-word search on Chase's BlackBerry that pulled up something in the attachment's contents.

Pete, who'd started resuturing the wound, said, "Sit still."

Tim flipped the page and was hit with a dense spreadsheet filled with abbreviations and numerals. It looked like a lot and not much at the same time. "Pete-"

"Shaddup for a second. I'm almost done."

"Wait a minute. What am I doing?" Tim started to pull away, but Pete was midstitch. "You're not an EMT."

"No, but I play one on TV." Pete produced a square mirror and held it up, barbershop style. "All done."

The sutures actually looked pretty good, but since Tim didn't want to concede the point, he returned his focus to the report that Pete had recovered from Tess's work computer, where she'd forwarded the e-mail. Charts, graphs, more numbers, nothing clearly labeled. The bottom sheet showed Tess's pizzazzu account access log. Tess had logged on the evening of Thursday, May 31, and then just past midnight on Saturday, June 2. Tim closed his eyes, recalling dates and constructing the likely story.

Monday, May 28, Tess discovers she's pregnant. She buys folic acid tablets and hires an attorney. Wednesday, May 30, she or her attorney alerts Chase that she'll be prosecuting him for rape. Dean calls and asks her to lunch on May 31, where he threatens to pull Sam from the study if she doesn't drop the case. In return for her cooperation, he offers to shepherd her-and Sam-back into Vector's fold. She accepts, planning to use the opportunity to dig for information she'd been pursuing. She discharges her lawyer the next morning, Friday, June 1. That night at The Ivy, Tess manages to switch her valet ticket with Chase's, get into his vehicle, and forward herself the e-mail with its attachment containing damaging information about Vector, perhaps involving covered-up risks of Xedral. She's careful to erase her tracks, deleting the record of her action on the BlackBerry, unaware that Chase's primary computer at work still holds a record of the forwarded attachment. At home she logs on, a little past midnight, reads the attachment, and forwards it to her work e-mail since she doesn't have a printer at home. Monday she goes in to work and prints it.

What she doesn't know is that Chase, back at the office to start the workweek, sees on his computer that the sensitive e-mail was forwarded Friday night. He has Percy do some digging, finds out that the recipient e-mail address belongs to Tess Jameson. Chase talks with Daddy Kagan, and they decide to wait it out and watch her, maybe tap her phone to see how she's going to respond. They know that Tess will likely tip her hand-if she deciphers the report-by dropping Sam from the trial herself.

That day Tess faxes a letter to Vector, withdrawing Sam from the study. Tuesday she contacts Melissa Yueh at KCOM and tells her she wants to see her, that she has something to show her. She's decided to blow the whistle. Kagan amp; Co., alerted that Tess understands the report and is willing to act on the conclusions she's drawn from it, deems her an unacceptable risk and puts out a contract on her life. Percy Keating sets up the deal online with a hit man he believes is the Piper. He has Ted Sands, a former Beacon-Kagan security worker, do the cash drop at Game the next day, Wednesday, June 6. Wes Dieter intercepts the cash and the job. He murders Tess two days later, safely before Yueh's return from Baghdad.

Only one question remained.

Tim tapped the sheaf and said, "What's hidden in these numbers that's so goddamned dangerous?"

Pete's thin shoulders rose and fell. "Beats me. Shit like this, it takes some decoding."

"You think Tess could've figured it out herself?"

"After what she staked to get it? You bet your ass. Remember, this was a research-savvy woman with an accounting degree. And she followed a trail that led her here. To the smoking gun."

Together they stared at the report.

"Given that she's dead," Pete asked, "who are you gonna talk to?"

Tim eyed the Vector logo on the document header. "Why not go to the source?"

Seemingly relieved to be back in submissive charge, Edwin made Tim and Bear wait a solid five minutes in the parlor before Bear's escalating threats, conveyed in hushed tones through a house phone, bought them an escort back. They'd requested to see Dolan but wound up in Dean's study, alone with the progenitor. They'd left the confidential report that Krindon had recovered in Bear's rig outside, not wanting to show their cards until they were ready. And before leaving the hospital, they'd run off a few copies, leaving one with Freed so he could start making headway with the numbers in case they struck out here.

Dean rose as they entered. A sturdy security guard sat in one of the two club seats, flipping through the newspaper. He did not look up. A garbage-can-size paper shredder stood out in the corner, anomalous among the elegant study furnishings.

"We came to see Dolan," Bear said. "Why were we brought here?"

"Dolan's very shaken up from this morning. I don't think it's wise-"

"We didn't ask for your wisdom," Bear said. "We asked to see Dolan."

"He's too upset to see anyone."

"He's a grown-up. He can make his own decisions."

Dean cocked an eyebrow as if perhaps that wasn't true. "I understand you helped us at the presentation this morning, and for that I'm appreciative, but that doesn't give you the right to storm into my house and make demands."

Tim said, "We know you had Tess Jameson killed."

The guard lowered the paper, his forehead wrinkling. Dean sat down, folding his hands across a knee, his dark gaze trained on Tim. "Would you go check on the rear-perimeter motion sensors?" He waited until the door clicked behind the guard, then said, "Can I be assured I'm not being illegally recorded this time out?"

"Of course."

"I'm not a stupid man, Deputy Rackley. I'm aware that you have your suspicions. Let me give you some advice. Don't waste your time here. If that fantasy of yours were true? You'd never, ever link me to it. I'd never be so foolish."

Tim's disgust settled into a calm anger. That's how they are, the privileged, when they decide that laws no longer suit them. They always have men beneath them to make deals and move money, and when the lower floors start caving, the penthouse stays afloat.