Michael Prescott - Mortal Faults

“The Santa Ana office had the victim’s gun tested against some rounds dug out of Andrea’s walls. They made a ballistics match.”

“So this is good news. Just link this guy to Reynolds, and case closed.”

“We don’t think it’ll be that easy. The shooter was probably working through an intermediary. He belonged to a biker gang called the Scorpions. Ever hear of them?”

“Nope.”

“They’re centered in Santa Ana.”

“Reynolds’ brownshirts?”

“Could be-although there’s no known connection.”

“He may have just been discreet.” Abby smiled. “Well, I appreciate the heads-up.”

“It’s more than a heads-up, Abby.”

“You don’t seriously think I squashed this Scorpion?”

“So you didn’t fire the shot that killed him?”

“Yes, I did. I mean no. No, I didn’t. Oh God, you’ve gotten me so confused-”

Tess ground her teeth. “Very funny.”

“Look, I understand your concern. This guy came perilously close to nailing my ass. That burns me. I don’t like spending my Friday nights dead. It’s bad enough there’s never anything good on TV.”

“Can we stick to the subject?” Tess interrupted.

“The subject is me and my absence of guilt. Yes, I had motive. But I didn’t have opportunity.”

“If you’d had the opportunity, would you have shot him?”

“I make it a practice never to answer hypotheticals.”

“Answer this one.”

Abby took a moment to think about it. In a low voice she said, “Maybe.”

“You would kill an unarmed man in cold blood?”

“Blood’s warm, not cold. I’ve never understood that expression.”

“You’d be willing to kill,” Tess pressed, “rather than turn him in to the police? To get street justice instead of the real thing?”

“Sometimes street justice is the real thing.”

“I’m sorry you said that.”

“I’m sorry you asked.”

Tess turned away. “I’m heading down to the crime scene. I intend to investigate further.”

Abby simulated a shiver. “Watch out, bad guys. Inspector McCallum is on the job.”

“If there’s anything you need to tell me, now is the time.”

Abby gave her a bland stare. “I’m afraid I don’t have any true confessions for you.”

“So if I were to examine your hand, I wouldn’t find GSR?”

“Is that a trick question? Of course you would. I fired Andrea’s gun during the shootout. I’ve showered since then, but there are probably still some traces of unburned particulate.”

It was a good answer. Tess had to accept it. “All right. Well, I have to get to Santa Ana.”

“Ever been there?”

“No.”

“One recent survey rated it the most economically and socially challenged metropolitan area in the United States. Take that, Flint, Michigan.”

Tess shook her head slowly. “I just don’t know if I can trust you.”

“Google the survey and read it for yourself.”

“I mean about Dylan Garrick.”

“Is that the guy’s name? Feels weird to put a name on him. Makes him more of a person.”

“He was a person.”

“A bad person.” Abby’s eyes were hard. “I’m not shedding any tears for some lowlife who tried to whack me.”

“I can see that. You aren’t lying to me about this, Abby-are you?”

Abby smiled. “Tess… you know I never lie.”

You know I never lie.

Abby ordinarily had no qualms about lying. She did it all the time. It was an integral part of her job. In a certain sense, it was her job-pretending to be someone she wasn’t.

But she didn’t like lying to Tess. It felt like a betrayal. Abby had been on the wrong side of betrayal once or twice. She didn’t like putting Tess in that position. But she had no choice.

The lie, of course, had been only a stopgap measure. It would buy her time, but not much. Tess wouldn’t take long to find out that Dylan Garrick had left Fast Eddie’s in the company of a woman matching Abby’s description. Once Tess knew about that, things would get ugly.

Tess was a sort-of friend now. Soon she would be an enemy, and no sort-of about it. A dangerous enemy.

As she’d told Reynolds last night, she was in a jam. Still, she had a possible way out. It entailed risk, naturally. She wasn’t afraid of risk. Desperate times, desperate measures, all that jazz.

She drove back to her condo and rode the elevator to the tenth floor. It took her half an hour to manufacture a press pass for the congressman’s barbecue. There was nothing very complicated about it. She used a graphics program to paste her photo below the word MEDIA. The name Wanda Klein, along with Wanda’s particulars, was printed beside the photo. Hair: brown. Eyes: brown. Height: 5’7”. Weight: 125 lbs. She cheated on the date of birth, shaving three years off her age. She added a long string of random digits that served as her ID number, and left a blank line for Wanda’s signature.

The reverse side of the tag was taken up with a lot of authentic-sounding legalese about rights and liabilities, along with a phone number that supposedly could be called to verify Wanda’s fake identification number. Abby wasn’t expecting anyone to call the number, which was good, since it actually belonged to a Thai restaurant down the street.

She printed out the designs, glued them to the front and back of an old luggage tag, signed Wanda’s name, and laminated the tag with a gizmo she’d picked up at an office supply outlet. The faux press pass slipped into the clear plastic pouch formerly used for the luggage tag. The pouch had prepunched holes, through which she threaded an extra-long shoelace. With the shoelace knotted behind her neck, and the tag dangling over her sternum, she would be a bona fide member of the Fourth Estate. Or as bona fide as she was ever likely to be, anyway.

The barbecue didn’t start until noon. She had extra time before she had to head down to Newport, and she knew how she wanted to use it.

She had to talk to Andrea again.

At ten a.m. the phone in the kitchen rang. Andrea had reattached the phone jack after the media left, and so far she hadn’t heard from them. Now it seemed her luck had run out. Well, she would let it ring. She wouldn’t answer.

This strategy worked until she had counted fifteen rings, at which point she went into the kitchen with a sigh.

“Yes?” she said, prepared to hang up instantly if it was a member of the press.

“Ms. Lowry, this is Abigail Bannister at Williams-Sonoma. The item you ordered has just come in.”

She recognized Abby’s voice immediately, even before she registered the name. Obviously some kind of subterfuge was in play. “The item…?” she said cautiously.

“Your garlic genius. You can pick it up at our store in the Beverly Center at your convenience.”

“My garlic genius.” The term meant nothing to Andrea. “I see.”

“I hope we’ll see you soon.” Abby put a subtle emphasis on the last word.

Andrea got the message. “Yes, I’ll be right over. Thank you.”

She hung up and stood in the kitchen, frozen in place. The ruse Abby had employed-there had to be a reason for it. And the only reason Andrea could think of was that the phone was tapped.

She didn’t think Jack Reynolds could tap her phone. Even a congressman’s powers didn’t extend that far.

But the FBI could do it.

They couldn’t be eavesdropping on her. Could they?

And if they were, did it mean they knew more than they’d let on?

They might know who she really was. They might know everything.

And if they had tapped her phone, what else might they have done? They had been all over her house. They could have installed hidden cameras. They could be watching her right now.