Linda Howard: Death Angel

“Earn it some other way. Work in a soup kitchen. Give all the money to charity-”

“I’ve already done that,” she said. “Before I came here.”

“Taking care of loose ends, in case you don’t survive?”

Sarcasm lent a knife-edge to the words, but she said, “Yes,” and saw him flinch. The reaction was gone so fast it might have been an illusion, but she knew better and her heart ached for him.

“I don’t want to do anything that will take me away from you. I have another appointment with the agents tomorrow, and I promise-I promise -that if there’s any other way at all, I won’t endanger myself.”

“That isn’t good enough. I don’t want you anywhere near him regardless of whether or not he ever spends so much as an hour in jail, or if he dies rich and happy at the age of ninety. I’ve already watched you die once. I can’t do it again, Andie. I won’t.”

He pulled his hand from hers, turned, and walked to the window, though the view was of nothing more interesting than a narrow alley and the back of another building. Silently she finished getting dressed. There was nothing she could say to reassure him unless she lied, and it was ironic that she, a world-class liar, couldn’t bring herself to betray his trust. She had promised as much as she could; beyond that, she could only hope for the best.

They walked to the restaurant, where they ate in silence. It wasn’t a sullen silence, or a resentful one, but more as if they had both said all there was to say and anything else would be beating a dead horse. At the same time, she didn’t feel like making small talk and he wasn’t a small talk kind of guy; neither did she want to make plans for their future when they might not have one, which pretty much left her without anything to say.

But he held her hand as they walked back to the Holiday Inn, and after getting mostly undressed they sat on the bed, propped against the stacked pillows, and watched television. She went to sleep in the middle of a show, her head resting on his stomach.

The next morning, she called Agent Cotton and requested that they meet somewhere other than the federal building. Simon’s warning about people watching the FBI building to see who entered made Andie uneasy, the way it made her uneasy when she was shopping and noticed one of the floor security personnel watching her. She knew she wasn’t doing anything wrong, but she still didn’t like being watched; it set off some sort of primitive alarm.

What bothered her more was the possibility that Rafael had a paid informant working there, and he already had word that a woman claiming to be his ex-mistress was talking to the agents. That would give him time to think and plan, and take away the shock value of seeing her again. If she had to sacrifice herself, damn it, she didn’t want it to be for nothing.

“How about Madison Square Park?” Cotton suggested. “I’ll be in the area, so that’ll be a nice place to talk. I’ll be waiting at Conkling’s statue at one o’clock.”

Simon left around ten, merely saying that he was going to get his suitcase and he’d be back. She didn’t know where he had to go, but she waited until a little after noon before leaving, and he still hadn’t returned. She wrote a note and left it on the desk. He didn’t have a key card, but that hadn’t stopped him the day before, so she wasn’t worried about returning to find him standing in the hall waiting for her.

The day was warmer than the day before, with the wind sending fat white clouds scudding across the sky, but she was glad to have her coat. She stuffed her hands in her pockets and settled into the brisk walk of the city dweller, arriving at the park a little ahead of time. She went to the southeast corner, where the Conkling statue was. She didn’t think Senator Conkling had done anything more remarkable than freezing to death in the 1888 blizzard, but evidently that was enough to warrant a statue.

Both Agent Cotton and Agent Jackson were waiting for her, their overcoats buttoned against the wind. “I hope you like coffee,” said Cotton, extending a takeout cup to her. “I brought cream and sugar, too, if you need it.”

“Black is fine, thanks.” The warm cup felt good in her chilled hands; she took a tentative sip, not wanting to burn her mouth with too hot coffee.

“Let’s sit down over here,” said Cotton, indicating a bench nearby. They walked over and she sat between the two men, both hoping and dreading that they had come up with some viable plan.

“Have you thought of anything else to tell us?” he asked, his gaze constantly cataloging their surroundings. Cops, even federal ones, always had restless eyes.

“No, but I wanted to talk to you about the plan I suggested-”

“Don’t bother,” said a quiet voice behind them. “It’s a nonstarter.”

Both of the FBI agents visibly started, whirling out of their seats to confront what could, for all they knew, be an attack. Andie had recognized his voice as soon as he spoke, and surged to her feet, too. She hadn’t been expecting him; making himself so visible to two FBI agents, letting them get a good look at his face, wasn’t a good idea.

He stood just behind the bench, his hands in the pockets of a black cashmere overcoat, his eyes hidden by very dark sunglasses. She had no idea how he had gotten so close without either of the agents noticing him; he hadn’t been in sight when they sat down, and they had been there, she figured, less than thirty seconds, so that meant he’d been moving fast.

After a short, startled silence, Cotton sighed and removed his own sunglasses. “I’m Special Agent Rick Cotton,” he said, introducing himself and flipping out his ID. “This is Special Agent Xavier Jackson.”

“I know your names.” He didn’t tell them his, not even an alias. Nor did he take his hands out of his pockets. Cotton made a brief movement, as though to offer a handshake, but evidently saw that the polite gesture wasn’t going to happen and aborted the motion.

“I’m not at liberty to discuss Ms. Pearson’s business with-”

“It’s okay. He knows all about it,” Andie said. She didn’t introduce him. If he’d wanted the agents to know his name, or any name at all, he’d have introduced himself. She wanted to heave a huge, frustrated sigh. If he had just told her he was coming to the meeting and given her a name beforehand, this situation could have been handled much more smoothly.

Agent Cotton wasn’t pleased with Simon’s presence. He said to her, “This isn’t a good time. I’ll be in touch with you about your plan. I think something can be worked out.” He nodded at Simon, then he and Agent Jackson strode briskly toward the street.

Astonished, because she hadn’t thought they would think there was any viability to a plan that could involve getting her shot, Andie bowed her head and stared at her feet as she fought the sting of tears. She couldn’t look at Simon, couldn’t face that impassive expression.

“Let’s go,” he said, taking her hand and linking their arms. He was silent during the walk back to the Holiday Inn, though they had plenty of opportunity to talk. He’d stated his position, and he didn’t see the need to keep restating it.

She still felt compelled to offer what comfort she could. “It’ll be all right,” she finally ventured, to be met by a wall of silence.

JACKSON WAS SILENT AS HE AND COTTON WALKED DOWN the street toward their car. He was patient, waiting until they had closed the car doors behind them and buckled their seat belts before he asked, “What was that about?” He couldn’t think of any reason why Cotton would deliberately mislead Drea Rousseau-he had a hard time thinking of her as “Andie” anything-about the feasibility of any plan involving using her as bait. If Salinas were in hiding and they were trying to draw him out, maybe, but that wasn’t the case. Physically, they could put their hands on him at any time. Their problem was getting evidence against him that would stick, and short of filming him killing her, there was simply no way to use her. The Bureau wasn’t going to set her up as a sacrificial lamb, so the whole idea was a nonstarter.