Kelley Armstrong - Exit Strategy

Lyndsay snorted. Like he’d care. Like she’d care. Moira would probably be glad-one more dull wifely function delegated.

Lyndsay picked up the bag of coffee beans and turned to the coffeemaker. Holy shit-was that a coffeemaker? It had more switches and digital readouts than a space shuttle. Was this where the beans went in? Did the machine grind them in there?

If she lost Austin -No, she couldn’t, wouldn’t lose him. Maybe if she diverted Ted, found him a new lover. That was an idea. She could-

Liquid splashed as she poured the beans in. She peered down to see them floating in the water reservoir and cursed.

As she studied the space-age coffeemaker, something hit her in the back, hard enough to slam her against the counter. In the stainless steel side of the coffeemaker, she saw the reflection of a man behind her. An older man.

The distorted image looked like Blake, Tina’s husband, but when she saw her own reflection, blood flower blossoming on the chest of her white sweater, Lyndsay knew it wasn’t Blake. Jesus Christ, she thought. I do not have time for this . Then her knees buckled, and she hit the floor.

He looked down at the body at his feet. A young blond woman, cover-model gorgeous with centerfold tits. Amazing what money could buy. He wondered whether two hundred million would buy him one of those, and almost laughed. Two hundred million would buy him one for every day of the week…and extras for Saturday night. Too bad he’d never see the money.

He could hear the women chattering in the other room. So close and yet, at the first click of an Italian leather pump, he could be through the pantry, and out the back door. Unbelievable how easy it had been, even in a place that sold security as a way of life. Disappointingly easy.

He took two things from his pocket-a page from Helter Skelter and a dollar bill. He bent to put the page in her pocket, then stopped. Did he really need this calling card anymore? No. The Feds would know it was him-the act itself was proof enough. So he kept the page, but dropped the dollar bill, letting it flutter down onto the dead woman.

When we reached Little Joe’s retirement home, Jack parked in the side lot; the one reserved for overflow guests. The regular lot was almost empty, so I didn’t know why he chose that one.

To get to the place, we had to take a path through a patch of woods. Jack was at the trail’s edge before he realized I wasn’t behind him. He waved-as if I might not have understood that I was supposed to follow. When I didn’t move, he walked back to the car. I rolled down my window.

“I like my life, Jack. Sure, it’s a little screwy, but I’d really like to keep it for a while longer. Going in there, after the last time, doesn’t seem the best way to prolong my term on this earth.”

He opened the car door. I didn’t move.

“You trust me?” he asked.

“Sure, but-”

“Then get out. I’m going to fix this.”

“That fix doesn’t involve prematurely ending the life of a Mafia don’s brother, does it?”

A look. That’s all he gave me. Just a look.

I threw up my hands. “Well, I had to ask. The last time I had a run-in with Little Joe, it ended with body disposal, and I like to be prepared.”

He headed for the home.

There were three people at the front desk-a nurse, a receptionist and a young man who looked like an orderly. They were so engrossed in their conversation they didn’t notice us come in.

“-think he’ll do it?” the receptionist was saying.

“Of course he will. He has to. Otherwise, no one will take him seriously.” The orderly glanced at the wall clock. “Right now, someone, somewhere is enjoying the last few minutes of their life.”

“Someone, somewhere is always enjoying the last few minutes of their life,” the nurse snapped. “Hundreds of people will die in the next ten minutes, and if we start panicking over that one, we’re giving him exactly what he wants.”

The Helter Skelter killer. What else would they be talking about as the clock hands hit noon, reminding me that no matter how close we got, it would be too late for at least one person.

My throat tightened, breath catching, as if the oxygen content in the room had plummeted. Jack’s hand tightened on my elbow.

“We’re here to see Joe Nikolaev,” he said with a standard midwestern accent.

The receptionist and the orderly both glared at him for disrupting their death watch. As the nurse turned off the radio, the orderly looked from Jack to me, then scurried off, probably to find another radio. Jack’s gaze followed him.

“I’m sorry,” the nurse said. “I’m afraid Mr. Nikolaev is no longer with us.”

“No longer-?” I began. “Oh-oh, geez. We hadn’t heard. When did it happen?”

The receptionist sputtered a laugh, covering her mouth as she did.

The nurse glared at her, then turned a wry smile on us. “I’m sorry. We need to be careful what we say in this business, don’t we? I meant he’s not here anymore-at the home. His family took him out yesterday.” She lowered her voice. “He didn’t seem too happy about it.”

“Caused a real uproar,” the receptionist muttered.

“Transition can be difficult at that age,” the nurse said. “I’m sure Joseph will adjust.”

That hitman Joe sent after me had said Boris Nikolaev had had enough of his brother’s screw-ups, the same thing Evelyn had heard. If Boris had found out about Joe’s slip of the tongue-and the failed hit-well, then the only thing Little Joe would be adjusting to was life at the bottom of a six-foot hole.

“Thank you,” I said. “We’ll try to stop by his brother’s-”

“Toilet,” Jack said.

I glanced at him, brows raised.

He continued. “Before we leave, you needed the toilet. Don’t forget, because we have a long drive.” He turned to the nurse. “Is there one she can…?”

“Right down this hall. Third door on the right.”

Jack put his hand against my back. “I should use it, too.”

When we were out of earshot, I whispered, “I’m assuming you want to search his room. Do you know which it is?”

He tugged a tissue from his pocket and used it to open the bathroom door, then peeked inside. “Go in. Open the window. Then cough.”

“Cough?”

He propelled me through the doorway. “Glove up. And don’t lock.”

The door closed. I looked at the lace-curtained window. Better follow instructions, and get the explanation later-if he cared to give it.

I snapped on latex gloves and cracked open the window. On the other side was a screen. I suspected bathroom air quality wasn’t the reason he wanted this open, so I lifted the sash as far as it would go, unlatched the screen and pulled it inside. Then I coughed. After a moment’s pause, the door eased open and Jack slid in. I grasped the window edge, preparing to climb out, but he waved me back.

He moved to the window, then crouched to look out under the privacy glass. A sweep of the yard, then he climbed through. I waited for the all-clear and followed.

A fifteen-foot dash to a shed, and we ducked behind it.

“The orderly,” he said.

And that’s all he said, as if it should explain everything. After a few moments of thought, I understood, but sometimes I wished he’d give my brain a break and let his tongue do some of the work instead.

I remembered the look the young man had given us before hurrying off. If Boris Nikolaev knew Little Joe had let something slip about that old hit on the senator, and he knew we’d terminated Joe’s hired gun, he’d know there was a good chance we’d come back. Easiest way to make sure he found out about it would be to bribe the orderly for a tip-off. Yet, by the time Boris got someone here, we’d be long gone…which meant he probably had someone nearby or even on the property, waiting for a call.