Kelley Armstrong - Exit Strategy

“Yeah, but if she does, I’ll have ten deadweight rookies in here asking me what they should do about it, while that fucker has free run of the building.”

The door creaked open.

“What the hell are you two doing back-?” the first man boomed.

“There’s been a seat mix-up,” a woman said. “An elderly couple is in ours-”

“Then tell them to move!”

The women continued in the same calm voice. “The usher feels it would be less intrusive if we took the seats beside them-”

“I told you where to sit! We picked out the sight lines to cover every-”

“We’ve checked the sight lines and they’d be the same.”

“I don’t care. You sit where I assigned you, and if there’s someone there, then you move them. Why the hell you couldn’t figure that out without bothering me-”

“Because you asked to be apprised-personally apprised-of all complications.”

“This isn’t a complication, Chin. It’s ass-wiping, and you can damned well do your own.”

The door clicked shut. I looked over to see a young couple in formal wear heading back to the foyer.

“Idiot,” the woman muttered.

“He’s under a lot of pressure,” her partner said. “He saw what happened to McMillan, and he knows if this goes bad, he’s next.”

“Stress, my ass. Dubois is in his element. He wants to be in control so he can take full credit if he pulls this off. But if he doesn’t, you can bet your ass it’ll be everyone else’s fault.”

Jack touched my arm and motioned that we should move on. I had to agree. All we’d accomplished here was overhearing Martin Dubois, the agent now leading the investigation after the last one had been “reassigned.” The guy might be a jerk, but he seemed to be doing the job.

As we walked through the lobby, I hoped that the undercover agents wouldn’t be as obvious to the killer as they were to me. The janitor emptying a quarter-filled trash can. The extra barman, who did nothing but wipe the counter and polish glasses. The couple lingering in a T-intersection, talking but never looking at each other. Still, if the killer did “make” them, maybe that wasn’t such a bad thing. He might realize he didn’t have a chance.

Next, Jack and I scoped out all the potential blind spots-places we’d pick for a hit. We started with the bathrooms. The moment I walked in, I knew it was covered, by an agent playing washroom attendant, pumping lotion onto a matron’s hands and apologizing when the squirt dribbled onto her shoe instead. Oh, the joys of undercover work.

Despite the on-duty agent, I gave the bathroom a once-over, seeing it with a hitman’s eye. No closets, no windows, the dividers too low to crawl under, the stalls too small to hide in. By the time I finished using the toilet, I was satisfied enough to strike this “blind spot” off my list.

I scrubbed my hands, my mind fully aware of my surroundings yet skipping forward, planning my next move.

He was here. My target. In this very building.

I was on the trail, his scent in the wind. The real thing. Out there. Waiting for me.

And while maybe that should have had me as puppy-dog excited as Jack seemed to think I was, I felt calm. Perfect control, the kind I’d never felt off the shooting range. Everything in focus. Sharp focus-smelling the soap on my hands, hearing the squeak of shoes on the linoleum, seeing the flash of red as the woman beside me painted on fresh lipstick.

I looked at myself in the mirror. No signs of stress-no beading sweat, no parted lips, breathing hard. Just a woman enjoying her evening out and looking forward to the pleasure yet to come.

I turned to the agent at the door, passed her a smile and a tip, and walked out.

In the movies, things were always so much more dramatic. Put this scene in some Hollywood blockbuster, and there would be a deviously elaborate solution to the challenge he faced, maybe explosives hidden inside a seat, rigged to detonate when the soprano hit her first C. In real life, sometimes even the most difficult situations had solutions that were almost laughably simple.

How would he kill someone in an opera house, with only one way in or out, patrolled by dozens of top FBI agents, all devoted to stopping him? By hiding behind a door. His only tool? A pair of panty hose. Not worn on his head, like some cinematic killer. In his world, disguising yourself from your target was ludicrous-if he lived long enough to talk, then you damned well deserved to get caught.

One glance at the opera house blueprints and he’d known where he’d hide-behind the door in the one room the Feds couldn’t be inside: the handicapped washroom.

He’d been preparing for tonight since he’d first leaked the Moreland arrest. He’d bought the tickets before making the call-two, knowing they’d later search for single-ticket purchases. He’d walked right in the front door, among a group of retirees, even talking to them, as if he was just another old man out for a night of culture. Then straight to the bathroom. He’d limped in with his cane-for the benefit of anyone who saw his destination. Once inside, he’d had to tamper with the lock, to be sure he could relock it as he left. Then he’d positioned himself, turned out the light, leaned over…and unlocked the door to await the next visitor.

Laughably simple.

Grace steered her wheelchair around a group of middle-aged matrons who looked as if they’d rather be anywhere but here. A social-duty event. Grace remembered those, dragging David along, kicking and screaming, telling him he couldn’t ignore an invitation from the CEO, even if it was the company’s twentieth outing to The Nutcracker .

She hit a wrinkle in the carpet and the wheelchair veered, heading straight for a young woman in a green dress. The woman’s companion tried to pull her out of the way, but she grabbed the wheelchair handles, stopping and steadying it.

“Thank you,” Grace said. “Still haven’t gotten the hang of this darned thing, I’m afraid.”

“And I’m not much help,” said a voice behind her.

She twisted to see Cliff hobbling over on his cane, two champagne flutes precariously clutched in his free hand. The young woman took the glasses from him. She handed one to Grace, then waited until Cliff was settled before passing back his.

Cliff thanked her, then chuckled. “We make a fine pair, don’t we?”

“Do you need any help getting to your seats?” the woman asked. “I don’t see a ramp.”

Her companion’s gaze slid to the side, as if anxious to move on.

“Thank you, dear, but we’ll be fine,” Grace said. “This place is supposed to be accessible, so they must have a ramp or elevator hidden somewhere.”

“Enjoy the show, then,” the woman said, and let her companion lead her away.

Cliff found a quiet corner and they sipped their champagne and watched the “preshow show,” the parade of patrons, from the well dressed, to the badly dressed, to the barely dressed. Cliff’s murmured commentary kept her in giggles, as always. For fifty years, no one had ever made her laugh like Cliff could. Her husband, David, had been a wonderful man, and she’d loved him dearly-still missed him every day-but when she needed a good chuckle, she’d always looked to Cliff, David’s childhood friend and business partner.

There’d never been anything between them while their spouses had been alive. Never considered it. But as the grief had faded, they’d realized that there might be more between them than the shared love of a good laugh. Their children and grandchildren had encouraged the relationship, happy to see the “old folks” bonding in companionship and mutual support. As for romance, well, there was bound to be some hand-holding, maybe the odd kiss on the cheek, but that was it. After all, both would see eighty in a year or two.