Jeff Abbott - No Rest for the Dead

Still, best to get moving. Besides, he’d had about all the fun San Francisco was likely to afford him. Tailing Ballard, holding a knife to Belle’s pale throat, stalking the cop and Ballard’s gorgeous wife, creeping up on her like that in the dressing room, seeing her quivering in her panties, had been a kick. His only regret was that he hadn’t gotten the chance to see his children, Leila and Ben-even from a distance. Artie had ruined that with his second-rate scheming. Ah, well. Rio called.

Christopher took down a suitcase from the closet, unzipped it. Opened the room safe and began to haul out bundles of money. When he’d filled the first suitcase, he took down a second, packed it as well. From one of the American Touristers he took out a fresh shirt, patterned white cotton and French cuffs, and traded it for the rumpled one he wore. He stood in front of the mirror. A little… staid. He popped the cuff links, then shook his wrists to loosen the fabric. There. At once elegant and rakish.

He picked up his bags-it was amazing how much real money weighed, even in high denominations-and walked back into the living room.

Artie had made it almost six feet. A smear of dark blood marked his progress. His hands were coated with the stuff.

“I have to say, Arthur, you’re smarter than you look.” Christopher dropped the bags, sauntered over. “Going for the phone, very clever. I’d have guessed you would try for the door.” He raised one foot, put the arch of his dress shoe against the man’s shoulder, and pushed.

Artie toppled like a lamp. Even muffled by the gag, his scream was raw and sharp.

“But then, what would you have said if you did reach the phone?” Christopher went to the bar, picked up the heavy revolver. “Plmmmphhmmpphmmeph?” He dropped to one knee beside the onetime security guard, careful not to dip his pants in blood. “Can you hear me?”

Artie’s eyes were huge. His pupils were pinned as if he were staring at something bright and close. He made no response. Christopher leaned in and flicked the man’s stomach just above where the bullet had torn it open.

Artie responded.

“I said, can you hear me?”

The man nodded feverishly.

“You’ve probably already guessed that you’re going to die. Shuffle off this mortal coil, as it were. But how fast you shuffle is up to me. Remember that when I take your gag out. Yes?”

Again the nod.

“Excellent.” Christopher ripped off the tape and pulled Taylor’s abandoned panties out of Artie’s mouth. Christopher tossed them aside, then wiped his hands on a clean spot on Artie’s shirt. “Now.” He put the barrel of the gun against the man’s crotch, cocked the hammer back. “About that letter.”

Tired. So tired .

Jon Nunn’s shoulders were clenched like knuckles. Eyes grainy and dry. When he raised a hand to rub them, the fingers were trembling. As if he’d been running for days.

Not days. Years. Twelve long years .

Twelve years of pain and guilt about his marriage-about Sarah.

Twelve years of believing that Christopher Thomas might be a snake and a climber, but that he was also a murder victim.

Twelve years since his testimony sent Rosemary Thomas to her death for a murder that never happened.

Twelve years of letting things happen around him. Of drink and despair and weakness. Of second-guessing himself and squandering time. Passively watching the world go by and wishing it were different.

Years when Christopher Thomas lived his dream while Jon Nunn was trapped in the drabbest of nightmares.

And now, that it should all end here, in this hotel of all places. TROMPE L’OEIL the sign read. Trompe l’oeil, “tricks the eye,” if he remembered high school French.

Just fucking perfect.

Nunn flipped on the hazards, stepped out of the Mercedes. The valet made a move in his direction, but he shook his head. “I won’t be long.”

The lobby doors parted soundlessly, revealing a broad expanse of marble and subtle lighting. The air had the sweetness of a pear two days past perfection. The heels of his shoes clicked as he wove through brokers and lawyers and doctors in overstuffed chairs. The wall behind reception was lined with trees. Not until he was standing at the desk did he realize they had been painted on, the perspective rendered so carefully that it seemed he could reach out and touch them.

“Welcome to Trompe l’Oeil, sir. How may I help you?”

“I’m looking for someone. A guest.”

The woman-her name tag read CLAIRE-barely looked up from her keyboard. “What’s your party’s name, please.”

He grimaced, pulled the old photo out of his pocket. “This is him. Do you recognize him?”

“I’m sorry, what is this-”

“I’m a cop.” No reason to start playing by the rules now.

“Still, I’m sorry, but I can’t… I could call my manager, perhaps he-”

“Listen to me.” Nunn leaned into the counter. “This man is a killer. Get me? He’s dangerous. Please. Think. Have you seen him?”

Claire licked her lips nervously. “I don’t know.”

A muted boom. Somewhere indistinct. It wasn’t loud. The investment banker in the lobby bar didn’t stop running his game on the model, and she didn’t stop touching her hair and cocking her hips. Conversations continued, the low murmur of wealth and influence.

But Jon Nunn knew the sound, even through however many insulated floors.

The woman behind the counter said, “What is that? I heard it just a few minutes ago.”

He turned back to her. “Think. Have you seen him?”

“I-”

“Yes or no.”

“No.” Her voice strained.

“Anyone else?”

“What do you mean?”

“Is there anyone else who might have seen him?”

She shook her head. “Usually there are two of us, but Jonathan met this curly-haired boy, and I told him-” Claire shrugged. “Do you want me to call my manager at home?”

Nunn was already walking away. That noise had been gunfire, something with muscle, a.45 or even a.357. What was Thomas shooting at?

Not what. Who .

Nunn clenched and unclenched his fingers. Every instinct developed in a lifetime spent protecting people told him that Christopher Thomas was here. That he was armed. That he had probably just shot someone.

And none of it made any difference. What was he going to do, knock on doors? Call SWAT and cordon off the building? He wasn’t a cop anymore. He couldn’t call for help. Couldn’t explain what he was doing there or how he had gotten the information in the first place. Couldn’t flash the badge he didn’t have.

Besides, Peter Heusen had said that Christopher had had surgery. A brand-new face. There was no way to be sure Nunn would recognize him even if they passed in the hall.

Yes, you will. He can’t change the eyes. His arrogant, certain eyes, always the same across a dozen case-file photographs .

Nunn paced the lobby in short, angry laps, feeling time ticking away. There wasn’t time to delay, but there wasn’t time to make the wrong call, either.

Sure. Hesitate again. Just let it happen around you. Like you did for the last twelve years .

An expensively dressed blond guy was crossing the lobby towing two suitcases behind him. He was slender, and his walk was smug and swift, almost a sway.

Nunn broke into a sprint. He bolted between two leather chairs, leaped the outstretched legs of a man reading The Wall Street Journal . There was a shout from behind as he knocked over someone’s drink. Two more seconds brought Nunn up behind the blond, who started to turn. Nunn grabbed his shoulder, yanked him around, and cocked his right arm back.