by Lee Child
But she had no regrets. Making a living as a professional escort wasn’t all that bad.
“It’s just a different kind of show,” she’d once told Jennings. “And I’m very good at it.”
Jennings had always believed that people should play to their strengths, but the words sounded hollow. He sensed a kind of sadness in Holly. Twenty-three years old and she already carried that battle-worn resignation that hits all of us when we finally realize the future isn’t as bright as we once thought it would be.
He’d known her for a couple years by then, back before the world caved in on him. He’d met her while working a homicide downtown.
Sergeant Nick Jennings, Detective First Grade.
You wouldn’t know it by looking at him now, but he’d spent seven years on the homicide squad, and six prior to that in uniform. And in those years he’d managed to cultivate quite a list of informants.
Holly was at the top of that list.
But just as his life started its nosedive, Holly’s was on the rise. She met and married a real estate developer from California who pretended not to know what she did for a living. Jennings figured it gave the guy a secret thrill, thinking he’d tamed a wildcat.
“Who woulda believed it,” she said to Jennings. “Just like Richard Gere and Julia Roberts.”
He was happy for Holly. Her future was bright after all. The night she left Vegas, he bought her a cup of coffee and gave her a good-bye peck on the cheek. Told her if she ever needed him for anything, just call.
That seemed like an eternity ago. To say he’d never thought he’d hear from her again was a bit of an understatement. Yet here she was, all these years later, taking him up on his offer.
“Nick?”
There was a flash of static on his cell line. Vegas was full of dead zones. Pulling to the side of the road, he said, “Where you calling from, kid? You in town?”
“At the Diamond.”
A little upscale for the Holly he knew. Then again, maybe not. “What about Mr. Real Estate?”
“Chuck and I split up.”
That was a surprise. “Then what’s going on? What do you mean you think somebody’s trying to kill you?”
She let out a long, shaky breath. “I don’t want to do this on the phone,” she said. “Buy me a cup of coffee. One hour, the usual place.”
Then she hung up. Jennings popped a U, his eight-year-old Crown Vic groaning in protest, and caught a red light at the intersection. Red lights in Vegas are notoriously long, and he found himself half-wishing he had a good book or a magazine to pass the time.
I think someone’s trying to kill me.
This wasn’t the first time he’d heard something like that come out of Holly’s mouth. She’d always had a flair for the dramatic. She wasn’t exactly the Girl Who Cried Wolf, but it would be just like her to follow up three years of silence with a proclamation that her life was in danger.
He stared out at the red light, willing it to change. Three or four days seemed to pass before it turned green again. Then, just as he took his foot off the brake, he heard a screech of tires behind him and—
—wham! Someone hit him.
The impact sent a jolt through his spine as the Vic lurched forward toward the intersection. Jennings hit the brakes, brought the car to an abrupt halt, then checked his rearview mirror.
All he could see were two blazing headlights that sat above the bumper of what looked like a big black Humvee.
He leaned out the window and craned his neck. The Humvee, of course, didn’t have a scratch on it, and he could just imagine what the rear end of the Vic looked like.
Before he could let loose the string of profanities waiting at the tip of his tongue, the Humvee’s driver and passenger doors flew open and two fullbacks in Hawaiian shirts climbed out.
This couldn’t be good.
He shifted his foot to the gas pedal, ready to bag out, but the driver pulled a Smith & Wesson nine millimeter from the small of his back and leveled it at him. “Stay right there, Houdini. Hands on the wheel.”
Jennings watched the driver approach his window and cursed himself for leaving his piece back at his apartment.
“Let me guess,” he said, putting his hands at ten and two o’clock. “You don’t have insurance.”
No reaction. The driver was all business and Jennings wondered what that business was. The face was impassive, eyes as black as a shark’s. Hired muscle, no doubt. Had called him Houdini, which meant he knew who Jennings was.
Hawaiian Shirt Number Two came around the passenger side and folded his arms across a chest that, to Jennings, looked like a wall of nicely tanned cement. The driver reached in through the window, popped the door open, then swung it wide and stepped back. “Get out.”
Jennings did what he was told, faint strains of a funeral dirge streaming through his brain.
“Get in the Hummer,” the driver said.
A few steps later, Jennings was climbing into the back of the Humvee wondering when or if he should make a move. Another time and place, he would’ve been all over these guys. Uh-huh. Sure.
Being a cop gave you a kind of arrogant self-confidence that tended to make you feel invincible. Being an ex-cop didn’t do diddly-squat.
Hawaiian Shirt Number Two brought out his own Smith and shoved in next to Jennings as the driver got behind the wheel. Doors slammed shut.
“FYI,” the driver said, turning in his seat to look at Jennings. “We work for Garlin Enterprises. You heard of it?”
There weren’t too many people in Vegas who hadn’t. Emile Garlin was the biggest adult entertainment mogul in the city, responsible for a chain of gentleman’s clubs and cathouses throughout the state. His most popular enterprise was an upscale exotic dance outfit just off the Strip called Garlin’s Girls. All the stars went there. So did a few ex-cops.
“Sounds familiar,” Jennings said, staring out at the rear of his car, which was crumpled in a way that almost looked painful.
“Last Saturday,” the driver said, “you played a private game in Whitehead Springs. That sound familiar, too?”
It did. He’d taken about twenty large off some punk who thought he was the next Bob Tyner—Tyner being one of the greatest card mechanics on the planet. Two days later, Jennings lost that twenty and ten more to a guy who really was the next Tyner.
“What’s your point?” he said.
“The kid you played was Emile Garlin’s stepson. Says you screwed him out of eighty grand.”
“Eighty grand?” Jennings said. “Do I look like I’ve got that kind of cash? The kid’s lying.”
“Be that as it may, it wasn’t his money to lose. Mr. Garlin comes back from a business trip, finds out he’s eighty light, and the kid points the finger at you. Given a choice, who do you think Mr. Garlin’s gonna believe—his poor misguided stepson or a brain-fried cardsharp like you?”
“I take it that’s a rhetorical question?”
The shark eyes just stared at him. “He wants his money back. With interest.”
Jennings took another look at his wounded car, managing to muster up some of the old cop swagger, then told the driver exactly what Garlin could do to himself and how.
The driver stared at him a moment longer, then faced front and backed the Humvee up. Shifting into gear, he hit the gas and slammed into the rear of the Crown Vic, the impact swerving his car to the right, knocking it into a utility pole.
Ouch.
“Mr. Garlin anticipated you might put up a protest.” He reversed the Hummer again, then rammed the Vic a third time. The bumper fell off.
“Hey!” Jennings said. “I’m still making payments on that thing.”
The driver backed up several yards now, then stomped the gas and angled the nose of the Humvee into the side of the Vic. It crumpled with a horrific groan.
Jennings started to rise out of his seat, but Hawaiian Shirt Number Two planted a hand on his chest and shoved him back. It felt like he’d been hit with a brick.
The driver set the brake, climbed out, then went around to Jennings’s side and pulled the door open, pointing the Smith at him. “Get out.”
Get in, get out. Make up your mind.
Jennings glanced at his mangled vehicle, thinking the only way it would ever move again was chained to a tow bed. Making a mental note to always carry his piece, he stepped back onto the street.
“A hundred large,” the driver told him. “Two days. And next time it won’t be the car.”
He had the Vic towed to the nearest junkyard, then caught a cab to Abe’s Diner, a dingy cafe off Charleston that catered to the lost and lonely. Back in his days on the force, he’d spent a lot of time there loading up on coffee and pie. It was also the place where he and Holly would regularly rendezvous to discuss business.
He was a good forty minutes late by the time he got there and Holly was nowhere to be found. Figuring he may have gone through a couple more dead zones on the ride over, he checked his phone and, sure enough, there was a voice message waiting for him. He dialed his number, punched in the code.
After a beep, Holly’s voice came on the line, shakier than ever. “Nick, where are you?” She paused, her breathing uneven, sounding as if she was on the edge of panic. “Okay, I’m gonna go to your apartment. I just hope you haven’t moved.”
He hadn’t. And this was no cry of wolf, he was sure of that now. The fear in her voice was all too real. He immediately punched a button, dialing her back.
A moment later, a pay phone at the far end of the diner started to ring.
She wasn’t carrying a phone.
Feeling a sudden sense of urgency, Jennings did a 180, went outside and flagged the cab, which hadn’t yet left the parking lot.
In all the years he’d known Holly, he’d never heard her sounding so desperate. And as the cab took him back across town, he thought about how happy she’d been when Mr. Real Estate proposed. Almost giddy.
He wondered what had happened between them. And who had she hooked up with that made her so scared?
Twenty long minutes later, the cab dropped him off in front of his building. It was decades old and looked it, a fifteen-unit, U-shaped pile of stucco overlooking a small courtyard and an even smaller pool. Jennings quickly pushed through the front gate and climbed the stairs toward the second floor, hoping that Holly still had a key and had let herself in.
In the past, it wasn’t unusual to come home and find her parked on his couch, watching TV. This was at the beginning of his infamous fall from grace and he had to admit that he’d found her presence comforting. In those days, she was the only one he could talk to. And the only one who would talk to him.
He was nearing the top of the steps when a teenage girl in a Megadeth T-shirt came flying out of the darkness and nearly collided with him as she ran down the stairs, her long blond hair trailing behind her. A split-second later, Jennings heard a splash from below and wondered if she’d fallen into the pool.
As he reached the second-floor landing he glanced down at it, a bright rectangle of blue, and his gut immediately clinched up. Silhouetted against the light was a body. Not the kid—but a woman’s body. Floating.
Scrambling back down the stairs, Jennings took a flying leap into the water and swam toward the deep end, where the body undulated on the surface. Grabbing hold of her, he turned her over, but one touch and he knew he was too late. There was no sign of life there. No pulse. Nothing. A neat round bullet hole adorned the dimple of her throat.
And while the face was older, there was no mistaking who it was. He recognized her immediately, his sudden dread morphing into an almost overwhelming sense of guilt.
Holly Addison had had every right to be frightened.
Holly Addison was dead.
He wasn’t surprised when Cassandra walked in the door.
Detective First Grade Cassandra Jennings was a ranking shield on the homicide squad. The minute his name came over the wire, she had undoubtedly requested to take the lead.
Her reasons wouldn’t be complicated. Jennings had made another mess and, as usual, Cassandra felt obligated to clean it up. He supposed somebody could have cried conflict of interest, considering their history, but without interest, there is no conflict, and Cassandra hadn’t shown any in him in quite some time.
The moment he realized Holly was dead, he had shouted for a neighbor to call the cops. They converged on his apartment complex like a swarm of blue bees, roping off the crime scene, dragging her body out of the water, waking up everyone in the complex for questioning.
He’d known it was only a matter of time before another part of his past showed up, and here it was, in a neatly tailored suit and dark, short-cropped hair. As lovely as ever.
This was turning out to be one helluva night.
“You okay, Nick?” Cassandra’s expression was somber. A look he’d seen at dozens of crime scenes. Professional, yet sympathetic. Jennings couldn’t help feeling that familiar stirring of the soul when she spoke, or the sudden stab of pain that went with it.
“I’ve been worse,” he said.
It was a pointed remark, not lost on her, but she recovered quickly and gestured to the guy in the doorway behind her. “This is Jerry Kravitz. He came on board after you left.”
Left. That was a nice way of putting it.
Kravitz was tall, broad-shouldered, and hostile-looking. Jennings imagined the guy had heard quite a bit about Nick the burnout. They exchanged curt nods, then Jennings returned his gaze to Cassandra. “Any luck with the canvass?”
“Why don’t we ask the questions,” she said, leaving no doubt that the chasm between them was as deep as it was wide. “Mind if we sit down?”
He gestured to a sofa whose seat cushions held stacks of newspaper and an open cardboard box full of pilfered casino decks. “Just throw that stuff on the floor.”
They made room for themselves and sat, Cassandra throwing a disapproving glance at the box, probably making a mental note to confiscate it.
Jennings stayed in the faded armchair he’d been warming for the past half hour, after he’d changed into a dry T-shirt and jeans. “Fire away,” he said.
Cassandra brought out a small spiral notepad. “How long had Holly been in town?”
Jennings shrugged. “Tonight was the first time she’d called me in years. Said she was staying at the Diamond.”
“On somebody else’s dime, no doubt.” This from Kravitz.
Jennings looked at him. “What makes you say that?”
“She was a pro, right?”
“Ex,” Jennings said. He hadn’t known this guy two minutes and already he didn’t like him.
“I thought tonight was the first time she contacted you.”
“That’s right.”
“Then how do you know she wasn’t working?”
Truth was, Jennings didn’t, but he said, “She quit that life when she got married.” He looked at Cassandra. “You know all this.”
Cassandra nodded, but Kravitz said, “Once a party girl, always a party girl.”
Jennings knew the guy was baiting him, but said nothing.
“Did she tell you why she was back in town?” Cassandra asked.
“I talked to her for a total of about twenty seconds.” He gave them a quick rehash of the phone call and Kravitz’s eyebrows raised.
“She actually said that? Somebody wants to kill me?”
Jennings nodded.
“So why call you?”
“Maybe she trusted me.”
Kravitz snorted. “Lotta good it did her. She say who this alleged killer was?”
“She wouldn’t talk on the phone.”
“Of course not.” Kravitz was clearly skeptical.
“Where did she want to meet?” Cassandra asked. “Here at the apartment?”
“Over at Abe’s. But I was late, and she was gone before I got there. Used the pay phone to leave me a message.”
Cassandra jotted some notes on her pad. “Why were you late?�
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“Getting my car towed. I had an accident.”
Another eyebrow raise from Kravitz. “What kind of accident?”
“A car accident,” Jennings said. Who was this dope? “I ran into a utility pole.”
“Oh? You been drinking?”
“No. I’m not big on booze.”
“What are you big on?”
“Minding my own business,” Jennings told him.
“Uh-huh,” Kravitz said. “What about firearms? You own any?” Jennings stared at him. “Nine mil. Drawer in the kitchen, next to the can opener—in case somebody sneaks up on me while I’m heating up the chili.” He paused, then said, “If you’re thinking I’m good for this, forget it. The weapon’s clean and I’ve got cell phone records, a tow-truck driver, and a cabbie to corroborate my story.”
“Oh, don’t you worry,” Kravitz said. “We’ll be checking into all of that. And once the ME’s report comes back, we’ll be taking a very close look at the timeline.”
Jennings wouldn’t expect anything less, but this guy was really starting to irritate. He glanced at Cassandra but she was still jotting notes. Then she said, “I don’t suppose you’ll have any objection to an ISID?”
An Instant Shooter Identification was an updated version of the old dermal nitrate or paraffin test. A tech brushes diphenylamine on your hand and if it turns blue, kiss your butt good-bye. Jennings couldn’t believe she was even asking. “You’re kidding, right?”
“I wish I was, Nick, but you know I don’t have a choice, considering your history with Holly.”
Jennings tried to keep his voice calm. “We were friends. That’s not how I treat my friends.”
“Friends with benefits,” Kravitz said. “Depending on how much cash you had on hand.”
All right, enough was enough. Jennings got out of his chair and Kravitz immediately rose to meet him.
Cassandra shot up between them. “Easy, boys, easy.”
Kravitz relaxed his posture and smiled. “Sorry, Cassie, but you get something stuck to the bottom of your shoe, you just want to scrape it off. Know what I mean?” He held Jennings’s gaze. “If I’d been on the force three years ago, I would’ve grieved for you and Cassie just like everybody else. But I didn’t know you then. Don’t know if you were a decent cop or a good husband or a loving father.”