He listened in again but was distracted by some movement on the landing at the top of the stairs, the boyfriend she’d said would take forever in the bath. He was probably moving from the bathroom to the bedroom, but JJ began to ease backward just in case.
He was almost back to the door when the guy appeared at the top of the stairs, wearing a short white dressing gown, towel-drying long black hair, bits of it straggling across his face. He was unshaven, swarthy, for some reason suggesting someone who worked in some branch of the media, advertising or music or something like that.
JJ responded to the sight of him by stopping his retreat and standing casually with the gun out of view at his side, like he was meant to be there, biding his time. And as the guy saw him JJ smiled and nodded, the passing nod men give to each other, and gestured silently with his free hand to show that Esther was on the phone. The guy acknowledged silently that he understood but he stayed where he was for a second, JJ mentally urging him to continue on his way to the bedroom.
He started down the stairs though, saying in a hushed voice when he was halfway down, “I don’t think we’ve met. I’m Richard.” It was a voice that didn’t fit with the way he looked, a cleric’s voice.
In the other room he heard Esther say urgently, “I’ll call you back.” JJ shot the guy in the middle of the chest, knocking him backward, sliding down the stairs on his back then, like he’d missed a step and lost his footing. JJ moved quickly to the living room, firing a couple of shots blind as he walked in, a third as he got her in his sights, straight into the back of her head, sending her crashing to the floor and against one of the armchairs, where she lay immediately motionless, contorted like her neck was broken, her blood like oil stains on the blue fabric of the chair cover.
The guy was still gurgling on the stairs behind him, but JJ left him and walked in to take a closer look at Esther. Her face was bloodied, and one of his blind shots had caught her in the shoulder, a piece of luck that had probably given him the edge. Her gun was in her hand, pretty impressive considering how quickly she’d had to move, pretty impressive, period.
They’d had a conversation once in a pub not far from here, about who’d win out if they both had contracts on each other. He couldn’t remember what conclusion they’d come to, if any, but it had seemed hypothetical enough back then to keep them entertained over a couple of drinks.
Wider opinion had it different, but he’d always thought her the better all-around operator, even up to the way she’d caught him out there, but by the only absolute measure she was the one who was dead. If she hadn’t asked about the hotel, hadn’t raised his suspicions, she could have put a bullet in his back as he’d walked up the hallway, an error of judgment inexcusable for someone of her caliber, no matter what the basis.
He picked up the phone and pressed to redial the last number. As soon as it rang a woman answered, efficient sounding but giving just a simple “Hello?” It wasn’t a voice he recognized.
“This is Hoffman. I have a message for Philip Berg.” There was silence for a while at the other end, like she was consulting with someone or weighing how to respond. Finally she said, “Go on,” no discernible tone in her voice.
“Okay. There’s no charge for the one who raped my girlfriend, but he owes me the regular fee for Wilson and Sanderton. Tell him I’ll collect in person.” He hung up then and threw the phone on the sofa, looking once more at Esther, feeling coldly triumphant, surprising considering it was someone he’d thought he cared about, surprising too that he felt nothing else. He checked the boyfriend on the stairs as he passed, dead now, his dressing gown up around his shoulders where he’d slid down away from it; he was a hairy guy.
And then he left, stunned that he could have been so wrong, that she could so easily have turned against him, questioning whether he could ever have turned like that himself, against someone he’d known that well. He doubted it, but then he wasn’t an organization player, the same factor that had helped him stay alive, the factor that allowed him his own thoughts, that meant he didn’t always take the recommended path, the plus side of his isolated existence.
He crossed the street right outside the house and stood on the other side for a moment, making like he wasn’t sure which way to go, giving the impression that he was preoccupied. And he maintained that expression as he walked up the street, waiting until he was right alongside the car, betting that the guy inside would be averting his eyes too as JJ passed.