Maggie decided to backtrack and see if she could find Nick and talk some sense into him. She saw the old woman with her shopping cart set aside. The woman was staring at something in the snow along the side of a building. She seemed fixated on it even to the point of shooing people to take a wide circle around.
Then Maggie saw Nick. He sat on a rail that in warmer weather probably allowed bike riders to chain up their bikes. His feet dangled. His head wobbled to the music from the street corner behind him. Sometimes the foot traffic got too close and brushed against him, sending his whole body teetering. No one seemed to notice him. Even when they jostled him or bumped him. He was playing his role very well.
She knew if she waved at him he’d ignore her even if he saw her. So instead, she started to walk toward him, going against the flow. She weaved her way through, taking her time and putting up with the occasion bump.
This is how he does it, she thought. And suddenly she knew he was here. She could feel him. Gut instinct. It had never failed her.
She looked at the faces coming toward her. Her arms came up across her chest and she walked like she was chilled and not paranoid that a knife would find its way into her chest. The flow of the crowd continued. She found herself pushed along the wall. And suddenly she felt a stab in her back. She spun around. Then she realized it was an elbow, not a knife.
Paranoid. She needed to stop.
Through a hole in the crowd she could see Nick, smiling, singing with the music. He was still sitting on the rail. Only now she saw a man coming out of the alley behind him. Well dressed. Alone. White ballcap. Focused on Nick. Walking directly toward Nick. His right arm down at his side.
Oh, God, she could see the flash of metal.
She started pushing her way through the crowd.
“Nick, behind you.”
But her voice got drowned out in the noises of the street, the music, the crowd, the traffic. She shoved at bodies. Got shoved back a couple of times.
“FBI,” she yelled but nobody moved out of the way for the crazy woman in the red Huskers ballcap.
She tore at her jacket’s zipper and yanked at her revolver. Ripped at the clasp to her shoulder holster. Damn it!
The man was within three feet of Nick.
She waved her arms at him and finally he saw her. He waved back. Smiled. Then he tumbled forward, face down in the snow with the man falling on top of him. Even before she got there she could see the snow turning red.
“Oh God, no.”
Then she saw the old woman. She pointed to the stiletto knife clutched in the man’s hand.
“That’s the bastard that killed Gino,” was all she said.
That’s when Maggie saw the wide end of an icicle sticking out of the man’s back.
>
10:00 a.m.
Monday, December 5
Embassy Suites
Maggie had gotten five hours of sleep. For once she felt more than rested. She pulled on a pair of jeans and a favorite warm, bulky sweater and headed down to the lobby. Pakula already had a table. She saw him through the glass elevator. The same elevator John Robert Gunderson had used for the last four days.
“I ordered our coffee,” Pakula said, standing when she came to the table and pointing to the can of Diet Pepsi in Maggie’s spot. She was impressed that he remembered her wake-up drink.
He had file folders piled up but pushed to the side of the table. She added one to his stack, information Tully had faxed to her late last night.
“So is Gunderson his real name?” Pakula wanted to know.
“Yes.”
They had found a small case inside his hotel suite that contained about a dozen driver’s licenses and credit cards with various aliases. All the same initials.
“He’s a traveling salesman,” she said, taking a sip of the Diet Pepsi. “One of Bosco Blades' top salesmen.”
“Blades.” Pakula shook his head. “Unbelievable.”
“He flunked out of med school. I suspected he might have a medical background. He knew too much about where to stab. I just talked to Lieutenant Taylor Jackson this morning. Turns out one of his victims was a classmate of his. Heath Stover. He killed him in Nashville. We think he probably didn’t want anyone to know he’d flunked out.
“Also, we now know he was in Nashville for a medical conference. Was supposed to do a presentation but canceled. Detective Killian told me there was a medical convention going on in New Orleans when he killed his two victims there. Kansas City was a conference for surgeons. And in Omaha—”
“The sales conference at the Qwest Center,” Pakula said, making the connection. “For medical devices or something, right?”
She nodded.
“How could he get away with it? Wouldn’t his co-workers suspect something?”
“He worked out of a home office. Had a secretary at Bosco that he communicated with by phone, text and email. He met with his boss once a month. And he made all his travel arrangements on his own, so he could be whoever he wanted to be when he was on the road.”
“He looked like an ordinary guy,” Pakula said. “Best disguise there is.”
“What about the old woman? You’re not going to press charges are you?”
“Hell no. She did us a favor. I did get her off the streets.”