“We’re going to get her, Essie.”
“She doesn’t target families. They don’t interest her. But now, I’ve got family inside me.”
“Get the word out. Don’t wait for the twelve weeks. Look, I think you’re high on her list—no bullshitting between us—so it’s too soon for her to come after you. But knowing you’re pregnant might hold her back if she’s bumped you up.”
“That’s not a bad thought.” Because it had tensed up, she rubbed the back of her neck under her short ponytail. “I can let it get out. She came after you, and you were the second nine-one-one caller.”
“The second doesn’t matter. I didn’t bring the cops. Simone did. Simone,” he added, “who I’m crazy in love with.”
“You—” Essie managed to get her jaw off the floor. “Now it’s my turn. Seriously?”
“As serious as it gets. It’s either you or Simone on the top of her list. No way she’s getting to either of you.”
“Is she in love with you?”
“I’m working on it. I’ve gotta go.”
“But it’s just getting interesting. How are you working on it?”
“Come to the island, see for yourself,” he said as she followed him to the door. “I can’t miss the ferry. I’m the chief of police.”
*
On the ferry, Reed made the calls. He spoke to Max Lowen in Fort Lauderdale, identified himself, and said that during a tangential investigation he’d gathered information that caused him to believe Patricia Hobart might be in Florida.
After scaring the crap out of Lowen, Reed spoke of basic precautions, asked relevant questions, gave Lowen his cell number, and suggested he pass that to local law enforcement and contact the SAC at the FBI. He’d be happy to speak with them and verify.
With Emily Devlon, he got an answering machine, left his name, number, and asked her to contact him as soon as possible about information on Patricia Hobart.
Then he got out of his car, watched the island slide into view.
Home, he thought. Where the heart is.
He pulled out his phone again, texted Simone.
On the ferry, about five minutes out. I’m thinking about picking up a pizza and spending some time watching the sunset on the patio with a couple of beautiful women.
She answered back.
CiCi’s making what she calls Vegetable Soup For The Ages. And she roped me into kneading bread dough, so no need for pizza. It’s too chilly for sunset on the patio. We’ll sit by the fire instead.
Deal. Nearly home.
He slid his phone back in his pocket. He’d try Emily Devlon again in the morning if she didn’t give him a call back. But for now he put it away.
*
Emily heard the phone ring as she closed the kitchen door behind her. She hesitated a moment, nearly went back to answer, then kept going. With her husband and kids already off for a little beach time and pizza, she wouldn’t worry about it. If Kent needed her, he’d have called her cell.
They had the landline because Kent wanted one for clients and messages. So it had to be a client or another annoying political call or solicitation.
Besides, this was her night. Her girls’ night out disguised as a book club, the first and third Sundays of the month—she ran one and just participated in the second. And tonight, she wasn’t in charge.
She stepped into the garage—one her husband never used, as he had it so packed with sports equipment, tools, and lawn crap, it barely had room for her car.
She heard a sound, felt a burning flood of pain.
Then heard and felt nothing.
Patricia opened Emily’s purse, flipped through her contacts to one of the names on the committee. Texted:
Something came up, explain later. Can’t make it. Boo!
In the event a neighbor looked out, Patricia adjusted her wig—same style and color as Emily’s. She took Emily’s keys, slid into the minivan, hit the garage control.
She drove through the neighborhood, out again, took a direct route to the open-air shopping center a convenient mile and a half away, and parked.
She ditched the wig in her oversize purse with the gun, fluffed up her hair—screw DNA, she wanted them to know she’d won again.
She strolled through the mall, basking in the balmy spring evening. Man, she loved Florida! She window-shopped, picked up a couple of things, and walked back to her own car, parked there before she’d taken the mile and a half hike to kill Emily.
Her bags were already in the cargo area.
She let out a sigh. She hated leaving Florida, wished she could stay and just bask awhile. But she had places to go, people to kill.
“Road trip!” she said with a laugh. She opened the bag of jalape?o chips, the Diet Pepsi she’d picked up for the drive. Turned the satellite radio up.
As she drove away, she decided Emily Devlon had been her easiest kill yet.
Her luck was in.
*
Her luck held. Emily’s husband didn’t check the garage when he got home. He had no reason to. The kids—hyped up from pizza, and the ice cream he’d been weak enough to indulge them in after—kept him busy and distracted. He didn’t expect his wife home until at least ten in any case.
He let the kids go crazy in the tub because they made him laugh even if it did mean some serious mopping up before Mom got home.
He read them a story, tucked them in, mopped up, got what he considered a very well-earned vodka tonic. He didn’t check the machine, never thought of it, and fell asleep in the sixth inning of the baseball game on the bedroom TV.
He woke just after midnight, disoriented, then more puzzled than annoyed when he found himself alone in bed.
He shut off the TV, went into the bathroom to pee. Yawning, he checked on the kids and peeked into the guest room where Emily sometimes slept when he snored.
He went downstairs, called for her.
Annoyance flipped over puzzlement. House rule, he thought, for both of them: If you’re going to be late, you call.
He reached for his phone, remembered he’d stuck it in the charger beside the bed. He went into his office, off the living area, to use the landline, saw the blinking message light.
He tapped for it, frowned. Why the hell was some police chief from an island off of Portland … He heard Hobart’s name, and felt his blood run cold.
He called her cell, felt sick when he heard her cheery voice-mail message. “Call me. Call me, Emily. Right now.”
He paced, back and forth, telling himself she was fine. Just had too many glasses of Pinot, that’s all. She was fine.
But he went out, checked the pool, the hot tub.
Took a shaky breath of relief.
He didn’t even think of the garage, or her car, for nearly ten minutes. He wobbled between relieved and shaky when he didn’t see her car.
Then he found her.
*
Reed didn’t get the call—from a Homicide cop—until three in the morning. He grabbed the phone, rolled up to sit on what he remembered was Simone’s bed instead of his.
“Quartermaine.”
“Chief Quartermaine, Tranquility Island, Maine?”
“Yeah. Who’s this?”
“Detective Sylvio, Coral Gables PD. I got your name and contact number off a message machine—”
“Emily Devlon.” He held on to hope for ten seconds. “Did she contact you?”
“No, Chief Quartermaine.”
“Are you Homicide?”
“That would be affirmative.”
“Goddamn it, goddamn it. When? How?”
“We’re working on that. I’ve got some questions.”
“Ask them.” He shoved open the door, walked out on the long terrace overlooking the water. He needed air.
Simone turned on the lights. She felt that air, a strong, chilly flow of it, rush into the room. She got up, put on a robe, walked to the open door to see Reed standing naked in some fitful moonlight, snapping answers into his phone.
He didn’t feel the cold, she realized. Not with all that rage burning off him. She’d never seen him angry—hadn’t been sure he ever got there. At least not raging.
He didn’t rage now, but the rage was in there.