Simesky slipped closer to the doorway to the living room, pressing his back against the adjoining wall, staying well out of sight, waiting for Myra’s gunshots, killing Raymond.
Harutyun said, “We had a real president stay here once. He’d come for a conference with the governor. Had to sign something so I wouldn’t tell who it was.”
“Can we play Twenty Questions to find out?” Dance asked.
The detective laughed.
Davis said, “I was at Camp David last week. It’s not as fancy as you’d think.”
Would those be his last words?
And what was Edwin Sharp thinking as he was enduring, though probably not enjoying, his final moments on earth?
“Hey, look, the game,” Davis said. “Triple play!” The volume on the TV went up. Spectators roared.
A glance at the Rolex. Right about now Myra would shoot.
Simesky would step into the doorway and do the same.
Two.
Then two and two more.
Edwin, no! My God! …
He wiped his hand on his slacks and took the pistol again.
Now!
But no shots sounded.
Another minute passed, silence except for the televised crowd and baseball game announcer on the TV.
What was going on? Sweat on Simesky’s brow.
And then at last: gunfire from outside.
A half dozen shots. The snapping clatter of a firefight, small arms.
Shit, Simesky thought. What’s this about? He considered his plan and how the rattle of weapons might fit into it. Had there been another deputy on the scene who’d gotten here earlier? Or had a local cop happened by and noticed a woman with a weapon or a hog-tied Edwin Sharp?
Now, all was silent.
Act your plan …
Simesky, thinking: Sometimes you couldn’t, though. Sometimes you needed to improvise. But to do that, you needed facts.
Only there were no facts.
He decided to go ahead anyway. The three in the room would be focused on what was happening outside the windows, staying down, staying silent.
Two, two and two … Kill Raymond when he walked inside, if he was still alive. Then clean up as best he could. Too bad about Myra; he assumed she was gone.
But there were larger issues at stake.
Simesky gripped the gun firmly, slipped the safety lever forward and took a deep breath. He turned fast and stepped through the arched doorway into the living room, aiming at where Harutyun and Dance had been—the most immediate threats. He was adding poundage to the trigger, when he froze.
The room was empty.
The alarm pad was blinking green. Someone had disarmed the system so Davis, Dance and Harutyun could leave silently. What the hell was this? He walked further into the room. And then he saw the side window was up. That’s how they’d escaped.
Simesky noticed too in the middle of the floor a pad of yellow paper. On it was scrawled a message: Plot against your life Simesky involved Myra too Maybe others We leave NOW Side window NOW
Oh, no …
Who? he thought.
But then realized: Why even ask? Kathryn Dance, of course.
A fucking liberal soccer mom from a small town had outthought him and the Keyholders.
How she’d done this was beyond a mystery to him. But she had. She’d probably texted for backup and alerted Raymond, who’d fired on Myra when she got out of the car and presented a threat.
And could—
He heard a man’s voice from behind him, Dennis Harutyun’s. “Simesky, drop the weapon and raise your hands over your head.”
The deputy would have snuck through the back door. Dance probably was covering the front.
Simesky assessed the situation. He reflected that Harutyun was a true rube; he’d probably never fired his weapon in the line of duty. Simesky, on the other hand, had killed eight people in his life and gone to bed each night afterward with a clear conscience.
He glanced back. “What are you talking about? I’m just trying to protect the congressman from that killer. I heard gunshots. I haven’t done anything! Are you crazy?”
“I’m not going to tell you again. Drop the weapon.”
Simesky was thinking, I have my Cayman Islands account. I have any one of the Keyholders’ private jets at my disposal.
Just fight your way out. Turn and shoot. He’ll be totally freaked out, he’ll panic. Fucking small-town cop.
Simesky started to turn, keeping the gun low, unthreatening. “I just—”
He heard a stunning bang, felt a burn in his chest.
The sensations were repeated a moment later. But both the sound of the second explosion and the tap on his skin were much softer than the first.
Chapter 59
“BOTH DEAD?”
“That’s right,” Harutyun told Sheriff Anita Gonzalez.
Ten people were in her office at the FMCSO, which made it pretty cramped.
P. K. Madigan was back, though still unofficially, because it had, after all, been his information that had led to uncovering the plot.
Also present was a public affairs officer from the county. Dance noted that Harutyun seemed infinitely pleased at this—somebody else to handle the press conference. Which was going to be big. Very big.
Lincoln Rhyme, Thom Reston and Amelia Sachs were here too, along with Michael O’Neil and Tim Raymond, the congressman’s own security man. In the interest of safety Congressman Davis was onboard his private jet, heading back to Los Angeles.
Anita Gonzalez asked, “Any other perps working with Simesky and Babbage?”
Dance replied, “I’m sure there are. But they are—well, were—the only active participants on the scene so far. Our office and Amy Grabe, the FBI’s agent in charge in San Francisco, are tracing associates and connections.”
Michael O’Neil said, “There seems to be some affiliation with that outfit they call the Keyholders. Some political action group.”
“Political action? Hell, they’re assholes,” Madigan muttered, digging into his ice cream. “Wackos.”
Lincoln Rhyme said, “But rich and well-connected wackos.”