No Second Chance

Until five minutes ago.

He read the brief report for the third time. He wasn’t trying to put it together. Not yet. This was too weird for that. What he was trying to do, what he hoped to accomplish, was to find some kind of angle, some sort of handle he could grip. Nothing came to him.

Rachel Mills. How the hell did she fit into this?

A young subordinate—Tickner couldn’t remember if his name was Kelly or Fitzgerald, something Irish like that—stood in front of the desk, hands not sure what to do. Tickner leaned back in the chair and crossed his legs. He tapped the pen against his lower lip.

“There has to be a connection between them,” he told Sean or Patrick.

“She claimed to be a private detective.”

“Is she licensed?”

“No, sir.”

Tickner shook his head. “There’s more to it than that. Check phone records, find some friends, whatever. Trace it down for me.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Call that detective agency. The MVD. Tell them I’m on my way.”

“Yes, sir.”

The Irish kid left. Tickner stared off. He and Rachel had gone through training together at Quantico. They’d both had the same mentor. Tickner thought about what to do here. While he didn’t always trust the locals, he liked Regan. The guy was just off enough to be an asset. He picked up the phone and dialed Regan’s cell.

“Detective Regan.”

“Long time, no speak.”

“Ah, Federal Agent Tickner. You still wearing the sunglasses?”

“You still stroking that soul patch—uh, among other things?”

“Yes. And maybe.”

Tickner could hear sitar music in the background. “You busy?”

“Not at all. I was just meditating.”

“Like Phil Jackson?”

“Exactly. Except I don’t have all those pesky championship rings. You should join me sometime.”

“Yeah, I’ll put that on my list of must-dos.”

“It would relax you, Agent Tickner. I hear tremendous strain in your voice.” Then: “I assume that there was a reason for this call?”

“Remember our favorite case?”

There was a funny pause. “Yes.”

“How long has it been since we had something new?”

“I don’t think we ever had anything new.”

“Well, we may now.”

“I’m listening.”

“We just got a strange call from an ex–FBI agent. Guy named Deward. He’s a private dick in Newark now.”

“So?”

“It seems our friend Dr. Seidman paid his office a visit today. And he had someone very special with him.”

Lydia dyed her hair black—the better to blend in with the night.

The plan, as it were, was simple.

“We confirm that he has the money,” she told Heshy. “Then I kill him.”

“You sure?”

“Positive. And the beauty of it is, the murder will automatically get tied to the original shooting.” Lydia smiled at him. “Even if something goes wrong, nothing ties back to us.”

“Lydia?”

“Something the matter?”

Heshy shrugged his giant shoulders. “Don’t you think it would be better if I kill him?”

“I’m the better shot, Pooh Bear.”

“But”—he hesitated, shrugged again—“I don’t need a weapon.”

“You’re trying to protect me,” she said.

He said nothing.

“That’s sweet.” And it was. But one of the reasons she wanted to do it herself was to protect Heshy. He was the vulnerable one here. Lydia never worried about getting caught. Part of it was classic overconfidence. Dumb people get caught, not those who were careful. But more than that, she knew if she did get nabbed, they’d never convict her. Forget her still girl-next-door looks, though that would undoubtedly be an asset. What no prosecutor would ever overcome would be the weepy Oprahization of her case. Lydia would remind them of her “tragic” past. She would claim abuses in many forms. She would cry on the talk shows. She would talk about the plight of the child star, of the calamity of being forced into the world of Pixie Trixie. She would look adorably victimized and innocent. And the public—not to mention the jury—would lap it up.

“I think it’s best this way,” she told him. “If he sees you approach, well, he is apt to run. But if he catches sight of lil’ ol’ me . . .” Lydia let her voice die out with a small shrug.

Heshy nodded. She was right. This should be cake. She stroked his face and handed him the car keys.

“Does Pavel understand his part?” Lydia asked.

“He does. He’ll meet us there. And yes, he’ll be wearing the flannel shirt.”

“Then we might as well start on our way,” she said. “I’ll call Dr. Seidman.”

Heshy used the remote to unlock the car doors.

“Oh,” she said, “I have to check something before we go.”

Lydia opened the back door. The child was fast asleep in the car seat. She checked the straps and made sure that they were secure. “I better sit in the back, Pooh Bear,” she said. “Just in case a little someone wakes up.”

Heshy angled his way into the driver’s seat. Lydia took out the phone and voice changer and dialed the number.

Chapter 23

We ordered apizza, which I think was a mistake. Late-night pizzas are college. It was yet another not-so-subtle reminder of the past. I kept staring at the mobile phone, wishing it to ring. Rachel was quiet, but that was okay. We had always been good with silence. That, too, was weird. In many ways, we were falling back, picking up where we’d left off. But in many more ways, we were strangers with a tenuous, awkward connection.

What was odd was that my memories were suddenly hazy. I’d thought that once I saw her again, they’d head straight to the surface. But few specifics came to me. It was more a feeling, an emotion, like the way I remembered the ruddy cold of New England. I don’t know why I couldn’t remember. And I wasn’t sure what it meant.

Rachel’s brow creased as she toyed with the electronic equipment. She took a bite of pizza and said, “Not as good as Tony’s.”

“That place was awful.”

“A little greasy,” she agreed.

“A little? Didn’t the large come with a coupon for a free angioplasty?”

“Well, there was that sludge-through-the-veins feel to it.”