Germ

On the way over, she'd used a pay phone to call the Chattanooga homicide desk. She'd given them the name of another female federal agent. A Detective Fisher was lead on the case. The on-call detective had offered to patch her through to him, but she'd said her involvement was too preliminary to bug him. She'd needed only a few facts: primarily, location and a basic chronology of the crime: Yeah, I know our people are all over it, but I'm just typing up a summary for my boss, and you know how it is, trying to get a straight answer from a team of twenty hotshots.

Two aspects of the crime were immediately intriguing. First, after Goody shot one of the assailants, the other was killed by a third assailant. The prevailing wisdom was that he had been a third member of the hit team who'd decided not to split the fee, though he could have been a separate hit man altogether, not associated with the first team, or some guy who'd stumbled onto the hit and acted to protect himself.

Then why'd he take out Despesorio Vero, as witnesses said he did?

That was the nature of crime investigations: anything goes, no matter how implausible, until other theories build more supportive tissue.

The other interesting element was a set of handcuffs found near Vero's body. According to the bartender, one of the first assailants had tossed them to Vero. You've got your target covered by a shotgun, and you tell him to cuff himself. You're not trying to kill him; you're trying to take him alive. Why?

She'd considered asking for access but quickly rejected the idea. If anyone in law enforcement saw her retrieve evidence, they could confiscate it. Plus, if the people behind Donnelley's murder had moles in law enforcement, could she trust any cop? No, she wanted to examine any evidence she found herself before turning it over to the investigative team—and only after she trusted the integrity of those involved.

She had reached the parking lot that flanked the side of the bar. The moon illuminated a single car, closer to her than the bar. It appeared empty. She ran all out, staying as close to the fence as the litter and bushes allowed.

The bar's back door and jamb were metal. A heavy-metal plate, welded to the door, covered the latch and dead bolt. Even the hinges were not exposed. The nearest window was barred. She tried the tire iron on the door. It didn't budge.

She shook her head. No way she was getting through it. She pulled out her CDC-LED badge and identification and marched out of the alley and along the side of the bar toward the cruiser. She stepped off the curb and went around the back of the car. She rapped on the driver's glass and leaned down.

The cruiser was empty. The dash-mounted lamp burned brightly; a Dean Koontz novel lay tented on the bench seat. But no cop. She stood and looked over the roof at the bar. She noticed its open front door. Just then, the windows flashed with light, and the peal of three rapid gunshots ripped into the night.

She ducked and withdrew her pistol. In the field, she kept a round chambered, saving the extra second it would take to pull the slide in an emergency. Still, she double-checked by pulling back on the slide a half inch. The brass casing of a .45-caliber bullet sparkled as it caught the streetlamp's glow. She lowered the gun to her side and pulled back on the hammer with her thumb.

She'd detected no impacts to the cruiser, so unless the shooter was an atrociously bad aim, the shots were not meant for her. She rushed to the door and slammed her back against the brick between the door and the huge front window. She threw her head around to look in the door and pulled it back in one quick motion. At the rear of the customer area the office door was half open. Weak light spilled out into the bar. Silhouettes of halogen lamps on tripods, left by the crime-scene techs. Had she noticed movement? She couldn't be sure. She looked again. Saw nothing.

Arms locked straight before her, pistol at chin-level, she swung around and stepped through the door. She panned her pistol to the right, toward the phone booth. Nothing. Back toward the rear of the bar. She smelled perspiration, her own, and the faint odor of blood and the much sharper tang of cordite. Now she saw the smoke, drifting lazily in the scant light from the office. She took another step. So dark.

She stopped at the edge of the bar counter, leaned over. The darkness was complete: she could be looking right at someone hiding down there and not know it. She didn't have a flashlight. She didn't want to turn on the bar lights—even if she did know where the switch was located.