onto the iron rail. Tate is Tate. The job is the job. Girl already out of his mind, he crumples the paper into a tight wad in his fist, tosses it off the balcony and watches it tumble all the way to the sea. Ten minutes later he's dressed and on his way.
At LAX a pool car waits—ugly, gray, smelling of smoke. Duffel in the trunk—vest, gun, spare strips of .44. On the front seat a file folder. Cruising down out of the parking garage, radials complaining, he opens the file in his lap while slipping conical AP rounds into the Smith. Governor's daughter, seven years old, didn't make it home from her bus stop. Gone twenty-four, no....
He glances at his watch, does some subtraction.
Thirty-six hours. Not good.
Steering with his knee, he turns the page. Holo of her posed with the family. Kat's her name. Nice looking kid, nice eyes—smart, sensitive. Not smiling. Threading the concrete loop down to the street, rubber screaming, he smiles, thinking about how much guts it must have taken her to deadpan a publicity shot. Must be tough. This kid he likes. Now someone's got her. Someone who shouldn't.
Karl hops onto the Long Beach, and straight out to the Governor's home to see the friend who saw her last. The governor's wife, Adriana Velasquez, good looking woman, used to be a crooner, lets him in without a word, face held together by power of will. Suit with spooky eyes sticking close behind her, she leads him past a room filled with idling FBI, tension puckering like yesterday's egg white. The looks he gets are cold enough to condense the moisture in the air. Not that this surprises him.
Catching sight of him, an agent he's crossed paths with before, big guy named Peters, steps in front of him. "What the hell you doing here?"
Ahead, the govornor's wife, waits.
Karl doesn't like this guy, never has. "My job."
"You want to help, why don't you just stay the hell out of the goddam way?"
"That's a good idea, now if you'll get out of mine, I'll do just that."
Peters moves close, wetting his lips, "Why don't we just step out in the garage for a minute, huh? I've got something I'd like to show you."
Karl feels heat rise up his neck to his face t
At LAX a pool car waits—ugly, gray, smelling of smoke. Duffel in the trunk—vest, gun, spare strips of .44. On the front seat a file folder. Cruising down out of the parking garage, radials complaining, he opens the file in his lap while slipping conical AP rounds into the Smith. Governor's daughter, seven years old, didn't make it home from her bus stop. Gone twenty-four, no....
He glances at his watch, does some subtraction.
Thirty-six hours. Not good.
Steering with his knee, he turns the page. Holo of her posed with the family. Kat's her name. Nice looking kid, nice eyes—smart, sensitive. Not smiling. Threading the concrete loop down to the street, rubber screaming, he smiles, thinking about how much guts it must have taken her to deadpan a publicity shot. Must be tough. This kid he likes. Now someone's got her. Someone who shouldn't.
Karl hops onto the Long Beach, and straight out to the Governor's home to see the friend who saw her last. The governor's wife, Adriana Velasquez, good looking woman, used to be a crooner, lets him in without a word, face held together by power of will. Suit with spooky eyes sticking close behind her, she leads him past a room filled with idling FBI, tension puckering like yesterday's egg white. The looks he gets are cold enough to condense the moisture in the air. Not that this surprises him.
Catching sight of him, an agent he's crossed paths with before, big guy named Peters, steps in front of him. "What the hell you doing here?"
Ahead, the govornor's wife, waits.
Karl doesn't like this guy, never has. "My job."
"You want to help, why don't you just stay the hell out of the goddam way?"
"That's a good idea, now if you'll get out of mine, I'll do just that."
Peters moves close, wetting his lips, "Why don't we just step out in the garage for a minute, huh? I've got something I'd like to show you."
Karl feels heat rise up his neck to his face t