Cat In A Quicksilver Caper

“I was worried,” Gandolph said when Max came home in the wee hours to find the old man waiting up for him.

“That’s kind of nice,” Max said. He knew his smile was weary.

“It took longer than it should have.”

“I had a detour to make afterward. A personal detour.”

Garry Randolph, the man who had been the magician Gandolph the Great, let the graven lines of his sixty-something face lift. “That little redheaded girl you love.”

“She’s a blond these days, and I can’t afford to love anybody while I’m infiltrating the Synth.”

“They won’t like that you put the scepter back.”

“The deal was that I steal it and do with it what I please, giving them a cut of any profits. What I please is to restore it.”

“You’re trying to win them over.”

“Being a wimp won’t win them over. They’ll be pissed to see all that lovely money gone, but they’ll get that I’m my own man.”

“You did it for her. It was her show.”

“Garry, you have me cold. I did it for her. And it was a hell of a challenge to get it back in place again with all the extra security they have lined up now.”

“Yeah? How’d you manage it?”

“I could use a stiff drink and then I’ll tell you every little detail.”

“Not about your detour, though.”

“No. Not about my detour.”

Garry frowned at him, as he had years ago when Max—still numbed by the IRA-bomb death of his cousin Sean—had charged into some particularly dangerous situation abroad, He’d been so young—not even nineteen—and wounded, and wild. The perfect counterterrorism agent. He felt that same untamed urgency again, but not the energy. Not any of the energy at all anymore.

But he had to muster it again for one last personal appearance. Tomorrow.

Leaving Las Vegas

Carmen stopped dead in her tracks.

They hadn’t been very purposeful tracks, just the usual domestic homecoming shuffle at the end of a Friday while she totaled all the minor annoying weekend cleaning chores she had been neglecting.

She’d been thinking about something as mundane as washing down her kitchen cupboard doors—Mariah should help—when she realized that Max Kinsella had appeared in her living room not six feet away.

He was all in black—shoes, slacks, trench coat—more like encountering a life-size cutout of Keanu Reeves in The Matrix than a real person. No. Larger than life size. Certainly larger than Keanu Reeves. But he looked gaunt, maybe even worn, desperate.

It was enough to stop her heart. Did. For a beat or two.

She’d made a few collars in her day who’d been threatening and creepy. They were always loud and uncontrolled, flailing against their incarceration.

Kinsella was still free, quiet, and way too calm.

He watched her pull the Glock from the paddle holster at her rear right hip and aim it. The muzzle wavered between head and heart.

“I’m not armed, as usual,” he said, shrugging, “but don’t let that stop you. Maybe your ankle gun is a throwaway. You wipe it clean, paste it in my cold dead hand, and internal affairs goes far, far away.”

He was, what was the word? Disarming. Literally. Silver Irish tongue.

She wanted to check to see if her ankle holster showed or he had just guessed. She’d taken a wide, shooting stance the instant she saw him. Her pant leg could have outlined the gun’s shape.

That didn’t matter. She shrugged in turn, the only gesture she could make without losing the total control she had of the semiautomatic, and of the situation.

“Thanks for laying out the options. This is my home. I’m a police officer. You’re a suspect. A stalking suspect. You shouldn’t be here. I don’t need to salt a gun on your corpse. You’re dead either way.”

“Don’t I know it.”

“Me? You blame me for the hole you’re in?”

“Blame is too big a word. You’re a tool.”

It took a split second for her to hear the word as “tool” instead of “fool.”

“Oh, everybody’s after you.”

“Probably.” He smiled so faintly she wasn’t sure she’d seen it.

“Aren’t you special? Aren’t you important?”

“Apparently, you think so.”

“So. Why walk into the muzzle of a Glock?”

“I’m leaving Las Vegas. One way or the other. On your floor, or on a jet plane.”

“You leave? Give up the game? I don’t believe you. Why?”

“The only thing keeping me here has been lying in an evidence baggie in your desk drawer.”

The ring he’d given Temple Barr, later found at a murder scene. He was right. She regarded it as a personal trophy. And a clue.

He said, “Thought I’d give a word of warning before I go.”

“Shoot first?”

“Maybe. Matt told me about what has been happening to you. I just wanted to say . . .” He let the words hang in the air. “I didn’t do . . . this.” His arms lifted slightly to indicate her violated house.

Her trigger finger tautened at the motion. “Tell it to a jury.”

“Sorry. Can’t wait around. Unless it’s a grand jury, investigating my own shooting.”

“Open and shut. Trust me. I hate to play the gender card, but a male suspect stalking a female cop looks especially bad.”

“Fine. I didn’t do this.”