Not days. Years. Twelve long years.
Twelve years of pain and guilt about his marriage-about Sarah.
Twelve years of believing that Christopher Thomas might be a snake and a climber, but that he was also a murder victim.
Twelve years since his testimony sent Rosemary Thomas to her death for a murder that never happened.
Twelve years of letting things happen around him. Of drink and despair and weakness. Of second-guessing himself and squandering time. Passively watching the world go by and wishing it were different.
Years when Christopher Thomas lived his dream while Jon Nunn was trapped in the drabbest of nightmares.
And now, that it should all end here, in this hotel of all places. TROMPE L’OEIL the sign read. Trompe l’oeil, “tricks the eye,” if he remembered high school French.
Just fucking perfect.
Nunn flipped on the hazards, stepped out of the Mercedes. The valet made a move in his direction, but he shook his head. “I won’t be long.”
The lobby doors parted soundlessly, revealing a broad expanse of marble and subtle lighting. The air had the sweetness of a pear two days past perfection. The heels of his shoes clicked as he wove through brokers and lawyers and doctors in overstuffed chairs. The wall behind reception was lined with trees. Not until he was standing at the desk did he realize they had been painted on, the perspective rendered so carefully that it seemed he could reach out and touch them.
“Welcome to Trompe l’Oeil, sir. How may I help you?”
“I’m looking for someone. A guest.”
The woman-her name tag read CLAIRE-barely looked up from her keyboard. “What’s your party’s name, please.”
He grimaced, pulled the old photo out of his pocket. “This is him. Do you recognize him?”
“I’m sorry, what is this-”
“I’m a cop.” No reason to start playing by the rules now.
“Still, I’m sorry, but I can’t… I could call my manager, perhaps he-”
“Listen to me.” Nunn leaned into the counter. “This man is a killer. Get me? He’s dangerous. Please. Think. Have you seen him?”
Claire licked her lips nervously. “I don’t know.”
A muted boom. Somewhere indistinct. It wasn’t loud. The investment banker in the lobby bar didn’t stop running his game on the model, and she didn’t stop touching her hair and cocking her hips. Conversations continued, the low murmur of wealth and influence.
But Jon Nunn knew the sound, even through however many insulated floors.
The woman behind the counter said, “What is that? I heard it just a few minutes ago.”
He turned back to her. “Think. Have you seen him?”
“I-”
“Yes or no.”
“No.” Her voice strained.
“Anyone else?”
“What do you mean?”
“Is there anyone else who might have seen him?”
She shook her head. “Usually there are two of us, but Jonathan met this curly-haired boy, and I told him-” Claire shrugged. “Do you want me to call my manager at home?”
Nunn was already walking away. That noise had been gunfire, something with muscle, a.45 or even a.357. What was Thomas shooting at?
Not what. Who.
Nunn clenched and unclenched his fingers. Every instinct developed in a lifetime spent protecting people told him that Christopher Thomas was here. That he was armed. That he had probably just shot someone.
And none of it made any difference. What was he going to do, knock on doors? Call SWAT and cordon off the building? He wasn’t a cop anymore. He couldn’t call for help. Couldn’t explain what he was doing there or how he had gotten the information in the first place. Couldn’t flash the badge he didn’t have.
Besides, Peter Heusen had said that Christopher had had surgery. A brand-new face. There was no way to be sure Nunn would recognize him even if they passed in the hall.
Yes, you will. He can’t change the eyes. His arrogant, certain eyes, always the same across a dozen case-file photographs.
Nunn paced the lobby in short, angry laps, feeling time ticking away. There wasn’t time to delay, but there wasn’t time to make the wrong call, either.
Sure. Hesitate again. Just let it happen around you. Like you did for the last twelve years.
An expensively dressed blond guy was crossing the lobby towing two suitcases behind him. He was slender, and his walk was smug and swift, almost a sway.
Nunn broke into a sprint. He bolted between two leather chairs, leaped the outstretched legs of a man reading The Wall Street Journal. There was a shout from behind as he knocked over someone’s drink. Two more seconds brought Nunn up behind the blond, who started to turn. Nunn grabbed his shoulder, yanked him around, and cocked his right arm back.
A woman with boyishly close-cropped hair stared back at him, eyes wide and terrified, mouth falling open. “What the-”
Nunn held the punch he’d been about to throw. “I’m sorry, I thought-”
“Help!”
Shit.
He turned. Throughout the lobby, people were frozen. Staring. Nunn looked from one to the next. Behind the desk, Claire had a phone in one hand and was looking at him as she spoke. Calling the police?
A sudden sharp pain and a quick jerk of the world. He heard the slap after he felt it. The blond woman. She was winding up for another. He caught her arm. “Lady, listen-”
“Hey. Buddy. Back off.” The doorman, starting this way. Nunn looked around, saw that the lobby was back in motion, most of them coming toward him. The elevator on the near wall had opened, and the man inside hesitated, the scene not what he’d expected.
Nunn whirled from person to person. Everyone was staring at him. He had a flash of school-yard paranoia, the feeling of being singled out. “I’m a police officer,” he said, using his cop voice. “Everyone calm down.”
It was enough to freeze people. In that silence, across the span of marble and wealth, framed by gilded metal doors, Nunn saw them. Time seemed to stop.
Then, as Nunn pushed himself into motion, two things happened.
The elevator doors began to close.
And behind them, a stranger with Christopher Thomas’s eyes winked at him.
Well. That had been bracing. Peter must have given him up. Something to deal with later.
The moment the elevator doors opened on the parking garage, Christopher set off at a jog, dragging his suitcases behind, the wheels skittering and bouncing. The light was yellow and soulless. The Colt was heavy in his pocket.
Christopher didn’t know a great deal about cars, but beauty he knew, and his rented Aston Martin DB9 was beautiful. The woman who’d shown it had blathered about horsepower and V-12 engines and rack-and-pinion steering, and he’d just smiled and nodded and imagined bending her over the hood of it, fucking her with the engine throbbing beneath.
He beeped open the car, threw in the suitcases. Quickly now, quickly. Poor, broken Jon Nunn would be on his way. He cranked the engine, shifted into first, and sped toward the exit. The tires clung to the pavement. The car hummed with power. Christopher rounded the corner, turned up the ramp. All he had to do was get clear of the hotel. Let the ex-cop try to catch him in this-
Jon Nunn stood at the top, framed against the purple mist of a San Francisco night, a gun in one hand.
The car was silver and expensive and hurtling toward him.
His arm moved on its own, the gun lifting as though it were immune to gravity. Decades of habit had him sighting down it, his left hand coming over to steady the automatic, finger sliding inside the trigger guard as the car bore down.
You can do this. Just aim and squeeze and aim and squeeze. You’ll hit him, and then his car will hit you, and the two of you will go out together, and maybe that’s how it’s meant to be.