House rules state that no one drives for ninety minutes after an injection and even then departure is contingent on a motor-skill examination that Dr. Mallory administers himself. Alex returns from the bathroom and discovers that Diane has somehow managed to leave early. The doctor catches him scanning the room and assumes he’s ready to go.
“Let’s get you on the road,” he says, leading Alex to the entryway. “Walk to me in a straight line, toe-to-toe.”
Alex takes pleasure in the roadside sobriety test and return of motor function. He passes with flying colors and says his goodbyes. A silver Accord is parked behind his car, and Diane leans against the driver’s door, bathed in the soft glow of a streetlight with a cigarette between her fingers. She blinks rapidly as he approaches, and Alex wonders if she’s fluttering her eyelashes flirtatiously or struggling to focus from the drug. He smiles at her as he fishes for his keys.
“You pass the test?” she asks.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I think I need a minute. I definitely need some air.”
She looks steady and collected, but Alex knows that looks can be deceiving. He’s staring at the smoke curling slowly from her cigarette when she says, “Is it bothering you?”
“Not at all.”
“Do you want one?”
“I’m okay, but thank you.”
“Smart. Your body is a temple.”
Alex smiles. “Just a tool. How do you know the Mallorys?”
“I catered their youngest daughter’s wedding. Alice and I go way back. You?”
“I got pretty banged up a few years ago and he knocked me out before they put me back together. We got to talking, became friends.”
“They’re one of my favorite couples. Maybe they’re onto something with that motorcycle helmet thing.”
“I’ve always wondered what they say to each other,” Alex says.
“Well, you’ve come to the right place. I asked Alice, because I’m nosy. They describe what they see to each other and eventually the images line up. They have the same hallucinations, the same visions. They get into each other’s heads.”
“That sounds pretty heavy,” Alex says.
“Only if you’re hiding something.”
“Who isn’t?”
“Me,” Diane says. “But I know what you mean. I saw some strange things tonight.”
“Me too,” Alex says. “How’d you end up here?”
“I told Alice I was feeling kind of stuck. She told me about this. What brings you here?”
“Decompression,” Alex says. “How do you feel now? Unstuck?”
“I don’t know what I’m feeling, to be honest with you. Sorry, this is driving me crazy—where do I know you from?”
“I don’t know,” Alex says.
“Do you live in Princeton?”
“New York, mostly. I have a place across the river in Bucks County.”
“I swear I’ve seen you somewhere.”
“I used to teach in Princeton on the weekends.”
“At the university?”
“No, the YMCA.”
“I swim there. Maybe that’s it. I didn’t catch your name.”
“I’m Alex. Nice to meet you. Or see you. It’s Diane, right?”
“It is. What did you teach at the Y?”
“Martial arts.”
“Stuff to use when strangers corner you while walking to your car?”
Alex laughs and studies her face. Does he recognize her or is it the power of suggestion?
“Don’t worry,” she says. “I won’t come any closer.”
“No?”
“Because I’m going back inside. I own the catering company and the market on Witherspoon. Come in sometime.”
As she crosses the lawn toward the house, he resists a strong urge to follow. Diane turns and waves to him from the doorstep, and Alex raises his right hand as she disappears inside.
Four
“Honey. Dave. David, wake up.” Angela Harris kicks her husband underneath the covers. “Dave, for chrissake.”
Agent Harris wakes up with a snort. “Hey, what is it?”
“Someone’s calling,” his wife says, covering her head with a pillow.
Harris clears his throat as he fumbles for the buzzing phone on his nightstand. 3:42 a.m. The call is from Ramirez.
“Hello?”
“Dave, it’s Hector.”
“Good morning.”
“Same to you. Narcotics brought in this Australian kid an hour ago. Tried to buy a kilo of blow for the low, low price of twenty grand from one of our guys.”
“Hang on a second,” Harris says as he walks into the hall. “Twenty grand is robbery, but why’d they bring you in?”
“This young man says he knows who hit the Wynn.”
“Did you tell him to take a number?”
“That’s exactly what I said when they woke me up. But guess where this kid works.”
“Tiffany?”
“Sin City Motorsports on I-15.”
“I’m not familiar.”
“It’s a racetrack by the Air Force Base. He’s an instructor. Teaches motorcycle racing.”
“Did someone run that down?”
“He’s all over their website. Kid was some kind of motocross champ back home.”
“And he’s saying what about the Wynn?”
“Nothing except that he wants to talk to whoever’s running the investigation, whoever can cut him a deal.”
“He won’t talk to you?”
“Said he knows the feds took this one.”
“Did he ask for a lawyer?”
“Not yet, no.”
“What’s your feeling?”
“He doesn’t seem to give a shit about the drug charge, I can tell you that. Must have something up his sleeve.”
Harris rubs his eyes and says, “I’ll be right there.”
By the time he gets down to the precinct, word is out, and every cop on duty is cruising by the interrogation room for a look at Craig Hollinger—a square-jawed, blue-eyed twenty-something in ripped jeans and a red Ducati tee shirt, his short blond hair slicked up into something like a shark fin. The left side of his face is scratched and swollen from a collision with the sidewalk on Freemont Street, Craig’s reward for ambitiously resisting arrest.
“All yours,” Ramirez says.
Harris downs the dregs of his coffee and straightens his tie before entering the room.
“Hi, Craig. I’m Agent Harris with the FBI. How are we this morning?”
“You’re on the Wynn case, yeah?”
“Correct.”
Craig pulls up the sleeve of his tee shirt to show off the deep gash in his shoulder, two stripes of swollen skin crisscrossed with stitches. Harris does not require further explanation. He’s watched the tape a hundred times.
“That’s who I am, mate,” Craig says. “I’ll take that lawyer now.”
Five
Rain from a late-morning shower steams off the streets as Diane turns onto the road that separates Princeton’s gated, Gothic campus from the quaint college town. She’s a fast but conscientious driver, signaling before every turn and lane change, never on her phone. She left home at 10:35 a.m., three hours after Alex parked across the street in a green Jeep Cherokee—his other car, the one she hasn’t seen—and listened to a biography of J. Edgar Hoover on CD. Her first stop was FedEx, followed by a nail salon. She’s headed south now, unaware that Alex has been no more than three cars behind her all day.