After Death(80)

“It’s about your neighbor, the property with the big gate.”

“You’re an agency man, though I can’t figure which agency.”

With his left hand, Calaphas produces his ID wallet, flips it open, displays the badge card. “ISA. National security matter.”

“All right. Then you don’t need a gun with me.”

“You’re wondering if the ID is fake. It’s not.”

“I’ll take you at your word.”

Putting the wallet away, Calaphas says, “You’ve spent a career taking no one at his word. It’s how you were trained. As I was.”

“I’m retired now.”

“But still the same man,” Calaphas says. “With all due respect, this situation is too pressing to risk you taking the gun away from me and throwing a wrench into the operation. Minutes matter.”

“Call in your partner. I’m an old guy, can’t take two of you.”

Instead of answering, Calaphas says, “Who lives next door?”

“You must have access to anything you want to know. Agencies do. You don’t need me.”

“Unfortunately, I do. Urgently. It’s a very special situation. National security still matters to you, doesn’t it?”

“Of course.”

“So who lives over there?”

“Sanjay Chandra and his wife own the property, but they don’t live there yet. It’s a short-term, luxury vacation rental until they’re ready to renovate it.”

“Somebody’s renting it now?”

“I don’t think so. But I wouldn’t know for sure.”

“Household staff?”

“Yes, staff takes care of renters when anyone’s in residence.”

“He wouldn’t want staff, people knowing he was there.”

“Who wouldn’t?”

“Just thinking out loud.”

As if it is the most natural thing to do, Vincent takes his legs off the footstool.

“Put them back,” Calaphas says, gesturing with the pistol.

Vincent obeys, but there’s a new tension in his body.

“You’re thinking too much,” Calaphas says. “Help me, and you might even get a commendation from the president.”

Vincent says nothing.

“They have dogs over there? Guard dogs?”

“I never hear any barking.”

“That’s a politician’s answer.”

“I’m not trying to mislead you. As far as I know, there aren’t any dogs, guard dogs or pets.”

The tension is in Vincent’s eyes now, too, a dire conviction.

“I’m curious,” Calaphas says. “What just changed?”

“You’re after a fugitive.”

“So?”

“If it’s a national security matter, you’d have a team here. Not just a partner. A team.”

“I do. They’re watching the place next door.”

“I’d love that to be true. You’re agency, but you’ve gone rogue. You’re on a personal vendetta. Or you’ve sold out.” He carefully sets the book on the table beside his chair, resigned to his own fate. “When you’re done with me, you don’t need Colleen.”

“She could come down and find you, call the police, suddenly the night is full of sirens. I lose the element of surprise with my target.”

“She’s gone to bed. Reading until she can sleep. She never comes down after she’s gone to bed.”

Calaphas studies him. “I think you’re telling the truth.”

“I am. She won’t be down until morning, hours from now.”

“You’re a man of honor.”

“The house is well insulated. Sound doesn’t travel well room to room, floor to floor. If that’s an effective sound suppressor on your piece, she won’t hear anything.”

“It’s the best. One question. A career in service, how did you afford a house like this?”

“I married well, in every sense of the word.”

“Married into money.”

“We were both twenty-three. She gave up a lot to be a Navy wife. She’s a wonderful woman, a fine person.”

“Then I’ll take a chance with her.”

“Will you?”

“I don’t enjoy this.”

“Who would?” Vincent says.

“She’ll live to mourn you. I’m not a man of honor,” Calaphas says, “but I’ll keep this promise.”

“You could trust me, too.”

“The problem with that is, I wasn’t blowing smoke. Seems clear to me you are a man of honor.”

“Life matters more than honor.”

“To most people. Not to you. It’s not everything to you, but it’s something. Is that true or is it true?”

With a small sound that’s almost an ironic laugh, Vincent says, “True.”

Raising the pistol, Calaphas steps farther into the room. He squeezes the trigger twice. One round point-blank in the chest. The other in the head. The reports are like two coughs by an end-stage tuberculosis patient who lacks sufficient breath to make more than the smallest, most discreet of sounds.