He drew in a shaky breath. “Shit, shit, shit. And you’re sure you’re okay?”
“For now.”
“And Sweeney and Nielssen?”
“Sweeney is leaking blood into Jackson Square and Nielssen couldn’t find his ass with both hands and Google Maps. We’re fine.”
He laughed, but it was small and forced. “So, I guess Sweeney was your little bird?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “That won’t be the end of it, you know. They’ll keep sending people until someone succeeds. They won’t stop, Billie. Not until they eliminate all four of you. You have to know that.”
“So it’s either us or them is what you’re saying.”
“No,” he replied, his voice grave. “I’m saying it’s them. I know the Museum isn’t what it used to be, but it’s still an elite organization. They know what they’re doing, Billie. And there are only four of you. Without resources.”
“Well, it sounds less than ideal when you put it that way,” I said.
He sniffed hard. “Billie—”
“It’s okay, kid,” I said. “This is where I say it’s been nice knowing you and you tell me that you can’t risk talking to me again because they’ll come after you too.” I rattled off a number. “That’s an answering service I use for emergencies.” Not so much an answering service as Max, a phone sex operator in Scottsdale who was happy to collect a little extra money just for letting me have the occasional use of one of her lines. “If you ever need to get in touch, leave a message at that number. I’ll call in once a week, okay?”
I heard a noise like a sigh down the line, and I didn’t know if he took the number or not. “Good-bye, Martin. Thanks for everything.” Before he could answer, I hung up the burner phone. I told the others what he’d said—and more importantly, what he hadn’t.
“So we don’t know who put together the dossier on our ‘activities,’？” said Natalie, making air quotes with her fingers.
“Nope,” I replied. “And we don’t know why the board has gone so hard, so fast.”
“What do you mean?” Helen had been sitting quietly, hands tucked between her knees, but she stirred to life to ask the question.
“I mean, a kill order is extreme. Why not haul us in to question us? Or send someone else to do it?”
“The Museum is an international organization of assassins,” Mary Alice put in dryly. “They’re not exactly known for giving people the benefit of the doubt.”
“Of course they do,” Natalie said. “Nobody is targeted without extensive research from the Provenance team. Months, sometimes years of surveillance and intelligence work go into each hit. But somebody gives them a piece of paper saying, ‘Oh, the old bitches aren’t playing nice,’ and suddenly they put us in the crosshairs? That’s insane.”
“It does seem a little premature,” Helen agreed. “They might have done as Billie suggested and at least asked us.”
“Because we’d just roll over and tell them if we were on the take?” Mary Alice was skeptical. She turned to me. “Call Naomi.”
“She’s Provenance,” Natalie protested. “For all we know, she’s the source of the dossier.”
“Martin doesn’t think so,” I said, putting out my hand for Helen’s address book. I punched in the number and waited.
“Ndiaye.” The voice that answered was clipped and none too friendly. I identified myself and waited. A TV was playing in the background and I heard theremin music.
“Is that Midsomer Murders?” I asked politely. “Old Barnaby or new?”
“New,” she said shortly. “You watch English murder shows?”
“Well, sometimes I need inspiration for work,” I said. “I’m pretty pissed they thought of using a wheel of cheese to kill somebody before I did.” She didn’t laugh, and any thought I had of bonding with her over cozy village homicide fell flat.
“Why are you calling me?”
“Because I need some information and you’re the only person I can ask,” I said.
“I am not having this conversation,” she said. But I could hear the episode still playing in the background. She hadn’t hung up yet, which meant she was listening.
“Naomi, I know there’s a dossier on us and I have a good idea what it says. I just want to know why the board decided that was worth a kill order instead of bringing us in alive for questioning.”