“Leave her alone,” Rachael shouted as she struggled to sit up. “Don’t, Quincy.”

Laurel stared down at her. “You didn’t drown. Perky showed me the nice stout ropes, the block of concrete, and yet you still managed to get free, even full of those barbiturates. Imagine Quincy’s surprise when he went to the senator’s house to make certain everything was set. Pity he didn’t have time to get to you before you drove off.”

“I guess you and Perky screwed up, or whichever one of you was with her at Black Rock Lake. But it didn’t matter much, did it?” Rachael said. “You found me fast enough.”

“It took a bit of research to turn up that backwoods town Parlow, but you managed to survive that, too,” Laurel said.

It was difficult to be conciliatory—no, it was impossible. Rachael was filled to overflowing with hatred. She looked up at Laurel, her coarse hair haloed in the light. “Greg Nichols didn’t survive. You appear to be getting better at poisoning people.”

Quincy kicked her in the ribs.

Rachael saw Cullifer move back to stand in the doorway. Was he afraid of what he’d done?

Laurel dropped to her knees beside Rachael, grabbed her by her long hair, wrapped it around her fist, and jerked her head up. “How did you get out of Black Rock Lake? All of us were surprised, particularly Stefanos and Perky, who were sure you were dead.”

Why not tell her? It didn’t matter. “Stefanos and Perky didn’t tie my wrists, only wrapped the rope around my chest. And they didn’t bother to check me out, Laurel. I was awake, and I can hold my breath for a good long time.”

Laurel reared back a bit, and a hank of hair fell alongside her cheek. She brushed it back, shook her head. “Bad luck, it was just bad luck.”

“And bad luck that some of the assassins you sent after me are dead, and the others are headed straight to jail, once they get out of the hospital. I don’t think I’d want to work for you, Laurel, even with a good life insurance plan.”

Laurel struck Rachael across the mouth. She felt her lip split, felt the blood well up and dribble down her chin.

Laurel screamed at her, “Shut up! Now, you look at me, you miserable whelp. Damn you, you look like the senator, don’t you? How he loved that stupid braid you wear. It makes you look like a teenage hooker.” She shoved Rachael onto her back, and rose.

Stefanos closed his hand over her shoulder. His voice softened. “Don’t let her get to you, Laurel. It’s all right. We won’t have to worry about her any longer. Her luck’s finally run out.”

Sherlock’s cell vibrated in her jacket pocket. She tensed, but managed not to move. If there was only some way she could open her cell phone, but she couldn’t. Not yet. Was it Dillon? Had he tried before, while she was unconscious? If he did, he had to be worried.

“You might as well drag them into the living room, Stef, get ready to go. Quincy, make sure the windows are shut and the drapes pulled.”

Quincy asked, his voice contemptuous, “Tell me, Stefanos, when did you last use this hidden bordello of yours?”

Stefanos said, sounding amused, “A good week now, Quincy, a good week. You know you love the decor, don’t be shy about it.”

Being dragged about thirty feet into the living room hurt, but that was all right; it wasn’t as bad as the alternative. Rachael’s stomach ached from the blow from Quincy’s foot. She looked over at Sherlock, who lay on her back, her eyes closed, and, it seemed to Rachael, barely breathing. Then Sherlock’s eyes opened and she blinked in the bright light. They weren’t at Cullifer’s office or at his house. They were in a bungalow that indeed resembled a bordello, just as Quincy had said—Stefanos Kostas’s hideaway for his many mistresses?

The living room walls were covered with flocked red velvet wallpaper, gold brocade draperies over the window. They were lying on a Persian carpet beside four chaise longues and large deep chairs.

It was tacky, Rachael thought, and called out, “I’m very thirsty. Could I have some water, please?”

She was ignored.

Sherlock said, “You poisoned Greg Nichols, didn’t you? You didn’t trust him anymore?”

Stefanos threw back his head and laughed. “You were awake the whole time we were talking, weren’t you? Well, it doesn’t matter. Actually, Nichols planned how to kill his boss. He approached us to talk about the senator. He was more than willing to buy in since he didn’t want to go to jail with the senator, have his own life ruined. I went along for the ride since Nichols already knew everything he had to do to make it look like an accident. Then the fool lost it after you and Agent Crowne went to see him, Rachael. You must have really scared him. He whined how everything was crashing down, and he knew we were all going to jail. He wanted to leave town. He wanted money, can you believe that? Well, he left town all right, didn’t he?”

Laurel walked to her husband, put her arms around him, and kissed his cheek. “That was well done, Stef.”

Stef? Laurel called her philandering husband Stef?

His arms went around her. “It will be all right, matia mou,” Stefanos said, and kissed her hair. “I always snip loose threads.”

“And why not?” Laurel said, eyeing both of them impartially. “Does everyone agree? We can’t have an FBI agent disappear. Agent Savich would never let that go, never. It would have been hard enough to have Rachael disappear. Our only choice now is an auto accident, fitting, I think, particularly for Rachael.”

Quincy nodded.

Stefanos stepped away from his wife and pulled a small blunt-nosed .38 from his jacket pocket. “Ladies, we will untie your feet. You will stand up and we will go out to Agent Sherlock’s car. You needn’t concern yourselves about anything else.” He turned to his wife. “I believe we’ll drive to those cliffs near where Rachael’s father died. There’s never much traffic there, even this time of day.”

“Yes, that’s good. Let Brady help,” Laurel said.

Quincy said, “Brady must have slipped out, the puking little coward.”

“No matter,” Stefanos said, and smiled at Rachael and Sherlock. “We don’t have to worry about Brady. He has a very strong sense of self-preservation.”

SIXTY

Dillon shut MAX’s top and rose. He said, “Excuse me, sir, but Agent Crowne and I have to go. There’s trouble.”