Walter grabbed her wrist. “Wait.”

  This was enough to push her over the edge. Her entire body grew rigid. “Let go. I don’t want to make a scene, but I will.”

  He quickly released her, but the damage was done. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to do that. It’s just…it’s important I talk to her.”

  A soft vibration came from Willow’s purse. She glanced inside at the display of a pager, then stood. “If you call back, they’ll send someone else. I don’t know what else to tell you. I need to go.” The smile returned again. “It was an absolute pleasure meeting you, Walter.”

  Then she was gone. Walter watched her walk out of the bar and into the lobby toward the Huntley’s main entrance.

  Walter snapped his fingers at the bartender and got to his feet. “Plastic bag, now.”

  The man’s brow furrowed. “What?”

  Walter took out his badge and showed it to him. “I need a plastic bag. Hurry, damn it!”

  The bartender searched under the counter and came up with a baggie. Walter snatched it from his hand, dumped the rest of Willow’s drink, and placed the empty glass inside. He tossed several bills on the bar before running after her.

  He spotted her outside on a pay phone about a hundred feet down the sidewalk.

  He ducked into the alcove of an electronics store before she saw him, waited for her to hang up, then followed as she continued down the block at a brisk pace.

  She turned the corner on Ambrose, and Walter watched her go into the Grainger Hotel—a little less pricey than the Huntley, but still one of the city’s best.

  Walter went into a sandwich shop across the street and sat at a table near the window.

  She didn’t come back out until nearly midnight.

  When she did, Walter followed again. She walked four blocks to a club called Dreamers, where the bouncer quickly ushered her inside despite the line.

  Walter stashed the bagged glass in some bushes at the corner of the parking lot, then flashed his badge at the door to bypass the line and duck into the smoky club behind her. He waited for his eyes to adjust to the lights, a mix of colored spots and lasers, all pulsing in time with the steady beat of some dance track. At first, he thought he’d lost Willow in the thick crowd. Maybe she’d somehow doubled back or slipped out another door. Then he saw her.

  Willow was on the dance floor with the girl Michael Driscoll knew as Amelia Dyer.

  The girl he knew as Amy Archer.

  Her.

  NOW

  Chapter

  22

  The salt truck pushed aside two other patrol cruisers, missed the valet stand by less than a foot, then rounded the other side of the club down an access road with another gun of the engine. The front of the plow caught several trash cans and pushed them along as if they were nothing. Salt continued to spray everything from the back, leaving a thick swath of white.

  Rigby took several steps toward it, then shouted, “Somebody stop that asshole!”

  A uniformed officer near the alley started to round the side of his patrol car, and two quick shots echoed—one struck the car’s side mirror; the other hit the pavement directly in his path. He jumped back behind the car.

  Rigby’s head swiveled toward the building behind her and looked up. She glared at the roof like a hawk.

  Goddamnit, Red, Walter thought. I hope you’re shuffling around up there. Just because we tell them they can’t move on you doesn’t mean they won’t.

  They were working on it. A spotter had set up shop behind the SWAT van, and he was systematically scanning the rooflines and windows of all buildings with line of sight through a pair of high-powered binoculars. No doubt triangulating shots and isolating positions. Walter was under no illusion they had some kind of upper hand here. At best, they’d bought a little time. In a room not too far away, people much smarter than him were no doubt busy spitballing ways to end this before it got much further along. Walter had spent a good chunk of his life in rooms like that.

  The salt truck vanished from sight, and Rigby looked back in the direction it had gone. They could still hear it. She seemed to be trying to piece together the why of it all. Walter knew she wouldn’t. When it rounded the front of the club on its second pass, another officer started to run toward the cab. Another shot stopped him and sent him back to cover.

  “The truck is off-limits,” Walter told Rigby. “You need to focus.”

  “How do I know the bomb is real?”

  “You’ll get that answer soon enough.”

  “What kind of bomb is it?”

  Walter said nothing.

  “You need to give me something.”

  “No. I don’t.”

  “Who is she to you? This woman?”

  Again, Walter fell silent.

  “Do you have an ID?”

  “No ID.”

  “What does she look like?”

  “I can’t tell you that.”

  “How old is she?”

  “I can’t tell you that, either.”

  With each question, Rigby became more puzzled. “Because you don’t want to, or because you don’t know?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s not an answer.”

  She’s the most beautiful woman you’ve ever seen, Walter thought. She’s also a fucking monster.

  He shrugged and eyed the front of the club. “That bouncer can leave. At this point, he’s just in the way.”

  Rigby didn’t move, only stared at Walter. “Just like that?”

  “Get him out of there before I change my mind.”

  Red’s voice crackled in his earbud. “What if she touched him, Walter? We don’t know she didn’t. Just ’cause he’s outside?”

  Walter didn’t reply to that.

  Rigby was wearing a bone conduction microphone at the base of her throat. She pressed a finger to the Transmit button and spoke softly.

  A moment later, two officers darted out and ducked behind the valet station, got on either side of the bouncer, and rushed the large man back behind the barricade. It was over in less than thirty seconds.

  “Thank you for that,” Rigby said, and she actually sounded sincere. “Can we talk about everyone else?”

  “Nothing to talk about.”

  “You’re looking for a woman,” Rigby replied. “Let me get the men out. They’re just in the way, too, right?”

  “No.”

  “You think she’d try to slip out with them?”

  Walter nearly laughed. “Nobody’s mistaking her for a man.”

  “Then why not? Show some goodwill. It will buy you more time. If you don’t know who she is or what she looks like, how do you expect anyone to identify her?”

  “She’ll contact me.”

  “Why would she do that?”

  “Because she can’t help herself.” Walter looked at his watch. “You have forty-seven minutes left. Nobody’s looking to buy time. If I thought—”

  He coughed again. This time, it lasted for nearly three minutes. When it finally ended, he wiped the blood from his mouth, making no effort to hide it.

  “Go ahead and work into whatever profile you’re building that a dying man has nothing to lose,” he told her. “Remember that.”

  Reaching between the folds of his heavy vest, Walter took out a small USB drive and tossed it to the commander.

  Rigby caught it with one hand. “What’s on here?”

  “Regrets.”

  Chapter

  23

  Amy Archer danced with her back pressed against Willow’s chest, their arms and fingers twisted together at their sides, moving together more as one than two individuals. Both girls laughed and stomped their feet playfully in time with the music, some song by the Clash.

  Any doubts Walter harbored about whom he’d seen the other night vanished. His mind was clear now, and he was certain it was her. This was the girl who’d escaped his custody six years ago. Her face was etched in his mind, and she hadn’t aged a day. She was a couple of inches shorter than Willow, and at times the taller girl seemed to envelop her, fold around her. Walter wondered if the two of them were lovers. There was an intimacy in the way they touched each other, something beyond just two friends dancing together. A knowledge. A familiarity. As several men approached, no doubt trying to cut in, they simply laughed them off and moved away. Whatever the men said, they’d clearly heard it all before.

  The Clash transitioned to Laura Branigan, and Walter pushed through the crowd toward the bar, careful not to lose sight of the women.

  He needed a plan, and he didn’t have one.

  If Amy saw him, recognized him, she’d run. Finding her twice in three nights had been a combination of police work and dumb luck, and he was under no illusion that he could track her down a third time if she didn’t want to be found.

  “What can I get you?” the bartender half shouted over the music.

  “Water,” Walter told him. “And I need to use your phone.”

  The bartender sloshed a glass of water in front of him and nodded toward the entrance. “Bar phone is for employees. Barstools are for booze. Pay phones are out front. Take your water with you.”

  Walter tugged out his badge and showed it to him quickly. “Phone. Now.”

  With a roll of his eyes, the bartender retrieved the phone from a shelf near the register, trailed the cord out behind him, and set it on the bar. “Make it fast. I don’t want people to get the wrong idea.”

  Walter ignored him and dialed.

  He pressed the receiver against one ear and covered the other with his free hand.

  The line rang six times before Nadler picked up, his voice groggy. “What?”

  “I found her,” Walter told him, squeezing his hand tighter against his ear, trying to block out the pounding music.

  “I can’t hear you. Who is this?”

  “It’s O’Brien,” he said, louder. “I found her.”

  “O’Brien? Do you know what time it is? Found who?”

  “Archer. Amy Archer.”

  His old partner went quiet.

  “She’s at a club downtown.”

  Nadler still didn’t reply. Not at first. When he finally did, he let out a long sigh. “Are you sure? Remember last time?”

  Walter did remember last time. That had been a mistake, but he was sure this time. “I’ve got her under surveillance right now. She’s dancing with some other girl. I need backup. I don’t think I should try to bring her in alone. It would be too easy for her to get away in a crowd like this. We need to block the doors, box her in, then drive her out where we can take her into custody safely. If she gets wind that we’re onto her, she’ll run again. You know she will.”

  “You’re at a club?”

  “Yeah, place called Dreamers, downtown. Off Murdock. Can you get down here?”

  Again, Nadler said nothing.

  “Herb? You still there?”

  “Have you been drinking?”

  Walter swore under his breath. “I had two beers.”

  He shouldn’t have said that. How many times had he and Nadler gone out on calls for domestics and found some drunk who insisted they’d only had two drinks? Everyone said two. They knew nobody would believe them if they said one, and three meant you were drunk, so two. Always two. “I’m not—”

  “Go home, Walter,” Nadler interrupted. “Let it go.”

  “Look, I saw the report—Weeden screwed up the description. That’s probably why nobody’s found her all these years. It’s Amy Archer. I’m sure of it.”

  “Go home.”

  Walter started to argue and heard a dial tone. Nadler had hung up.

  He slammed the receiver down and felt a hand on his arm. He turned to find Willow standing there with a scowl on her pretty face, all pretense of civility gone now that she was off the clock. “What the hell are you doing here? Are you following me?”

  The bartender reached for the phone. “Done?”

  Walter reluctantly nodded and slid it back to him.

  Willow tugged on Walter’s shirt and turned him around. She was a lot stronger than she looked. “Why the hell are you following me?”

  “Whoa, calm down. It’s not what you think.”

  “No? I bet it’s exactly what I think,” she fired back. “I think you’re some low-life piece-of-shit scumbag who didn’t get what he wanted a few hours ago and figured he’d wait to catch me alone and take it for free. I should charge you just for wasting my time earlier. What was your name again? Walter? Maybe I should call my boss, Walter. Tell him where we are and let him explain the rules to you. Him and a few of his friends.”

  She looked like she was a second away from throwing a punch.

  “How about both of you calm down?” the bartender said. He took out two shot glasses, placed them on the bar, and filled them with vodka, lime juice, and something orange. “Two kamikazes on the house. One for the lady, one for our cop friend.”

  This took a second to sink in. Willow’s body stiffened. “You’re a cop?”

  Walter nodded, picked up both drinks, and handed one to her. “Truce?”

  She didn’t move.

  “Look, I’m not on the job right now.”

  One shot would not kill him, especially if he could use it to take control of this situation without creating a scene. “If I lied to you, it would be entrapment and I’m sure as shit not allowed to drink on the job.” He raised the glass to his mouth and swallowed the shot in a single gulp. It burned on the way down, warming his throat and stomach. The drink felt better than he cared to admit.

  Walter set the empty down on the bar and nodded toward Amy, who was still out on the floor dancing, her eyes closed and her head tilted back. “I just want to talk to her. That’s all.”

  Willow drank the second shot, shivered, and placed her glass on the bar next to his, bottom side up. “Why?”

  “I know her, from way back. It’s been a while. She may not recognize me. I assume the two of you have the same…employer.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “That’s who you were looking for earlier? What did you call her?”

  “Amelia. Amelia Dyer.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I know that’s not her real name,” Walter explained, eyeing the front entrance. If Amy ran, he was confident he could get there first. “I’m not interested in any of that. I don’t care what either of you do for a living. A couple questions, and I’ll leave you alone, I promise. I just want to know she’s all right.”

  If Willow drew her over, at least got her closer, she was less likely to vanish in the crowd. He should have brought his handcuffs, some way to subdue her.

  The bartender refilled both shot glasses and added a third.

  Without looking at him, Willow said, “She doesn’t drink.”

  The bartender shrugged. “I don’t care who drinks it; I just want all of you to take this away from my bar.”

  Amy was still dancing, her back to them now. Several guys had crowded around her, and although she ignored them, they obscured Walter’s view.

  Willow picked up one of the shots and drank it down. “Give me a second.”

  Before he could reply, she started working her way back through the crowd.

  From the booming speakers, a rumbling bass line vibrated Walter’s teeth.

  The bartender pushed the two remaining shots toward him. “Drink them, or I’m dumping them out.”

  Walter drank both. Why not. When he looked back, Willow was shouting into Amy’s ear and pointing directly at him.

  Chapter

  24

  Amy Archer faced Walter and squinted as a strobe light kicked in from above, harsh and bright, flickering several times per second and causing everyone to appear as if they were moving in slow motion. Her eyes locked with his, and Walter was certain she would run. Instead, she cupped her hand over Willow’s ear, told her something, then walked toward him.

  Whether it was the alcohol, the strobe, or both, Amy seemed to float as she approached, moving with the grace of a ghost in a dress made of a material so thin it was nearly translucent, the lines of her body clearly visible with the bright lights at her back.

  Willow remained out on the dance floor, but her eyes didn’t leave either of them. Hawklike, she glared at Walter with a nervous contempt, then at Amy with something that resembled worry.

  Walter took several steps in her direction and felt his body sway slightly from the shots. He should have stopped at one.

  Three meant you were drunk, so two. Always two.

  When Amy reached him, she leaned forward on her toes. Although her black heels added some height, she barely reached his chin. “Willow says I know you?”

  The scent that drifted up from her was sweet, floral. Not a perfume Walter recognized, but intoxicating. Lavender maybe? Although she had been out on the crowded dance floor since he arrived—and who knew how much longer before that—she wasn’t perspiring. Walter was. He could feel it at his temples, the back of his shirt.

  “It’s been a long time, Amy.”

  She seemed puzzled. The smile didn’t leave her face, but she looked confused.

  “You probably don’t recognize me without my uniform. It’s been a long time,” he repeated. “I’m a detective now.”

  “Uniform?” Still smiling, she shook her head. “I’m sorry, I don’t—”

  “You don’t have to pretend with me. It’s okay. I won’t turn you in. I’m just glad to see that you’re all right.” This wasn’t exactly true, but he wanted to disarm her. “I didn’t know where you went. I was worried. I’m glad to see you.”

  “Willow said you called the service looking for me?”

  “I’m sorry. I wasn’t sure what else to do. I got the number from Michael Driscoll, from…the other night. He said you told him your name was Amelia Dyer.” Walter waved a hand dismissively. “I get it, no real names. What should I call you?”

  Her head tilted slyly to the left. “What would you like to call me?”

  “Amy.”