In a coy invitation, she put a hand on his lapel. He tolerated it,

knowing he would burn the suit. "We'll conduct business anywhere you

like. But let's get it done."

"You always were in a hurry." She started up, mammoth hips swaying. He

watched her, seeing the way her hand gripped tight to the banister,

hearing her breath puffing. One push, he considered, and she'd go

tumbling down. No one would question it as anything but an accident. He

nearly reached out, nearly touched her. Then he steadied himselL He had

a better way. A surer way.

"Here we are, dear." Red-faced and wheezing, she dropped on the bed.

"Name your poison."

The stench almost gagged him. The room was lit by a single lamp, and in

the shadows he could see tangles of dirty clothes and dishes, empty

cartons and cans and bottles. A fetid odor hung in the room, like the

cobwebs in the corners. He could almost see it as he breathed slowly,

between his teeth.

"I'll pa.s.s on the drink." He was careful not to touch anything. Not

just because of fingerprints now, but from fear of soiling himself "Suit

yourself. What have you brought me?"

He set the briefcase beside her. He would burn that as well. He spun

the combination then flipped the lid. "It's part of the money."

"I told you-"

"It's impossible to raise a million in cash overnight. You'll have to

be patient." He turned the case toward her. "But I brought you

something else, to tide you over. A sign of good faith."

She saw the bag, plump with white powder on the neat stack of bills. Her

heart began to race unsteadily, her mouth filled with saliva. "That's a

pretty sight."

Before she could s.n.a.t.c.h it up, he moved the case out of reach. "Now

who's in a hurry?" He enjoyed taunting her. He could see the fine sweat

popping out on her face, dribbling down her jowls. He'd dealt with

junkies before, and knew just how to handle them. "It's topgrade

heroin, the best money can buy. One shot of this and you'll go straight

to heaven." Or h.e.l.l, he thought, if one believed in such things. "You

can have it, Jane. All of it. But you've got to give me something

back."

Her heart was a trip-hammer in her breast, making her short of breath

and giddy. "What do you want?"

"The letter. You give me the letter, and another few days to raise the

rest of the money, and the smack is all yours."

"The letter?" She had forgotten about it. All she could do was stare at

the bag of white powder and imagine what it would be like to have it

swimming in her veins. "There isn't any letter. I didn't write a

letter." Insurance, she remembered, and sent him a sly glance. "Yet. I

didn't write it yet. But I will. Let me have a hit, then we'll talk."

"Talk first." Oh, it would be a pleasure to kill her, he thought as he

studied the flecks of spittle on her mouth. The boy had been an

accident, a tragic one, and one he sincerely regretted. He wasn't a

violent man, never had been. But it would have given him enormous

satisfaction to have choked the life from Jane Palmer with his own