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  ALSO BY ED MCBAIN

  The 87th Precinct Novels

  Cop Hater • The Mugger • The Pusher (1956) The Con Man • Killer’s Choice (1957) Killer’s Payoff • Killer’s Wedge • Lady Killer (1958) ’Til Death • King’s Ransom (1959) Give the Boys a Great Big Hand • The Heckler • See Them Die (1960) Lady, Lady, I Did It! (1961) The Empty Hours • Like Love (1962) Ten Plus One (1963) Ax (1964) He Who Hesitates • Doll (1965) Eighty Million Eyes (1966) Fuzz (1968) Shotgun (1969) Jigsaw (1970) Hail, Hail, the Gang’s All Here (1971) Sadie When She Died • Let’s Hear It for the Deaf Man (1972) Hail to the Chief (1973) Bread (1974) Blood Relatives (1975) So Long As You Both Shall Live (1976) Long Time No See (1977) Calypso (1979) Ghosts (1980) Heat (1981) Ice (1983) Lightning (1984) Eight Black Horses (1985) Poison • Tricks (1987) Lullaby (1989) Vespers (1990) Widows (1991) Kiss (1992) Mischief (1993) And All Through the House (1994) Romance (1995) Nocturne (1997) The Big Bad City (1999) The Last Dance (2000)

  The Matthew Hope Novels

  Goldilocks (1978) Rumpelstiltskin (1981) Beauty and the Beast (1982) Jack and the Beanstalk (1984) Snow White and Rose Red (1985) Cinderella (1986) Puss in Boots (1987) The House That Jack Built (1988) Three Blind Mice (1990) Mary, Mary (1993) There Was a Little Girl (1994) Gladly the Cross-Eyed Bear (1996) The Last Best Hope (1998)

  Other Novels

  The Sentries (1965) Where There’s Smoke • Doors (1975) Guns (1976) Another Part of the City (1986) Downtown (1991) Driving Lessons (2000) Candyland (2001)

  SIMON & SCHUSTER

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  New York, NY 10020

  Visit us on the World Wide Web:

  http://www.SimonSays.com

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters,

  places, and incidents either are products of the

  author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any

  resemblance to actual events or locales or persons,

  living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2001 by Hui Corp.

  All rights reserved,

  including the right of reproduction

  in whole or in part in any form.

  SIMON& SCHUSTERand colophon are registered trademarks

  of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  ISBN 0-7432-1767-5

  This—as always and forever—is for my wife,

  Dragica Dimitrijevi -Hunter

  The city in these pages is imaginary.

  The people, the places are all fictitious.

  Only the police routine is based on established

  investigatory technique.

  1.

  THE TWO MEN ON THE NARROW DIRT STRIPwere both wearing white cotton pants and shirts. They stood beside the Piper Warrior III in broad daylight, waiting for Cass to hand over the locked aluminum suitcase. She gave it to the larger of the two men, and watched as they walked to a dark blue Mercedes-Benz glistening in the sun alongside the cornfield. The doors on either side slammed shut into the stillness, and then there was only the sound of insects racketing in the scraggly woods nearby.

  Today was Pearl Harbor Day, the seventh of December, though it didn’t much feel like it here in Guenerando, Mexico. Cass stood beside the airplane, sweating in the afternoon heat. She assumed there was money in the aluminum suitcase. She further assumed they were counting it over there in the Benz. She guessed that the cargo they’d be turning over in exchange for the money would be dope—either heroin or cocaine. She didn’t care much either way. She stood in the shade of a spindly eucalyptus for almost forty minutes. At last, the two men came out of the Benz and handed the aluminum suitcase back to her. The one with the mustache was grinning. He handed her a long white business envelope with a rubber band around it. The other one watched solemnly, expectantly.

  “Open it,por favor,” the one with the mustache said.

  She slipped the rubber band over her wrist, opened the envelope. There was a whole bunch of hundred-dollar bills in it.

  “Count them,” the serious one said.

  She counted them.

  There seemed to be ten thousand dollars in that envelope.

  “For me?” she asked.

  “Para ti,”the one with the mustache said.

  Damn if they weren’t tipping her!

  “Well thanks,” she said.“Muchas gracias.”

  “Muchas gracias,”the one with the mustache said, grinning.

  “Muchas gracias,”the other one said. He was grinning now, too.

  She couldn’t help grinning herself.

  THE BABOQUIVARI MOUNTAINS STRETCHEDnorthward to Kitt Peak. She flew low behind them. There was an anti-drug radar blimp in the sky over Fort Huachuca, but she had talked to other pilots who’d made the identical run dozens of times and who knew there was a so-called radar deficiency within plus-or-minus four degrees of the Kitt Peak Observatory. If she flew northward through “Gringo Pass,” as the security gap was called, she could avoid detection. Besides, she’d be on the ground again near Avra Valley in eighteen minutes, so even in the unlikely event that she did show up on radar, there wouldn’t be enough time for Customs planes to take off and chase her.

  She didn’t even know the last name of the man who was paying her $200,000 to do this little job for him, a quarter of it already in a bank account back East, where she’d rented an apartment within ten minutes of laying her hands on all that cash. She’d first met him in Eagle Branch, Texas, after one of her whistle-stop hops. What she did was fly light machinery, chickens in crates, melons, computer parts, sandals, what have you, all over Mexico in single-engine planes that were new when Zapata was still a boy. She’d occasionally been dating a Texas Ranger named Randolph Biggs, who made frequent trips to the Rio Grande where he helped the border patrol dissuade wetbacks from entering the sacred shores Cass had gone to the Persian Gulf to preserve and protect. In a bar one night, he’d introduced her to this guy named Frank. Kind of cute, but no last name. Just Frank. Frank’s enough, he’d told her. She wondered now how much Randy had got for introducing him to a good pilot willing to take risks.

  Instruments on the Warrior—such a mighty name for a single-engine light aircraft—were kindergarten compared to the Chinook helicopter Cass had flown during the Gulf War. Way they played it on television back home, everything was a surgical strike and nobody but the enemy suffered any casualties, which of course was a crock. More hardware up there in the Iraqi skies than she’d care to fly through ever again in her lifetime. Little different here in Arizona. Better pay, too.

  She could see the lights of some quiet little desert town down below in the near distance. What’s a bad girl like you doing in a nice place like this? she wondered. Don’t ask, don’t tell. Man says fly four shipments for me from Texas to Mexico, I’ll give you fifty grand a trip, two hundred total, you tell him Mister, you’ve got a deal. This was the last of the four trips. Rented the Warrior in San Antone, nice little rig that handled like a dream. She’d drop the plane off at the Phoenix airport later tonight, as pre-arranged, hop a commercial liner back East, be snug in her own apartment long before Christmas.

  There.

  Just below.

  The signal light.

  She flashed her own wing lights, dipped in lower for a better look. When you came in low over Baghdad, it was to drop a smart bomb down Saddam Hussein’s chimney. Only trouble was they’d never got to him, ended the war too damn soon. Well, some you win, some you lose. She guessed.

  She made a pass over the site, and then swung around for her actual approach into the wind. A car’s headlights came on, illuminating the strand of sand more fully. It was long and narrow. She watched the altimeter, pulled back on the flaps, leveled the pedals, gl
anced at the speedometer, this would be a piece of cake, douse your lights, boys, who needs them?

  The strip here was level and flat, she felt the wheels touching, hit the brakes, lowered the flaps, and rolled along the beach to a full stop some twenty yards from where she’d seen the headlights. She cut the engine. The night was still. Immediately, she took the forty-five from the flap pocket of her jump suit.

  She waited inside the cockpit, in the dark.

  Kept waiting.

  In the Gulf, she’d packed a forty-five automatic in a holster at her waist, case she got shot down, a distinct possibility. Lots of unfriendly people down there, waiting to get their hands on an American pilot, well, who could blame them? A female pilot, no less. Cassandra Jean Ridley, Lieutenant, U.S. Army, 714-56-32, that’s all she was obliged to tell them. Didn’t even have to say she was with the 101st Airborne. Here, she didn’t knowwho’d be waiting for her. But she knew she had a hundred and fifty thousand coming for delivering this last suitcase. Money like that, a girl couldn’t be too careful.

  The rap on the window startled her.

  She slid it back, right hand tight around the walnut grip of the Browning in her lap. She had to pee. First thing you did when you got back to base was rush to barracks to pee. The male pilots just unzipped and pissed right where they’d landed.

  “Welcome to Arizona,” someone said.

  Cheerful voice, the speaker nothing more than a blur in the dark. Two other men with him. She did not loosen her grip on the automatic. She was waiting for the single word that would tell her these were the people expecting the shipment. Buried any which way in whatever sentence they chose to use. But until she heard it, she sat right where she was with the gun in her hand and her finger inside the trigger guard.

  “Nice night,” one of the men said.

  Try again, sweetheart.

  “Hasn’t been much rain.”

  Rain.

  Bingo.

  “Who’s got my money?” she asked.

  “Where’s the suitcase?”

  She released the door lever, climbed out onto the wing, and dropped to the ground, the gun dangling lazily, familiarly at her side.

  “You won’t need that,” one of the men said.

  “Gee, I hope not,” she answered.

  The desert air was a bit chilly. She wished she had on her flight jacket. One of the men was carrying a small leather case the size of a laptop. He placed it on the rim of the door, snapped it open. Another man turned on a penlight. She was looking at a lot of U.S. currency.

  “A hundred and fifty thousand,” one of the men said. “Final payment. As agreed.”

  “Where’s the suitcase?” another man said.

  “Mind if I count it first?” Cass said.

  “Why don’t we all just sit out here in the open till Customs spots us?” the third man said.

  “Count it out for me,” Cass said.

  “Count it out for her,” the first man said.

  He was the one with the cheerful voice. He sounded a trifle impatient now, but she didn’t give a damnhow he sounded. One thing she’d learned in the Army was you didn’t back off. Not on the ground, not in the air. So far all the risk these guys had taken was to sit here in Shit Wallow, Arizona, waiting for her. She was the one carrying the cargo, she was the one whostill had the cargo sitting in a planeshe’d rented. So go right ahead, she thought,get impatient. That’smy money you’re treating so casually there.

  The one who’d mentioned Customs slipped the thick rubber band from one of the packets and looped it over his wrist. There was a small tattoo on the back of his left hand. Some kind of bird, looked like a hawk, wings spread wide, claws gripping a fish. He spread the bills to show her there weren’t any pieces of newspaper cut to size in the bundle. Then he began counting them out loud, one by one, “… five, six, seven,” Cass holding the gun, watching, listening, “eight, nine, ten, a thousand. One, two, three, four …”

  On and on. There were fifty bills in the packet, all of them hundred-dollar bills. When he counted out the last bill, he rubber-banded the stack again, and dropped it back into the leather case. There were thirty packets of bills in all, each of them about three-quarters of an inch thick. It took the man less than fifteen minutes to count them all out. He snapped the lid on the case shut, and handed it to the first man, who folded his arms across it and held it against his chest like a schoolgirl carrying books. She suddenly thought of Fall River, Massachusetts, where Lizzie Borden had got away with killing her father and her stepmother and where, coincidentally, Cassandra Jean Ridley had spent the first fifteen years of her life, my how the time did fly. What am I doinghere? she wondered.

  “The suitcase,” he said.

  Cass climbed back into the plane and pulled out the suitcase from where she’d stowed it. She carried it out again in her left hand, the gun in her right, still hanging loose. She was thinking they could shoot her dead the minute she dropped to the ground again, grab the suitcase full of dope, she was sure it was, ride off into the night with the dopeand the money they’d so patiently counted out for her.

  It didn’t happen.

  She revved up the engine again, the little leather case with $150,000 sitting on the seat beside her, another ten grand in the flap pocket of her jump suit. Tonight I’ll be back in the big bad city, she thought. Her heart was pounding as fiercely as it had over the sands of Iraq.

  • • •

  HANUKKAH WOULD STARTat sundown today, the twenty-first day of December. Will didn’t much care. He wasn’t even Jewish.

  This was always the most dangerous time, going in. Well, comingoutwas no picnic, either, but then you could march right through the front door, say you’d been there to fix the toilet or the sink, nice day, ain’t it? Somebody saw you going in, though, that was another story. Specially when you were going in through a window on a fire escape, nowthat was a little difficult to explain.

  He’d been watching the apartment from the roof across the way for the better part of a week now, knew when the lady came and went, even had an opportunity once to see her in the altogether, though inadvertently, he wasn’t no damn Peeping Tom. Redheaded as a cardinal, she was, carpet matching the drapes, a fair sight to behold and a rarity in this day and age. He always so-called cased a joint, he hated criminal jargon, for at least a week before he went in, sometimes two or three, because the one yearning he did not have was to spend any more time behind bars.

  Lady was putting on a short red fox jacket now, which meant maybe there were more furs in there than he’d figured. Thing that had first attracted him to her when he was scopingall the apartments across the way was a sable coat came down to the floor, had to be worth fifty large at least. You could always tell a woman with a new fur coat, she pranced in front of the mirror with it all day long. He decided that going into the apartment for just the sable alone might be worth it, plus whatever other little goodies he might find in there. The building was on South Ealey Street in a section of Isola called Silvermine. It was a doorman building, which usually meant any other kind of security was lacking. The lady was heading for the front door now—

  “There we go,” Will said out loud.

  He still spoke with a Texas twang he should’ve lost after thirty-seven years on this planet, especially since he’d left the state when he was eighteen and never did go back except for his mother’s funeral. He was still a sophomore at UCLA when she died. He guessed maybe her death had something to do with him flunking out the very next year. Her dying so young and all. He sometimes wondered if his life might’ve turned out different if she hadn’t died and he hadn’t flunked out of college. He wondered if he’d’ve become a burglar, anyway. He guessed maybe he would’ve.

  Will gave her ten minutes to get clear.

  Then he jumped the airshaft to the roof of her building, and came down the fire escape to the ninth floor. He wasn’t expecting any kind of burglar alarm, and there wasn’t any. He jimmied the turnbolt lock on the window, and
was inside the apartment in ten seconds flat. No need for a flashlight here in the living room at ten in the morning. Anyway, there was nothing to steal in this room but a TV set and a stereo and he wasn’t any junkie burglar, thank you. He went into the bedroom, went to the windows first to pull down the shades so nobody would look in and see a guy six feet tall at a buck-ninety roaming a bedroom where a lady lived alone. Only when the shades were down did he go to the wall switch and snap on the overhead lights. Bed nicely made, he surely did appreciate neat people. He yanked back the cover, stripped both pillows of their pillow cases, and then went to the closet. The door was closed. He opened it and found—well, oh my stars—not only the long sable coat but a mink stole as well, the lady reallyhad been on a shopping spree. Both were too bulky to fit inside the pillow cases, he tossed them on the bed for now, and went to the dresser.

  Everything neatly laid out here, too, rolled nylons and pantyhose in one drawer, tank tops and cotton panties in another, T-shirts and sweaters, all precisely put away as if they were color-coded or something, he figured all at once that either the lady was a nurse or else she’d been in the military. In the top drawer, there was a jewelry box. He opened it. Nothing in it but a bunch of cheap costume jewelry and a long white business envelope with a rubber band around it. He slid the rubber band off, opened the envelope. What he was looking at was a whole big bunch of U.S. currency. He fished in his jacket pocket for his eyeglass case, slipped the glasses out of it, hung them on his nose and his ears, and looked into the envelope again.

  The money in there was hundred-dollar bills.

  • • •

  HE DIDN’T STOP TO COUNT THEMtill he was safe at home again in his apartment on South Twelfth Street, just off Stemmler Avenue. This was now close to twelve noon, and it had begun snowing outside. He sat in an easy chair under a lamp with a lamp shade that somehow had ketchup stains on it, and took the white envelope out of his jacket pocket, and then took the rubber band off the envelope again, and took out the bills and began counting them.