“Even brilliant.”
“I agree,” I said. “So now you’re in fourteen-eighteen and the two kids are looking up at you, like ‘What just happened?’ One minute they’re watching you party with Michael Chan on their laptops, waiting for Joe to arrive— then the Wi-Fi goes down and now you’re inside their room with a gun in your hand.
“Alison, you killed those two unarmed kids and then, I’m thinking, Dugan got you out of the hotel by way of the fire stairs. And then he calls the police, says shots have been heard on the fourteenth floor.
“The Net is back up and hell, I’ll bet he wasn’t even winded when he showed us cops the crime scene. Very cool guy. I can see why you liked him. So here’s a question, Alison.”
She said, “Where the hell is Joseph? Oh. You remember I said I’m a federal employee, don’t you?”
“Of course. I can’t touch you, right? So here’s my question. Why would Dugan do that for you? Why would he kill for you? And why would he die for you?”
“This is your story, not mine,” said Alison Muller, exhaling like her breath was smoke.
“Well, here’s my theory. He did it because he knew you. And as a world-class femme fatale to his former cop turned security chief, I think he would have been an easy score for you. You were beyond his wildest dreams. And—I’ll admit this part is hypothetical—I think you told Dugan that you’d run away with him to the People’s Republic of China and start a new and exciting life together. Am I warm, Alison?”
She was staring past me through the windshield, considering her options.
I knew it. I wasn’t just warm. I was red-smoking-hot.
“Look,” she said, “I’m going to get disappeared for a while. I want you to tell my daughters that I’m OK. That I love them. There are a few things I want them to have and there are some things I have to tell Khalid.”
I understood what she was saying. She didn’t know when she’d see them again. Or if.
“Happy to help. Tell me you killed Shirley Chan and it’s a deal.”
Alison sighed, shook her head, and said, “What a bitch.” She was referring to me.
Then she said, “OK. I didn’t know if or what Michael had told her about me. She was smart and she could have turned people against me. I went into her house and I put her down. OK? I killed her. Now shut the hell up. I can’t stand the sound of your voice.”
“Back at you, babe. You kind of make me sick.”
I took the phone out of the holder, showed Alison the big icon of a microphone on the faceplate, rewound it a touch, and played back “You kind of make me sick.” Then I said, “We’re still rolling. Let’s have the message for your family.”
While she talked to her kids, I was thinking, Gotcha. Shirley Chan’s death wasn’t a government-ordered hit. Killing a mother of two small children was Muller’s own personal cover-up to protect herself.
If the CIA spat Muller out, we could charge her for Shirley Chan’s murder and do our best to build a case. I thought I could do it starting with her confession.
When Muller finished talking into the recorder, I pressed Stop and said, “That’s a wrap.”
She smiled—a hat-tip to me for making the deal. And then she started to laugh. Man, it was catching. I laughed, too. This hilarity was more about relief and hysteria than it was about humor, but we were both into it, chortling and giggling like high school girls.
Technically, I laughed last.
And of course, best.
CHAPTER 97
CHRIS KNIGHTLY’S BIG face filled the open car window.
“You girls having fun?” he said.
I didn’t like the guy, but screw him. I had what I wanted, on the record. Knightly unlocked and opened the creaking back door and said, “Let me help you out, Ali. Watch your head.”
Joe opened the front door, and as Knightly and Muller walked toward a chopper, he got in behind the wheel, reached over, pushed my gun muzzle toward the floor, and peeled my fingers off the butt one by one.
“It’s OK, Linds. It’s all OK.”
He opened his arms and I went into them. He held me and kissed the top of my head, and I just gave myself over to the pleasure of that hug—but not for long. I disengaged, sat back in the passenger seat, and said, “What happens now?”