“I knew you had it figured out when you grabbed the photographer. Why are you protecting her?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” Nick said. “Miss Brazier is the bait I needed to trap you.”
“You failed. I never had any intention of showing up at the pier tonight. In case you’re wondering, I got to your car in the hotel parking lot last night.”
“Out of curiosity, what did you use on the radiator hose? A knife?”
“Ice pick.” Hot satisfaction seethed in the Poet’s voice for a few seconds. “The same thing I’m going to use on the photographer. Here’s the part I know you’ll appreciate. It’s going to look like you killed her. Newly wed husband discovers that his bride isn’t the woman he believed her to be. Grabs the ice pick. Act of passion.”
“Oddly enough, I’ve already lived out a very similar script. But in that case, the woman survived. Someone else died instead.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Your lack of originality.”
“Where’s the journal?” Rage and frustration crept into the Poet’s voice.
“You haven’t given me much of an incentive to answer that question.”
“Here’s the deal. We’re going to do a trade. You give me the journal, you get to live.”
“Fair enough, but it won’t work because I can’t hold up my end of the bargain.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
“I don’t have the journal. Not on me. It’s not in the car, either.”
“Where is it?”
The Poet’s voice was rapidly becoming shrill.
“You’re almost at the breaking point, aren’t you?” Nick said. “Thatkind of mental instability is a real problem for someone in your line of work.”
“Tell me where the journal is.”
“It’s exactly where the Broker told you it would be,” Nick said quietly. “At the pier.”
“I don’t believe you. You wouldn’t let it out of your sight. It’s too valuable. It’s hidden inside the car.”
Nick did not respond.
“Who are you?” the Poet asked. He sounded calmer now. Back in control. Barely.
“Haven’t you figured it out yet?” Nick said. “I’m your competition.”
“What the hell—? You think you can take my place? You’re out of your mind.”
“You’re losing your edge. Your skills are no longer sharp. Take the disguise you used the night you firebombed Miss Brazier’s cottage. You wore the wrong shoes. A rich man’s shoes.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I realize you’ve been working under a time constraint and that you were feeling the pressure. But, seriously, talk about amateurish techniques. In the end you couldn’t even safeguard your journal, the one thing that could send you to death row. Face it. Time to retire.”
There was a shock wave of silence from the far side of the Packard.
“One thing I’d really like to know,” the Poet said finally. “How did you steal my journal?”
“I didn’t steal it,” Nick said. “Someone else did. I just picked up the rumors about it and followed them to the source.”
