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SIXTY-THREE

KYLE HOLDS THE PHONE against his ear and replays the audio from the 911 call made earlier tonight. A woman’s voice, urgent but calm, businesslike.

“A man’s been shot. He’s lying in the back of Hemingway’s Pub by the interstate. I don’t know the address, but he’s bleeding out. Send an ambulance.”

The call cuts off immediately afterward. The caller doesn’t give her name. No way to be certain, but that voice sure sounds a lot like Camille Striker’s. That would make the most sense; David called her and told her what happened, and she called 911 for him. But he could have called 911 himself. Why call Camille first? A tearful goodbye? Was Camille his true love and Marcie just his cover story?

Did Marcie know she was a cover story? No. Couldn’t be. Marcie wouldn’t have lived a lie like that. Not Marcie.

He dials Officer Risely, staying at Marcie’s house for now, watching her children overnight.

“Hey, Sarge.”

“Hey, Ginny. Is Marcie Bowers home yet?”

“Nope. She’s not with you?”

“She left a little while ago. Didn’t want to answer any more questions. Not sure … not sure what to make of that.”

“Want me to take a run at her when she gets home?”

It occurs to Kyle — he drove Marcie here. She didn’t have a ride home. She stormed out so quickly that he didn’t think to ask if she needed a ride.

“That’s okay,” he says. “But do me a favor — keep a squad car outside her house tonight.”

He punches out the phone.

“Sergeant Janowski?”

Kyle turns at the sound of his name.

A man, roughly shaved, mussed dark hair peppered with gray, wearing a dress shirt open at the collar and blue jeans.

“Special Agent Francis Blair, FBI,” he says. “Chicago office.”

Blair — that’s the name that Ollie Grafton mentioned. The FBI agent who wondered whether Silas Renfrow really died in that attack on the FBI compound in Rockford.

“Thought I might be hearing from the Bureau. You worked the Michael Cagnina case?”

Blair nods. “You have good information. What can you tell me about what happened?”

Kyle gives his best summary of the events of the night, then he turns to his general suspicions about David Bowers.

When he’s finished, Blair looks duly impressed. “So you think the guy in the operating room is Silas Renfrow?”

“That’s a guess, but an educated one.”

Blair nods absently. He looks tired. He must have rushed down here from Chicago when he heard the news. “Well, it’s a damn good educated guess, Sergeant,” he says. “Let’s get his DNA, test it, and prove it.”

“I told the doctors to preserve him as much as possible,” says Kyle. “And there’s blood all over the crime scene —”

Blair makes a face. “You got the clothes he was wearing?”

“Of course.”

“Those clothes have blood on them. My team can extract that easily.” He nods. “Better I handle it. I can get the results faster.”

Good. It will be nice to have some help. Kyle’s felt like a one-man operation looking into these matters. With someone from the Bureau on board — an expert on Michael Cagnina, at that — his confidence is growing. He’s going to solve this thing.

“If he really is Silas Renfrow,” says Kyle, “you’ve got him on dozens of offenses, I assume.”

“Oh, he’s Silas, all right.” Blair lets out a loud chuckle. “And once I prove it,” he says, “I’m gonna hang a dozen federal M-1s around his neck and personally sit in the front row while they stick a needle in his arm.” He looks at Kyle. “That a straight enough answer?”