“I hope you’re not looking to me for answers about this Internet thing,” she told him. “If there’s a problem, I turn the computer off and then on again. If that doesn’t fix it, I call Collin.”

Jack folded his arms across his chest. “I think we need to talk about this Collin dependency. Because there’s a new sheriff in town.”

“Hmm. That’s a little alpha for my tastes,” Cameron said with a disapproving air.

She tried not to look totally turned on.

“I’m going to take a look upstairs at your computer,” Jack said. “Maybe one of your neighbors is tapping into your wireless signal. It’s easy to do in the city, with houses as close as they are. What’s your password?”

“You won’t need one. I leave the computer running and just let it go into sleep mode whenever I’m not using it.”

Jack threw her a look that said this was a big no-no. “I think I now know why you’re having Internet problems.”

“What is it you’re trying to do from your laptop, anyway?” Cameron asked.

“Just a few things I want to have ready when Wilkins calls. I can log onto the Bureau’s network remotely—I want to take another look at Lombard’s cell phone records that we pulled a couple weeks ago. Plus I’ve been thinking about setting up a trace on his phone, although I’ll need one of the tech guys to help me with that. Then we can track everywhere Lombard’s been—at least with his phone—over the last few days.”

Cameron put the bridesmaid’s dress back into its spot on the rack behind the door. She glanced over her shoulder. “Without a warrant, that sounds highly illegal.”

“Legal, illegal, there are so many gray areas.”

“I didn’t hear that, Jack.”

“Nothing to hear, counselor. I never said a word.”


WHEN HE REACHED the third floor, Jack turned left and headed into the office. Cameron’s desk faced the window, overlooking her front yard and the street below. Jack went over to the desk and took a seat. When he moved the mouse, the computer sprang to life.

Possibly, he just needed to reboot the system since she’d left it running for who knew how long. Still, he wanted to be sure. He checked to see how many computers were linked to her router—as he’d said to her, maybe someone was pilfering her wireless connection and that was slowing everything down.

It took a second for the screen to open. What he saw threw him for a loop.

That can’t be right.

There were fifteen devices using Cameron’s Internet connection. Jack was aware of two—his laptop and Cameron’s desktop computer.

So what the hell were the other thirteen? It was possible that a neighbor could be stealing her signal, maybe even a couple, but thirteen neighbors using her Internet was extremely unlikely.

Then again, maybe it wasn’t thirteen computers, but something else. That was what Jack checked next. He pulled up the data stream for the first device.

Strange.

It was transmitting an audio signal.

But Jack heard nothing. He turned up the volume on Cameron’s computer. Still nothing. He moved onto the next device—this one was also transmitting an audio signal.

Again, nothing.

What the hell?

He quickly checked the other signals—all audio—and finally found something being transmitted through the eighth one.

It was the sound of a woman singing softly. A smoky voice he recognized well.

All the boys think she’s a spy, she’s got Bette Davis eyes.

Cameron. In her bedroom.

Jack could hear the sound of a drawer shutting, then a zipper, as she continued unpacking her suitcase.

Son of a bitch.

He deliberately began drumming his fingers on the desk—making enough noise for a test, but not too much—as he hurriedly checked the remaining devices. He knew what he would eventually find. When he got to the last audio signal, the sound of his fingers rapping against the wood echoed through Cameron’s computer, clear as day.

Jack would’ve sworn out loud if he could have.

The goddamn house was bugged.

His mind raced, dozens of thoughts all at once. The masked man . . . Thursday afternoon . . . they had assumed he’d been waiting to attack Cameron when she came home from work. Jack realized now that Mandy’s killer hadn’t been in the house at four thirty in the afternoon to avoid police surveillance; he’d been there because he was after something else entirely. He wanted to listen.

He wanted to know what Cameron knew.

Nowadays, microphones used for eavesdropping were smaller than ever—less than the size of a button. And all one needed was a computer, a wireless network, and the IP addresses of the monitoring devices. Not much harder than setting up a nanny cam, particularly for someone who knew what he was doing.

Jack pulled out his BlackBerry—luckily, now that they knew what the guy was up to, they could turn things around. Assuming Mandy’s killer was actively monitoring the bugs, they could back-trace the link to the IP address of the computer he was using to listen to them. And once they had that information, they could pinpoint the location of that computer—and the killer.

Jack started to type a text message to Wilkins—obviously, he couldn’t call him or anyone else from the house with it being bugged. Then he stopped, realizing it would be faster to simply take Cameron out to his car and make the call from there. He’d have to slip her a note explaining the situation, of course, because they couldn’t say anything that would tip the killer off—he could be listening to them right then.

Jack’s stomach twisted into a knot.

The killer could be listening.

Assuming he’d been monitoring them, the killer would’ve heard every word he and Cameron had said that evening. Fragments of their conversations echoed through his head:

I’m pretty sure the guy who killed Mandy Robards was wearing a gun the night he strangled her . . .

His name is Grant Lombard. He does private security for Senator Hodges . . . He matches the physical description of the guy we’re looking for . . .

By any chance does Grant Lombard have an alibi for the night of Mandy Robards’s murder? . . .

Perhaps I need to ask him if he has an alibi for the time of your attack.

Then Jack recalled a separate conversation, an earlier one, and his whole body went cold.

To disarm the alarm, you just enter the security code.

What’s five-two-two-five?

It spells “Jack” on the keypad. Should be easy enough to remember.

The killer knew the code to the alarm.

“Cameron,” Jack whispered, his heart leaping into his throat. He’d left her alone . . . he couldn’t hear her right then . . . the second floor was too quiet . . . Jack dropped his BlackBerry and reached for his shoulder harness—

“Don’t make a fucking move,” commanded a low voice behind him.

The distinctive sound of the slide of a gun chambering a round echoed through the room.

With his hand frozen at his harness, Jack looked over his shoulder. He took in the man standing in the doorway, aiming a gun right at his head.

“Lombard,” Jack growled.

“You almost had it there, Pallas. Almost,” Lombard said. “Now take the shoulder harness off. Slowly.”

The first thing Jack noticed was that Lombard didn’t have a silencer on his gun. Which meant that Cameron was still alive downstairs. Lombard had come after him first.

“I said take the shoulder harness off. Now,” Lombard said quietly.

Jack read the look on Lombard’s face and knew he wasn’t bluffing. He unhooked the harness and set it on the floor. He’d be no good to Cameron if Lombard blew his brains all over the office wall right then and there.

“Kick it over here,” Lombard said.

Jack complied. His eyes remained trained on the trigger of Lombard’s gun. One twitch and he’d be out of that chair. Dive to the floor, pull the desk over, and use it as a shield. It wasn’t the best plan, but it was something.

Then Lombard changed the game.

“Cameron Lynde,” he called out loudly, his voice reverberating through the top floor. “I have a gun pointed at your boyfriend’s head. If you’re not on the landing in three seconds, I will kill him.”

Jack forced himself to sound calm and controlled. “Get out of the house now, Cameron. Let me handle this.”

Lombard didn’t so much as blink. “Three seconds, Cameron. One, Two—”

“Don’t.”

The single, shaky word came from the landing a half a floor below them.

“Good girl, Cameron,” Lombard said.

The three of them remained in a holding pattern. Lombard in the doorway, pointing his gun at Jack, Cameron out of view on his other side, halfway down the stairs.

“If I hear a gunshot, I’ll run,” she called up. “And I know it’s me you really want.”

“Neither of you has to get hurt—I know a way we can work this out,” Lombard said.

“Don’t listen to a fucking word he says, Cameron. Get out of the house now,” Jack ordered her.

“I want to make a deal,” Lombard said, talking over him. “That’s all. You’re a prosecutor, Cameron—you can make it happen. And this gun in my hand gives you one hell of an incentive to do just that. I know things—like the name of the person who told me about you. There’s a mole—a big one. I can help you nail him. But we need to talk about this face-to-face. How do I know you’re not standing there with a phone in your hand, calling the police right now? So come up the stairs slowly, with your hands in front of you. Do it now, Cameron. Or Jack dies.”

It almost sounded convincing. Jack prayed she wouldn’t fall for Lombard’s speech. “It’s a setup, Cameron. You come up those stairs, and we’re both dead.”

There was a pause. Cameron remained strangely silent. Debating her options, presumably.

Jack knew the time to act was now. In his mind, there was only one option, and that was getting her as far away from Lombard as possible. No matter what it took.

She’d said she would run if she heard a gun shot. He had to count on that. He would draw Lombard’s fire and give Cameron a chance to escape. He wouldn’t stop until he reached Lombard, no matter what hit him.

Other men had tried to kill him before. For Cameron’s sake, he was willing to see if this asshole’s luck was any better than the others.

Jack got ready to make his move.

Beads of sweat formed at Lombard’s brow. He called down again, and his voice was strained and anxious. “You’ve got two fucking seconds, Cameron, so either get your ass up here or say good-bye to Jack.”

“Okay! I’m coming,” Cameron shouted up urgently.

But she wasn’t on the landing anymore. There was the faint sound of a door opening—it came from the hallway on the floor beneath them. A hinge squeaked. Something metal rattled.

“She’s getting a goddamn gun,” Lombard hissed.

Fortunately, Jack knew the layout of the house a lot better than Lombard. Not a gun, he thought, realizing precisely what Cameron was up to.

She was fucking brilliant.

The door she had opened, the one closest to the stairs, was her linen closet. And while there wasn’t a gun stashed in there—at least not one that Jack knew about—there was something else that could help them.

The circuit breaker.

Lombard snapped, having had enough. “Fuck you both.” His eyes narrowed in on Jack. Everything happened at once. He pulled the trigger as Jack dove for the ground, knowing what was coming. There was a loud CLICK! from downstairs and—

All the lights in the house went out.

The gun fired in the dark, and the bullet whizzed over Jack’s head. Not wasting a moment, he leapt up and ran for Lombard. Lombard reacted more quickly to the surprise of the darkness than Jack had hoped; he took off into the hallway. Lombard fired wildly behind him, and bullets hit the walls beside Jack. He kept going. Gaining on Lombard right before the stairwell, Jack saw his chance—he dove and tackled Lombard full-force. Grabbing for Lombard’s gun, Jack pushed him backward at the same time, using all his strength to hurtle them toward the wooden banister. Jack braced himself—this was going to hurt—as they slammed against the banister and broke through with a loud crack.

Tangled together, both men plummeted thirty-five feet down the open staircase.

They landed hard on the first-floor foyer. Jack heard the sickening sound of breaking bone as he crashed on top of Lombard, who screamed out in pain.