Dangerous Games by Michael Prescott Page B

you, I won’t try anything.”
    “I hope that’s true. We’ve got more important things on our agenda. We can’t go running around after some dumb bitch.”
    Kolb lay down again. “Now, now. Show the lady some respect.”
    “Love—and now respect? It’s a whole new you.”
    He shut his eyes. “There’s nothing wrong with respect. The Cherokee, you know, used to apologize to the spirits of the deer they hunted. They asked forgiveness for taking the animals’ lives. That was a sign of respect.”
    “I doubt the deer saw it that way.”
    “You never see the big truths. You’re too wrapped up in details.”
    “It’s the details that can get us caught.”
    “And it’s the truth that will set us free.”
    “Just leave her alone,” the other man said. “I mean it.”
    A click, and the call was over.
    Kolb replaced the handset, then folded his hands over his abdomen. He stared into the darkness, feeling the slow movement of his belly in time with the push and pull of his breath, and thought about Special Agent Tess McCallum of the FBI.
    He hadn’t lied. He did respect her, even love her, in his way.
    He would like to tell her so, someday. And like the Cherokee, he would apologize before he slit her throat.
     

 
    5
     
     
    Larkin caught Tess leaving the office suite. “Done already?” he asked in obvious disbelief.
    “Just stepping out for a while.”
    “Michaelson needs that report before nine A.M.”
    “He’ll get it,” Tess said, and disappeared through the door before Larkin could say anything further.
    It occurred to her, as she drove out of the parking lot, that she should have been accompanied by another agent. FBI fieldwork was customarily done in pairs. She was alone—and heading for a rendezvous with a woman whose motives in contacting her were still not entirely clear.
    She replayed the phone conversation in her mind. Something seemed wrong about it, but she needed a minute’s thought to identify the anomaly. Madeleine had begun by calling the tip line and had followed up with a call to the Bureau. But why bother with either approach? Why not contact the LAPD detective who’d arrested Kolb?
    A prickle of unease fingered her spine. Pieces of the story didn’t fit.
    She guided the Crown Vic out of Westwood. Bel Air sprawled to the north, in the foothills of the Santa Monica Mountains, which rose in folds and rifts to Mulholland Drive at the crest. She climbed twisting streets, following the map book she’d found in the glove compartment.
    Rounding a switchback curve, she spotted a pair of bright yellow eyes in the sweep of her headlights. They flashed away into the woods edging the road. She glimpsed lean gray legs and narrow hips—a coyote. They still roamed these hills, feeding out of garbage cans, prowling the carefully tended gardens. It was almost eerie to catch a hint of such wildness when the concrete clutter of the city lay only a mile away.
    On another stretch of road she passed a security patrol unit gliding in the opposite direction, a sleek, dark vehicle, silent as a shark. Bel Air had its own private security to supplement the police force. She felt as if she’d left LA and entered a foreign territory, one with its own authorities and its own rules.
    Madeleine Grant’s home lay on a lushly landscaped cul-de-sac. The house was deeply secluded, nested inside a wrought-iron perimeter fence and layers of foliage. Posted on the fence was a sign warning that the property was protected by an alarm system. The fence itself was high and topped with sharp spikes. Trees that might have allowed an intruder to climb up and over had been trimmed back, their branches lopped to leave a zone of dead space around the fence. Ms. Grant took personal safety seriously.
    Tess pulled up to the gate and lowered her window, announcing herself to the intercom. For a moment there was no answer. She had the curious sense of being watched. Then she saw a surveillance camera mounted over the gate, its