“So you’ve read the materials too?” he asked Lindsey.

“Yes.”

“Look, before we wade in too deep, I’d like to clear the air about your fees. I know this won’t be cheap and we—Nelson’s sister, who is his executrix, and me—are willing to step up, but we have limits. Nelson was my friend and he deserves justice, but I’m only willing to pay for so much of it. His sister feels the same way.”

“What’s in the estate?” Elaine asked.

“It’s complicated. About two million, cash and assets, no debts. But he buried some money offshore years ago and kept it away from his ex-wife. It’s in the common stock of a company and worth around eight million, for a total of ten. The state and federal exemptions this year are eleven million and change, so the estate is free and clear. The ex-wife has lawyered up and is deeply wounded because she got the shaft several marriages ago, but Nelson’s sister thinks her feelings can be soothed with a couple of million. Bottom line, the estate is in good shape and is willing to write a check. The obvious question is: How much will this cost before it’s all over?”

“We don’t guarantee a win in this business,” Elaine said.

“I understand. It’s a long shot.”

“Three hundred thousand,” Lindsey said. “From soup to nuts. All up front. No hourly billing, no monthly statements, expenses included.”

Bruce nodded and stared at her pretty eyes without blinking. Polly had predicted half a million, but then she was in California. Bruce was hoping for two hundred or so and refused to flinch at three hundred. He would pay half, as would the estate. He could afford it, and Ms. Shelby sitting across from him with a smirk damned well knew it. What she didn’t know was where his ransom was buried.

He shrugged as if it grew on trees and said, “Deal. Now what do we get for the money?”

“Hopefully, the killer,” Lindsey said with a smile.

3.

Elaine shook Bruce’s hand goodbye and left them to their business. Bruce followed Lindsey down the hall to a larger room with screens on all four walls and a long table filled with laptops and other devices. They sat across the table from each other and she opened a file of some sort. “Let’s start with the woman,” she said as she pushed a button on something and Ingrid’s computer-generated face appeared on two of the wide screens.

Lindsey said, “Of course, we don’t know this woman, nor anyone who might be her, but we’ll begin the search.”

“The search for what?”

“A contract killer. We know of several, but it’s a fairly nebulous group. They don’t convene annually for parties and they don’t have a registry.”

“You know the names of contract killers?”

“Of course. The FBI has monitored them for years. Back in the old days most were Mafia boys who killed each other in turf battles, but today there are a few who are known.”

“How? How do you know about them?”

“Mainly through informants, snitches, rats. Almost all contract killings are done by dumb criminals who need a few bucks to knock off a spouse or hubby’s secret girlfriend. Family stuff, usually. Bad business deals are not uncommon. Most of the hit men are caught and convicted by forensics.”

“Where might one find a good hit man?”

“Well, you can actually start online, believe it or not, but those guys cannot be trusted.”

“Imagine that. A dishonest hit man.”

“Right. If you wanted to knock off, say, a business partner, you’d probably start with a local private investigator, someone you might know and trust. He’ll know someone who’s done hard time and lives around the fringes. He might also know an ex-cop or maybe a former Army Ranger, someone accomplished with weapons. Guns are used nine times out of ten. About sixty percent of the time word leaks out, the police get a tip, and everybody gets arrested before there’s a killing.”

“But we’re not dealing with a dumb criminal here,” Bruce said, enjoying the discussion.

“No, we are not. There are a few contract killers who are referred to in the trade as ‘masters.’ They rarely get caught, and they are well paid.”

“How much?”

She pressed a button and Ingrid disappeared. Six names were listed in one column. Beside each was the year of death, and to the far right was an amount of money. The largest sum was $2.5 million; the lowest, $500,000. Lindsey said, “None of these figures can be trusted, but ten years ago a retired hit man wrote a long tell-all piece for an online crime magazine, anonymous of course. He claimed responsibility for the first three murders. His command of the details convinced the FBI he was there. The last two are from other sources.”

“Why did he retire?” Bruce asked.

“He turned sixty-five, Social Security kicked in, or so he said. Had a real sense of humor. He wrote that he almost got caught during his last job when things got messy. A young teenage boy got in the way and took a bullet. The hit man found a conscience and hung up his Glock.”

“And none of these five killings were ever solved?”

“No. The cases are still open.”

“So, our little venture is indeed a long shot?”

“Absolutely. I thought we were clear. No?”