I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, then started toward him.

As his gaze scanned the last trickle of exiting passengers, his mouth set in a firm line. The flow of passengers petered out. Jack strode to a garbage can and crushed the cup. It wasn’t empty, and coffee spurted on his hand. He glared at the mess, pitched the cup into the trash and swiped his wet hand across his jeans. Then he stalked toward the exit. I slipped through a small crowd and put myself in his path. He nearly mowed me down before stopping short.

“Nad-” He rubbed his hand across his mouth, as if erasing the mistake.

“Surprise.”

“Right.” Pause. “Luggage?”

I lifted my carry-on. “Just this.”

He glanced around, as if uncertain what to do next.

“You really didn’t expect me to get off that plane, did you?” I said.

“That look you gave me Saturday? Figured it was a no go.”

“I could get on the next flight.”

A slow quarter-smile. “Gotta earn your way home.”

“I plan to. Where to first?”

“Breakfast.”

Jack offered to grab food while I used the washroom.

When I emerged, Jack was still in line at a bagel place. I caught his attention and waved to a spot out of the through-fares. He nodded and I hefted my bag to my shoulder and walked to stand between a group of young men and a sunglasses kiosk.

“-like I told the cop, it was an accident,” one of the young men was saying.

“Yeah,” another answered. “Bitch’s arm got in your way and next thing you know, it’s broken. Whoops.”

A chorus of snickers. I turned the other way, getting a look at them through the mirrors on the kiosk. Three guys, maybe early twenties, all white, dressed in baggy clothes, do-rags and shades. Gangsta wannabes, trash-talking at full volume, thinking it’s cool to brag about breaking a girlfriend’s arm.

Then I saw the kid half hidden off to the side. No more than eleven, probably younger, dressed like the big boys-probably a cousin or nephew. He stared up in rapture, absorbing every word.

“…restraining order. Can you believe it? Won’t fucking let me see my own kid, all because she’s pissed off about a broken arm, and if she thinks that’s going to stop me, bitch better think again, because a restraining order ain’t no magic security system. Ain’t gonna stop me from bustin’ into her place whenever I want to, and if she don’t like it, a broken arm’s gonna be the least of her worries.”

“You tell her.”

They continued, ignoring the glares from people passing. No, not ignoring the glares-reveling in them, because that’s what it was all about, getting attention, making people scared of you.

I glanced again in the mirror, focused on the young man doing all the bragging and felt a familiar swirling in my gut.

What if he was a target, a hit?

First, I’d have to get him away from the pack. There was always an opportunity. Nature would call. Or he’d decide he needed a Coke. Maybe a cigarette. Or he’d whip out his cell and step outside for better reception.

Once away from his pack, I’d need to be able to identify him from a distance or find him in a crowd, even if he was with twenty guys who could pass for his brothers. Distinguishing features? A puckered scar on his left earlobe, as if he’d pierced it himself, then changed his mind. I noticed the wear pattern on his navy high-tops, the soles worn along the outside of the heels, as if he walked slightly bow-legged. His clothing could always be changed. Yet someone suspecting a tail rarely changes his footwear. Shoes and jewelry. Always make a note.

As he talked, a jangling underscored his words, and I traced it to a chain hanging off his belt. I closed my eyes and memorized the sound. Then I noted the sound of his voice, the inflection, the accent.

My target said something to his buddies, stepped away and headed for the doors.

“You ready?” Jack’s voice startled me. He lifted a tray of coffees and bagels.

One last glance after my target, then I nodded and followed Jack out of the terminal.

We dined on stale bagels and lukewarm coffee, consumed in the ambience of engine thunder and jet fuel fumes.

“So what’s the plan?” I said as I perched on the hood of Jack’s rental car. “Have you met with the other guys? Come up with some theories?”

“Nah. Figured you’d want to do that.”

I stopped licking cream cheese off my fingers. “Meet the others? If I can avoid it, I’d really rather-”

“Not meet them. I agree. Stay under the radar. Work with me. That’s it.”

“So you and I…we’ll be working together?”

He looked over at me. “Thought that was understood. Watch each other’s backs. That a problem?”

“No, I just…I wasn’t sure. I know you work alone, so I thought maybe you’d just set me on a trail or a lead. But working with a partner is how I’m used to doing things-or was, as a cop, so that’s fine by me. How are we going to coordinate this with the others, then? A conference call to toss around theories, come up with a plan of action, divide the work…”

I stopped, glancing over at Jack, who was staring out at the runway, face impassive.

“There’s no meeting, is there? Long distance or otherwise.”

He shook his head. “These guys? Not much for teamwork. Me neither.”

“And I totally get that. But in this case, we need to coordinate our efforts, if only to ensure we cover everything and…” I met his gaze. “And it’s not happening, is it?”

He shook his head. “One guy I tried pulling in? Already in custody. Better keep to ourselves.”

“Well, what’s our game plan, then?”

“Start by filling me in. Who’s he killing? Where? Patterns? Methods?”

“I don’t know a damned thing about these killings, Jack. I’ve told you I’ve been trying to forget that part of my life, stop following the cases.”

“Oh.”

“Ah, you thought I’d just said I’d stopped. I know he’s killed four people in the past week or so, and that the last one was strangled.”

“Four states. Four methods. That’s all I know.”

“Shit, we really are starting from ground zero, aren’t we?”

Once we were on the highway, Jack handed me a bag. I reached in, pulled out a wig and sighed.

“Figures. Get a guy to buy a wig, and he’s going to go blond every time.”

“Small store. Two choices. Blond or red.”

“I like red.”

“Fire-engine red.”

“Cool.”

“Be thankful I didn’t pick clothing. Almost did.”

“What were you going to get? Miniskirt and fishnets?”

I put on the wig, then looked at the rest of my outfit. I wore jeans, a plain white T-shirt and a denim jacket-an all-purpose ensemble that, with the right accessories, could run the gamut from preppy-casual to biker-chick-trashy. Normally, I’d fall somewhere in the middle: the nature-girl look, with wash-and-wear hair, fading summer tan and tinted lip gloss. Given Jack’s choice of disguise, more makeup was a must. I opened my makeup case, applied enough to scare myself, then took a tissue and pared it back a layer or two.

“Good?” I asked.

Jack glanced over and grunted. Not the most enthusiastic endorsement, but at least he didn’t say I looked so much better in a platinum wig and half-pound of makeup.

“One thing missing,” he said.

“Stilettos? Or a whip?”

His mouth twitched as he passed me a heavy wrapped bundle.

I unwrapped it to find a Glock 33. “Oooh. Serious bondage gear!”

“Got a waistband holster. Should fit under your jacket. Keep it on, all times.”

I found the holster and slipped into it, then double-checked my makeup application in the visor mirror, making sure the faint, thin scar on my neck was hidden. “Not bad. I have to work on my aging techniques, though. I can never get it right. You’ll have to teach me sometime.”

He made a noise in his throat that I took for agreement, then turned into a strip mall so we could get some research material.