He got most of his tips through listening in on conversations. Then he hacked into their e-mail to get the real goods-the documentation that would make his marks pay and pay again. Unlike Barney Tomlinson, the majority of his marks paid.

But like Tomlinson, when they didn’t, he took care of them. Permanently.

His shift would be over soon and he could take care of Tomlinson, then pick his spot to watch the College Four Minus One in action. He leaned down to close his laptop and jumped, startled when his pocket buzzed. It was one of the disposable cells in his pocket. It was Eric, he saw, once he’d found the right phone. He flipped the phone open to read the text.

Joel is dead. There are only three of us. Job on schedule.

Eric was taking him at his word, afraid the video would be leaked if all four of them didn’t show. The boy was afraid. That was good. By tomorrow, he’d be terrified. That was better. For now, he’d play with them a little bit, get that hook set in even deeper.

how do i know you’re telling the truth? he typed. prove it.

Monday, September 20, 4:40 p.m.

Eric needed to prove Joel was dead. He glanced at Albert, who was studying the map of the street where Tomlinson’s warehouse was located. He could ask for proof, but they’d agreed not to speak of it. Besides, Albert was still angry with him.

Eric remembered the ridiculous note that had popped into his mind that morning. Please excuse Joel from extortion-related arson, because he is dead. He logged on to the local TV news’ Web site. Earlier, the account of Joel’s “accident” had said only that the victim had been a Minneapolis university student. Hopefully they’d updated.

They had and the article listed the victim as Joel Fischer, aged 20. Twenty. He should have had his whole life ahead of him. They all should. And we would have if we hadn’t listened to goddamn Joel. Quickly he texted back, including the article’s URL.

Here is proof. He waited for a moment, then read the return text.

my condolences.

Yeah, right, Eric thought, tossing the phone to his sofa. “How’s it coming?”

Albert looked up from the map with a cold look. “You do your part. I’ll do mine.”

They’d split the duties, engaging Mary in the planning as little as possible. The one thing they agreed on was that they didn’t quite trust Mary. They would pick her up tonight, right before it was time, giving her no opportunity to leak their plan.

Before, the situation had been different, the four of them going over details again and again, here in his living room. Eric had hacked into the construction company’s server and found everything they’d needed-blueprints, the guard’s route, the schedule that had told them the adhesive was staged on floors one through three.

What were we thinking? They hadn’t been. They’d been so caught up.

Tonight, Eric would take care of the dog, disable the electronic alarm and the video systems, and get them inside. Albert would procure gas and matches, and, along with Mary, set the fire. A drive-by check had shown there were only simple recording cameras. They’d wear ski masks to hide their faces.

And if they were caught? Big deal. How much would arson add to their sentence? Life plus a few years. Big deal. If they didn’t get caught, they’d bought time. They’d lure the fucking texter out and kill him, quickly and cleanly. It was the only way to break free.

“It’s almost five,” Albert said. “Tomlinson’s warehouse will be closing soon.”

“Then I’d better call.” With the texter’s phone, Eric dialed Barney Tomlinson’s warehouse and a woman answered. “Hi,” Eric said, “my name is John Davis and I’m with Airtight Security. We make video security systems.”

“If you’ll leave your number, I’ll have the manager get back to you,” the woman said in a bored tone. “I’m not authorized to listen to sales pitches.”

Bitch. “We’re offering a special. We’ll install the cameras, then hook up a wireless router for free, then store and back up all your feeds on our servers here.”

“We’ve got a system and it works fine. Old-fashioned video, pop in a new tape every month. Nothing fancy to break. Look, kid, leave a number or I’m hanging up.”

“Wait,” Eric blurted. “Don’t hang up, please. You’re my first call. My first job. I really need the money to pay for school. Just let me practice my pitch. Please?”

She sighed dramatically. “Go ahead. God, I’m a sap.”

“Thank you. Are you sure your system works fine? Have you checked the video quality lately? Extreme temperatures can damage the sensors.”

“The recorder’s inside,” she said. “No temperature problems.”

Damn. He’d hoped for an outside unit. “You might think that, but if it’s near a loading dock or an external door, you’re letting in Mr. Freeze several times a day.”

“Mr. Freeze? Look, it’s not near an external door. It’s in the electrical room, right next to the john. Your pitch sucks. Better work it or you’re going to be very poor.”

She hung up and Eric breathed a sigh of relief. “The videotape will be in the electrical closet next to the bathroom. We’ll take it with us. That way we don’t need to worry about disabling the cameras. Although we should still wear masks, just in case.”

Albert still didn’t look up. “What about the alarm?”

“He’s got a dog. I’m betting his alarm system isn’t that advanced.”

Albert’s jaw clenched. “Don’t bet. Be sure.”

Eric wondered how he could make things right. Then dropped his eyes to his laptop where he’d been trying all afternoon to hack into Tomlinson’s system. “I’ll do my best.”

Monday, September 20, 5:00 p.m.

David studied the face in his bathroom mirror. Laying the floor in 2A hadn’t taken long, and wound with nervous energy, he’d done 2B as well. Now he was showered, cleanly shaven, and wearing a Sunday shirt and the trousers that went with his suit. He’d even picked out a tie. He hated this feeling. This unsure, unsteady, oh-God-what-if-I’m-a-monster feeling. He hated not knowing. At least that would soon be over.

He didn’t look in the mirror very often. Usually he shaved in the shower. For a long time after Megan died, he’d forced himself to look in the mirror. Forced himself to come to terms with the man he was, not the man everyone saw.

People saw what they wanted to see, he knew. On the surface, he’d been blessed with a nice face. What could he say? He’d be lying if he denied it. He knew women gave him second and even third looks. Sometimes he was even flattered.

But most of the time it was a pain in the ass. Nice women assumed he was a player or that they’d never have a chance. There had been so few who’d taken the time to look beneath the face. To find out who he really was. Who he’d made himself to be.

“So who are you?” he murmured. But he had no good answer.

He wandered through his apartment, empty save the absolutely necessary pieces of furniture he’d brought with him from Chicago. A table, a few straight-backed chairs, the easy chair that sat in front of his TV. And the bed he’d bought right after moving in. A new bed. A big bed. Hopefully for a new beginning. Please.

He could tell himself not to worry, but it was folly. Looking for distraction that wouldn’t get him sweaty again, he grabbed his laptop and dropped into his easy chair.

He’d thought about the glass ball off and on all day. David believed in fate, divine providence. That the ball had slid so neatly into his glove had been no accident.

In his mind he saw the dead girl’s waxen face, her wide eyes staring up at them. In a few hours her father would have to identify her body. Her life was ended, so young.

Just like Megan’s. He’d thought about Megan more today than he had in a long time. Nothing could bring her back, just like nothing could bring the girl from the condo back. It was a waste. An evil, senseless waste.