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  “Are there phones in the rooms?”

  “Get a grip. Do I look like a fool?”

  “No,” Grace said, and had to stifle a sudden urge to laugh. Harmony Johnson looked like a lot of things, but fool wasn’t on the list. “Do you mind if I have my own line installed? I do some computer work, and use a modem sometimes.”

  Harmony shrugged. “It’s your money.”

  “When can I move in?”

  “As soon as you pay me a deposit and haul your bag upstairs.”

  “Tell me, Conrad,” Parrish said lazily, tipping his chair back. “How can Grace St. John, of all people, elude you for a week?” He wasn’t at all pleased. Conrad had never failed him before, and though the Minneapolis police had bought the setup with a gratifying completeness and issued warrants for her arrest, no one had managed to find her. A nerd, an ancient languages specialist, of all people, had somehow managed to outsmart them all. “Mind, I don’t give a shit about Grace, but she has the papers and I really do want them, Conrad. I really do.”

  Conrad’s face was impassive. “She managed to empty out their bank account, so she has cash. The police figure she overrode the bank’s computer system, but the bank’s systems analyst hasn’t determined how.”

  Parrish waved that aside with a languid movement of his hand. “The how doesn’t matter. All that matters is finding her, and you haven’t accomplished that.”

  Fool, Conrad thought dispassionately. The how always mattered, because when something worked once, people invariably repeated it. That was how patterns were established, and patterns were detectable.

  “She had been traveling at night, but I think that’s changed now. She had a bag when Paglione saw her in Eau Claire, so it follows that she has accumulated more clothing and now we have no idea what she’s wearing.” There were notes in his thick, brutish hand, but he didn’t need to consult them. “A woman roughly answering her description bought a red wig in Eau Claire.”

  “A redhead should be easy to find.”

  “Unless it was a decoy.” Conrad was of the opinion that the red wig was exactly that, and his admiration for Ms. St. John had risen sharply. She was proving to be very interesting quarry. “There haven’t been any leads on a redhead. She could have stolen another wig, one the proprietor didn’t know anything about. She could also have cut her hair, colored it, done any number of things to change her appearance.”

  “Well then, damn it, how do you intend to find her?” Parrish snapped, his patience at an end.

  “Her most likely destination, after Eau Claire, would be Chicago. A big city would give her a sense of security. Even though she has money, she’s cautious; she will try to save that money in case she has to run again. She’ll get a job, but it will have to be off the books, because she can’t use her social security number. The kind of job she will be able to get will be low-skill, low-paying. I will put men in the streets, put out the word that there is a cash reward for information on her. I will find her.”

  “See that you do.” Parrish rose and walked to the window, indicating the interview was ended. Conrad left, his movements as noiseless as always.

  The garden was looking good, Parrish thought, eyeing the prize-winning roses beneath his window. The cold snap hadn’t been a severe one; the temperature had remained above freezing. The days were growing warmer as spring settled in again, perhaps for good this time. The cold had to have been a trial for poor little Grace, though she had some extra padding on her bones for warmth. How soft she had looked! A man on top of her wouldn’t feel as if he were lying on a skeleton.

  What a strange attraction, he mused, setting his fingertips against the cool panes. He’d always preferred sleek women, but little Gracie was so unconsciously, unaccountably sensual, despite her weight. She wasn’t much overweight, just enough to look rounded.

  Perhaps he should instruct Conrad to keep her alive, just for a while. One day, perhaps, long enough for him to satisfy a particular fantasy.

  He smiled, thinking about it.

  Chapter 8

  WEARILY GRACE UNTIED THE APRON FROM HER WAIST AND tossed it into the hamper. This was her sixth day on the job, as part-time dishwasher and general slave in Orel Hector’s pizza and pasta restaurant. Sometimes she thought she’d never get the smell of garlic out of her hair, off her skin. The constant exposure to spicy food had, if anything, depressed her appetite even more. The workers were allowed to have anything in the restaurant for lunch, free, but so far she hadn’t eaten anything. Just the thought of sitting down to a hearty pasta meal made her stomach clench.

  “You comin’ back tomorrow?” Orel asked as he took the cash box out of a locked drawer and opened it to pay her. There were three part-time workers in the restaurant, and none of them was on a payroll list. About a third of each day’s take went into the cash box instead of being rung up on the cash register. He paid them in cash at the end of each day, and if one of them didn’t show up the next day, he’d find someone else. Cut way down on the damn federal paperwork, he said.

  “I’ll be here,” she said. It was exhausting work, but it suited her to be part of the underground economy. Orel handed over three tens, thirty dollars for seven hours of work, but it worked out to a hundred eighty dollars for the six days she’d been working. After paying Harmony seventy dollars a week, she’d have a hundred and ten left over. Her expenses were minimal, just the bus fare to work every day, and a few more clothes. She had bought two more pairs of cheap jeans, a size smaller this time, and a couple of T-shirts. Washing dishes was hot work. The new jeans were loose, too, and growing baggier by the day.

  She folded the bills and slid them into her front pocket, then retrieved her computer case from under the cabinet where she’d stored it safely away from spills and drips. She’d told Orel she was going to school nights, and everyone accepted the explanation. Her coworkers didn’t ask many personal questions, content to go their own way and not get involved with anyone. She preferred it that way, too.

  She left through the back door, stepping out into a littered alley. The wind wound its way even down this narrow little space, freshening the air. She inhaled deeply, thankful for a breath that didn’t bring the scent of garlic with it.

  Cautiously she looked both left and right, the computer case clutched tightly in one hand and her other hand on her knife. So far she hadn’t had any trouble, but she was prepared.

  She walked two blocks to a bus stop, where the next bus was due in about ten minutes. The late-afternoon sky was a clear, dark blue; the day was fresh and sweet, and there was a jauntiness to everyone’s step even this late in the day. Spring had definitely arrived, sending the temperature into the high seventies. Grace remembered her joy in the spring as she had walked across the Murchisons’ backyard—how long ago had it been? Two weeks? Three? Closer to three, she thought. It had been the twenty-seventh of April, the last day she had felt joy in life. She could see the clearness of the day, but it didn’t touch her heart. Inside, everything was bleak and barren, colorless.

  The bus arrived and she got on, paid her fare. The bus driver nodded to her. This was the sixth day in a row she’d gotten on at that stop, and he had learned her face. She would have to take a different bus for a while.

  She got off at the Newberry Library, one of the world’s foremost historical research libraries. She had waded through text after text of medieval history, in both books and computer files, looking for some mention of Niall of Scotland. So far she had learned a lot about medieval times, but hadn’t turned up one iota of information on the warrior Knight. She wasn’t discouraged, though, because she had barely scratched the surface of the available material.

  She went straight to the appropriate aisle and picked up where she had left off the night before, selecting several books and carrying them to an isolated table. Then she put on her glasses and began skimming, page by page, looking for any mention of anyone named Niall who had been connected to the Templars.

  She almost missed it.