How naive he’d been about the act of shooting a man to death. In his most recent thriller, he’d described a character’s shooting of a vagrant. The killing was random—no motive, no weapon left at the scene, and nothing that tied the killer to his victim. The fictional police investigation had gone nowhere and it should have been written off as the perfect crime. Naturally, a mistake was made, a minor matter. In the end, the killer wasn’t caught, but he endured a nasty fate of the sort only a novelist could cook up. Jon realized now how completely he’d misunderstood the act of taking another man’s life. It was simple, of no consequence. The only surprise had been the sound Michael Sutton made when he realized what was going on. Jon would have to struggle to erase the quick cry.

He tucked the gun in his waistband, poured another scotch, and carried it with him to the garage, where he climbed the steps to his studio. He had a few things to pack yet. Other than that, he was ready to rock and roll. Over the past two years, he’d gradually moved all his money to an offshore account, starting with the ten grand his father had left him. Lionel had unwittingly bequeathed him more than he intended. During the confusion in the days following his father’s fatal heart attack, Jon had had the foresight to remove Lionel’s passport from the jumble in his desk drawer. Mona never even noticed it was gone. He’d held on to it until it was due to expire and then filled out an application for renewal, which he’d submitted with two small photographs of himself. He’d donned his father’s glasses so the resemblance was close enough. Jon took a certain satisfaction in appropriating his father’s identity.

As a boy, he’d worshiped his dad, proud that he was a college professor. Many times he’d sat in on his father’s classes and marveled at how knowledgeable he was. Students were enraptured, laughing at his droll observations, scribbling down his witticisms, as well as the dense bits of information embedded in his lectures. His father had written two books published by a well-known university press. At cocktail parties, when Jon was a kid, he’d linger on the periphery of those gathered, listening to his dad tell anecdotes about famous literary figures.

After Jon’s mother died and Lionel and Mona married, his father’s output had leveled off. He’d written two more books, which hadn’t sold well, and a third he’d been forced to publish himself. For years he was still sought after on the lecture circuit, and he was paid well for his appearances, but Jon had heard the same talk, with the same wry pauses to allow for the polite laughter at the mildly amusing jokes. By the time Lionel died, Jon saw him as shrunken and weak. Mona had sucked the light right out of him.

Meticulously, he went back over his preparations. He had almost a hundred thousand dollars, in hundreds, packed in two body wallets that scarcely showed under his sport coat. For two thousand dollars he’d bought an airline ticket, one-way, first class, to Caracas, Venezuela. Once there he’d purchase another ID—driver’s license, passport, and birth certificate—and retire both the Jon Corso and Lionel Corso identities. After he found a place to settle, he’d write his next book and submit it to a New York literary agent, under a fictitious name. He knew whom he’d approach, a woman who’d turned him down when he was desperate for an agent early in his career. She’d jump at the chance to take on a Jon Corso-style writer, having forfeited a fortune by rejecting the original.

He shrugged into a windbreaker and slid the gun in his right pocket. How nice that an item he’d stolen from a neighbor twenty-one years before had now set him free. By the time the police put it all together, if they ever managed it, he’d be long gone and, he hoped, impossible to trace. He folded and packed his favorite sport coat, his raincoat, and six shirts just back from the cleaner’s. He went into the bathroom, added a few toiletries to his Dopp kit, and tucked it in the suitcase as well. His second bag was already closed and waiting downstairs near the front door. He sat down at his desk and called Walker at work.

As soon as Walker picked up, Jon said, “Michael Sutton just called. He wants to meet.”

“Meet with us? Why?”

“How do I know? Maybe he wants to make a deal. We pay up and he keeps his mouth shut.”

“A shakedown?”

Jon kept his tone matter-of-fact. “Now that he knows where you work, it doesn’t seem out of the question.”

“Shit. I told you he was trouble.”

“We don’t know that. Maybe we can come to an agreement.”

“A deal? How long would that last? We give him money now, it’s only a matter of time before he comes around for more.”