4.

Patrick and Krystal were enjoying cocktails on the outdoor terrace of the hotel. It was one of those fall days borrowed from June, full of soft mild sunlight. Hotel guests who passed by looked admiringly at the elegant young woman and the slightly dissipated but attractive middle-aged man with her. Krystal's long blonde hair flowed to her shoulders. It gleamed in the sun. She was wearing a white sundress from some fashion designer or other, and high heeled white sandals on her perfectly pedicured slender bare feet. She wore a gold and diamond bracelet and gold hoop earrings as her only ornaments. Patrick could not help comparing her to Lisbon (for she was now Lisbon again to him)who had no interest in clothes or jewelry; she wore only the gold cross her mother had given her, and she had refused to accept an emerald necklace and earrings that he had bought for her with his winnings at the poker table. She felt it would be improper, and Patrick didn't think she would wear the jewels even if she had accepted them. So he had taken them back, and he had kept them in a safe deposit box, waiting for the day he would offer them to her again and see her delighted face as she accepted them this time.

But since their quarrel, Lisbon no longer seemed as attractive to him. She was being stubborn, prissy, rigid, and unfair. And she didn't know how to dress. Even in a professional work suit, she always looked like she bought the cheapest garment off the rack. Of course she can't afford designer clothes, he thought, but she could have her clothes tailored to accentuate her petite and slender form. Lisbon's body was just as beautiful as that of the much younger blonde siren he'd taken to bed the night before. But Lisbon didn't want him. She'd made that clear. So, even though it had been Fischer's idea that he seduce Krystal for information, he didn't see why he shouldn't enjoy it.

Enjoy it he did, and she did as well. They spent a feverish night coupling in the throes of alcohol-induced passion. And, in Krystal's case, cocaine. She'd laid out the thin white lines of powder and offered it to him, but he refused. He couldn't wear a wire, so he had to get his evidence another way. He distracted her while he took a surreptitious photo of the cocaine on his cell phone. This only proved that she was a user. He suspected that she had something to do with the killings of the DEA agents. He'd been studying her and was convinced that she had killed before. He saw through her façade, cleverly maintained, of a naive woman attempting to appear sophisticated, a guileless beauty in search of thrills. She was an assassin; he just hadn't figured out yet how she did it. He liked her for all three murders. She was in the employ of a drug kingpin, that much was certain, someone who had a brilliant cover and many layers of "people" who served him and kept him isolated from the public except when he wanted visibility.

Krystal ordered two more vodka martinis. Patrick drank just enough not to make her suspicious.

"Mmmm, Patrick, this is so nice," she cooed, flipping her hair over her shoulder. "I bet you've done this with hundreds of other girls. You remind me of James Bond."

"Not so many. And believe me, I'm no James Bond."

"But you have some mysterious identity."

"Not so mysterious either."

"Who are you really?"

"Exactly who I said I am. Eccentric and bored millionaire, whiling away the time with booze and a beautiful woman. I might just make you a permanent fixture."

"What if I don't want to be?" But her eyes were teasing him.

"Suit yourself. You're a free woman. Free to go any time."

"But why would I go? I really, really like you, Patrick."

Patrick only smiled and said nothing in reply.

"What do you say we go back to the room and fuck some more?" Her eyes glinted with artificial lust.

"Now you're talking."

Patrick took her arm, kissed her neck and inhaled her fragrance, a floral which he could swear was an aphrodisiac. They spent the afternoon in bed, he had a few more drinks and she had more cocaine. At length, Krystal stretched and said, "I have to make a phone call. Be right back." She went out on the balcony and closed the sliding glass doors. He could see that she was on the phone with someone, but couldn't hear what she was saying.

Meanwhile, he had dressed, carefully concealing the small handgun he carried.

He was searching the floor for the socks Lisbon had given him when he sensed Krystal's return to the room. He turned and stood up, only to see her holding a gun on him.

"OK, Mr. Jane, game over," she said, her smile a sneer. "I know you're FBI. And you're here to find out who I work for, but I'm afraid he's a lot smarter than you. He's keeping a low profile."

Patrick raised his hands slowly over his head.

"It won't do you any good to kill me. I have no useful information regarding your boss. I'm only a consultant. Agents Fischer and Abbott are in charge of this investigation. They are at this very moment tracking my whereabouts and there are dozens of agents spread out in the area. You will be caught."

"I wouldn't bet money on that," said Krystal, still holding the gun on him.

"You're a malignant narcissist and you have to have the spotlight. You actually want to get caught so that the world appreciates your prowess in blowing an FBI consultant's cover. Not that great a coup. Now, holding Abbott or Fischer at gunpoint, that's something to brag about. But not me. I'm nobody."

"You got that right. And you'll be less than nobody very shortly."

From behind her, a woman's voice said menacingly: "Drop the gun. Drop it now."

It was Teresa Lisbon. On her heels was Kim Fischer. Both brandished weapons at Krystal, who sullenly put the gun down on the coffee table. Swiftly, Lisbon moved in and cuffed her.

"Nice work, Jane," said Kim Fischer with a wide smile and blank android eyes.

Lisbon said nothing. She led the suspect into the elevator leading to the FBI van parked outside the hotel.

Patrick watched Lisbon ignoring him and felt a pang of remorse. He hoped she'd never find out about what he'd done with Krystal. Her mind was penetrating enough to guess. OK, so she guesses-she still doesn't have to know I enjoyed it! Probably done it with that bastard Johnson by now. Really have to get a phone trace on him.

Time for that little meeting with Wiley.

He suddenly noticed the socks balled up in the pants he'd thrown in a heap on the floor.

Damn her.