Cross

couples I know.
    “
Wow,
” I said, and winked when I saw her gliding across the dining room. She had on flats, possibly because she’s five foot ten without them, or maybe just because she’s sane and can’t stand the discomfort of heels.
    “Wow, yourself! You look good too, Alex. And this
view.
I love this place.”
    I had asked to be seated at a bank of windows overlooking Rock Creek Park, and it was kind of spectacular, I had to admit. The same could be said for Kayla, who was decked out in a white silk jacket with a beige camisole, long black pants, and a pretty gold sash tied around her waist, gently falling off to the side.
    We ordered a bottle of Pinot Noir and then had a terrific meal, highlighted by a black-bean-and-goat-cheese pâté that we shared; her arctic char, my au poivre rib eye; and bittersweet chocolate praline crumble for two. Everything about the New Heights Restaurant worked great for us: the cherry trees out front, in bloom in the fall; some pretty interesting local art up on the walls; delicious cooking smells—fennel, roasted garlic—permeating the dining room; candlelight just about everywhere our eyes went. Mostly, though, my eyes were on Kayla, usually on her eyes, which were deep brown, beautiful, and intelligent.
    After dinner, she and I took a walk across the Duke Ellington Bridge toward Adams Morgan and Columbia Road. We stopped at one of my favorite stores in Washington, Crooked Beat Records, and I bought some Alex Chilton and Coltrane for her from Neil Becton, one of the owners and an old friend who once wrote for the
Post.
Then Kayla and I wound up in Kabani Village, just a few steps from the street. We had mojitos and watched a theater workshop for the next hour.
    On the walk back to my car we held hands and continued to talk up a storm. Then Kayla kissed me—on the cheek.
    I didn’t know
what
to make of that. “Thank you for the night,” she said. “It was perfect, Alex. Just like you.”
    “It was nice, wasn’t it?” I said, still reeling a little from the sisterly kiss.
    She smiled. “I’ve never seen you so relaxed.”
    I think it was the best thing she could have said, and it sort of made up for the kiss on the cheek. Sort of.
    Then Kayla kissed me on the mouth, and I kissed her back. That was much better, and so was the rest of the night at her apartment in Capitol Hill. For a few hours anyway, it felt like my life was starting to make some sense again.

Chapter 43
    THE BUTCHER HAD always felt that Venice, Italy, was kind of overrated, to be honest.
    But nowadays, with the unending onslaught of tourists, especially the rush of arrogant, hopelessly naive Americans, anyone with a quarter of a brain would have to agree with him. Or maybe not, since most people he knew were complete imbeciles when you came right down to it. He’d learned that by the time he was fifteen and out on the streets of Brooklyn, after he’d run away from home for the third or fourth time as an adolescent, a troubled youth, a victim of circumstances, or maybe just a born psychopath.
    He had arrived outside Venice by car and parked in the Piazzale Roma. Then, as he hurried to catch a water taxi to his destination, he could see the excitement, or maybe even reverence for Venice, on nearly every face he passed.
Dumbasses and sheep.
Not one of them had ever entertained an original idea or come to a conclusion without the aid of a stupid guidebook. Still, even he had to admit that the cluster of ancient villas slowly sinking into the swamp could be visually arresting in the right light, especially at a distance.
    Once he was on board the water taxi, though, he thought of nothing but the job ahead—
Martin and Marcia Harris.
    Or so their unsuspecting neighbors and friends in Madison, Wisconsin, believed. It didn’t matter who the couple
really
was—though Sullivan knew their identity. More important, they represented a hundred thousand dollars already deposited in his Swiss account, plus expenses, for just a couple days’ work. He was considered one of the most successful assassins in the world, and you got what you paid for, except maybe in L.A. restaurants. He’d been a little surprised when he was hired by John Maggione, but it was good to be working.
    The water taxi docked at Rio di San Moisè, off the Grand Canal, and Sullivan made his way past narrow shops and museums to sprawling St. Mark’s Square. He was in radio contact with a spotter, and he’d learned that the Harrises