More Twisted

scissors, slit her arm and jammed a fragment of shattered bullet into the wound. Then she staggered downstairs to await the police. Ron’s brother and sister-in-law would arrive as soon as possible, of course, and she’d kill them too, making it look like the same man was behind their deaths.
    Planned perfectly . . .
    But, of course, while plans can be perfect, the execution—so to speak—never is.
    My God, a real hit man—the guy in the Jeep—had showed up, trying to take her out.
    The best she could figure was that one of her enemies—she’d made plenty over the years—had recognized her from the news about Ron, despite her effort not to be photographed in public and her changed appearance.
    Or maybe it had nothing to do with Priscilla Endicott; maybe the man’s goal was to kill Mrs. Kitty Larkin. Hired by a former mistress of Larkin’s? she wondered. Or a jilted girlfriend?
    She gave a bitter laugh at the irony. Here, the police and State Department were protecting her from a killer—just not the particular killer they believed him to be.
    Priscilla now dialed a number on her mobile (she wouldn’t trust a hotel phone).
    “Hello?” a man answered.
    “It’s me.”
    “My God, what the hell is going on? I see the stories—somebody’s after you ?”
    “Relax.”
    “Who the hell is he?”
    “I don’t know for sure. I did a job in the Congo last year and one of the targets got away. Maybe him.”
    “So he has nothing to do with us?”
    “No.”
    “But what’re we going to do about it?”
    “You sound panicked,” Priscilla said.
    “Of course I’m panicking. What—”
    “Take a deep breath.”
    “What’re we going to do?” he repeated, sounding even more panicked.
    “I say we have a goddamn good laugh about it.”
    Silence. Maybe he thought she was hysterical. Then he asked, “What do you mean?”
    “Our biggest problem has always been giving the police another suspect, somebody other than you and me.”
    “Right.”
    “Well, now we’ve got one. Peter and his wife’ll be at their town house in about an hour. I’ll sneak out of where I am now, kill them and get back before I’m missed. They’ll think the guy in the Jeep did it. He’s not stupid. When he hears that they’re looking for him for the homicide, he’ll probably take off. I’ll be safe, you’ll be safe.”
    The man was quiet for a moment. Then gave a brief chuckle. “It could work,” he said.
    “It will work. What’s the status of the second installment?”
    “In your account.”
    “Good. I won’t call again. Just watch the news. Oh, one thing. I don’t know if it’s going to bother you . . . . It seems that Peter’s daughter just got into town from college. She’ll be with them when I get there.”
    The man didn’t hesitate before asking, “What’s the problem with that?”
    “I guess that means,” Priscilla said, “that there isn’t one.”

    Two hours later the woman slipped out the side door of the hotel, unseen by the desk clerk. She’d taken a cab to a street corner two blocks from the town house of Peter and Sandra Larkin, then walked the rest of the way.
    The wealthy lifestyle of these particular targets, with their private homes in Manhattan, was very helpful. Getting into a doorman building unseen could be a bitch.
    She paused outside the town house and looked into her purse, checking the weapon, which she’d retrieved from the TV in the bedroom of Ron Larkin’s town house when she’d gone there to pack her suitcases earlier.
    She now climbed the stairs, looked up and down the street. No one. She pulled on latex gloves and pressed the buzzer.
    A moment later.
    “Hello?”
    “Peter, it’s Kitty. I have to see you.”
    “Oh, Kitty,” the brother said. “We weren’t expecting you till tomorrow. But we’re glad you’re here. Come on up. We’re all in the living room. Second floor. The door’s open. Come on in.”
    The buzz of the door lock echoed through the misty night.
    Priscilla pushed inside.
    She was thinking of the sequence. If they were all together, hit the most dangerous target first and fast: Thatwould be any bodyguards. And the daughter’s boyfriend, if there was one. Then Peter Larkin. He was a large man and could be a threat. A head shot for him. Then the daughter, who’d be younger and possibly more athletic. Finally the wife.
    Then she’d leave more of the planted evidence to link this killing to Ron’s: the steroids, the dark curly hairs (stolen