y said something else, his words so slurred that McCann couldn't make them out, and he shoved his right hand deep into the pocket of his shabby blazer. In the unrelenting wash of the flood-lights, the shape in that pocket looked threatening.As promised, McCann didn't bother with another warning. His job was to protect Mrs. Cameron and her property. Since he didn't hear sirens yet, and Willy hadn't arrived to provide backup, he squeezed the trigger, and the.38 in his hand boomed.The shot tore into the man's left side. He staggered back, pulling his right hand out of the pocket with something clutched in it. McCann fired once more, twitching the barrel just a little. The second shot hit the man dead center, and he crumpled and went down.McCann let him lie there for a few moments, until he stopped moving. There was, in fact, something clutched in the man's fist, but it wasn't a weapon after all. It was a slip of paper.McCann heard sirens now. He crouched beside the guy, used the barrel of his gun to nudge the hand enough to see what the paper was. It was maybe five inches square, torn from something else, maybe a menu. Most of it was covered in penciled writing, every bit as unreadable as the man's spoken words had been impossible to decipher. But on top of the pencil were other words, written with black ink in what looked like a woman's hand. A couple of words stood out, and some numbers, and McCann realized he was looking at directions to the estate and the combination code for the front gate.Someone had sent him there.He pocketed his weapon and backed away, taking deep breaths once he got past the nimbus of stink surrounding the dead man. The cops would be there in seconds, and he didn't want to be crouching there with a
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