Six months earlier: Tues., Dec. 13, 5:07 p.m.
Paul took his third MetaboSlim before leaving work, washing it down with the remains of his afternoon tea. The diet pills were working incredibly well and he was down a pound since Saturday. They also gave him an energy and confidence he’d never had before. Tonight he would need both. Camille had noticed the change in him that afternoon and had commented that he seemed “perky.”
He would have preferred a more masculine adjective, but for someone who’d spent his life on the sidelines, it was great to be noticed. He’d asked Camille for the name of the gym where she worked out and decided he would join. He was beginning to understand that his makeover had to be more than just physical. He needed a social overhaul as well, and joining a fitness club seemed like a good start.
Outside, he peeled off his tie just to be rid of it and walked nine blocks to the nearby gym, battling a cold wind the whole way. His iCom beeped as he arrived at the new facility, so he stood in the lobby and answered it.
“It’s Isabel. Did I catch you at a bad time?”
“No, sorry. I’m hungry, that’s all. How are you?”
“I’m okay, but feeling tired. I’m a little worried about you. Why haven’t you called lately?”
“I’m sorry. I’ve been busy at work and have a lot on my mind. But I’m doing great. I’ve decided to get a nose job.” For some reason he hadn’t told her before. Maybe because it still didn’t seem real.
“Oh Paul.” She hesitated. “I think you’re perfect the way you are, but if it’ll make you happy, then I’m happy for you.”
“Thanks. I’m pretty excited about it.” The woman at the counter signaled him. “I’ve got to go now. I’m joining a gym. I’ll see you Sunday for dinner.”
“A gym? What’s going on? Have you met a girl?”
“I can’t talk about it yet.”
“Okay, but soon. Bye, sweetie.”
Paul spent half an hour touring the facility with a tiny Asian woman, then clenched his teeth and signed a year contract. He hated to spend the money but the wild weather made outdoor exercise nearly impossible and he knew his VEx had limitations.
When he finally arrived home, he took Lilly out for a few minutes, then scarfed down a chicken salad for dinner. Having food in his stomach took the edge off his irritation and he relaxed in front of his NetCom. First, he searched for a cosmetic dentist, then he watched a live cam of a woman in Montana who raised and trained Great Danes. Paul loved the creatures but the thought of owning such a big dog intimidated him. He stroked Lilly as he watched the woman teach a Brindle to sit and wait for permission to eat. “We’re not like that here,” he reassured his little pet.
At eight o’clock, Paul grabbed his wig and mustache from the back of the closet and stuffed them into a backpack. He changed into a pair of dark blue athletic pants and a zip-up jacket, which he’d purchased for the occasion. No one who knew him-and he could count those people on one hand-would ever connect him to someone dressed this way. Now that he belonged to a gym, that might change in the future. He’d arranged the meet for nine o’clock and hoped no one in his complex would see him go out.
By the time he climbed on the bus, the diet pill had reached its maximum potency and Paul’s nervousness faded. He rode to the corner of Florida and Holbrook and headed for a nearby gas station, where he planned to use the restroom. The once-bustling business had only one car at the pump. The dirty metal door on the side of the building was locked, and Paul had to ask for the key. The semi-bald guy in the station booth barely looked at him, and Paul was momentarily grateful for his bland appearance.
He pulled on his disguise and checked his iCom for the time: 8:47 p.m. He headed back out and circled behind the gas station so the attendant wouldn’t see him in the shoulder-length wig, then walked in the direction of the Pizza Hut, where the transfer would take place. If Rathmore had followed directions, he would be there now, sitting in a booth near the door with his back to the entrance. A manila envelope would be on the table, where Paul could simply grab it, turn, and leave. This meet was simpler and less cautious than the previous mission, but Rathmore had followed directions last time, so Paul was less worried about a confrontation now.
The rich aroma of melted cheese and sizzling pepperoni hit his nostrils as soon as he stepped through the glass door, yet neither his brain nor his stomach responded with a craving. Again, Paul was impressed with the MetaboSlim supplements.
Only three tables in the restaurant were occupied, but his eyes were drawn to the one filled with an African American woman in her late twenties and three small children. The group seemed noisy and happy, but Paul thought it was too late for school-age children to be out having dinner.
In the booth nearest the door, he saw the back and shoulders of a tall man. Paul couldn’t be certain it was Rathmore, but the guy had the same short gray hair and long pale neck. The man didn’t turn at the sound of the door closing. Excellent. Paul took three quick steps, bringing him parallel with the back of the booth. He stopped abruptly, grabbed the manila envelope from the table, and spun back around.
As he strode toward the door, a child’s voice called out, “Hey, that man stole something!”
His nerves jumped at the sound, so Paul shoved the parcel inside his jacket, pushed opened the glass door, and pulled up his zipper. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Rathmore rise from the booth. Damn! Was he coming after him? Or pretending to be for the sake of the restaurant’s other patrons? Paul broke into a casual jog, like a man trying to burn a few calories. He heard the jingle of the restaurant door open and close behind him, then the sound of footsteps picking up pace.
Paul sped up, heading for Tennessee Avenue. He’d planned to catch a bus after the drop, but now he just wanted to lose Rathmore. Few businesses were open and he saw nowhere to duck into. He rounded a corner and tried to plan an escape as he ran. The footsteps pounded behind, Rathmore’s long legs closing the gap, his pursuer silent and determined.
Feeling unnerved, yet strangely exhilarated, Paul charged toward Maryland Avenue, where he thought he could catch a bus or taxi. A couple came out of a lounge and stared as Paul and his pursuer raced by. As he reached the corner, Rathmore caught up to him and grabbed his jacket. He tried to jerk free, but the man hung on. Nerves bursting, Paul finally spun around and shoved Rathmore with all his might.
To his surprise, the taller man went down on his butt and cried out in pain. Paul turned and ran, pushing past a group of homeless women to round the corner. No footsteps came after him. He kept running, and two blocks later, waved down a cab.
“You okay?” the driver asked, as Paul climbed in, breathing heavily.
“Yeah. I almost got mugged.”
“You need a weapon.” The cabbie, a middle-eastern looking man, grinned at him in the rearview mirror.
“I think you’re right.”
Back in his apartment, Paul dumped the envelope on his kitchen table and was relieved to see a bundle of cash fall out. When he counted the hundred-dollar bills, he realized Rathmore had shorted him $1,700. What the hell?
Disappointed, but still pleased to have another $8,300 to fund his makeover, Paul wondered how he should handle the shortage. He was tempted to mess with Rathmore’s files, let him struggle a little to explain himself in the interview. As he got ready for bed, Paul decided to let it go. Rathmore had paid $18,300 for the possibility of a better job, and Paul realized there were others just like him.
Chapter 14
Mon., May 8, 9:05 p.m.
Lara reacted first like a paramedic, kneeling next to the victim and pressing two fingers against Kirsten’s neck. She had no pulse. Christ. Lara flashed back to how she and Kirsten had worked together just that afternoon to shove a long pole into a bizarre door key. Now this vibrant young woman was gone. Lara tried not to think about the victim’s parents and how they would react to the tragic news. This time she would not be the one to tell them.
She spotted parallel burn marks in the V above Kirsten’s plunging neckline. Her roommate had been hit by a stun gun.
