“I’m telling you, I didn’t-” Rafael stopped, breathing hard, as an awful possibility began dawning on him. Despite the sudden feeling in his gut, his brain automatically rejected the idea. It wasn’t possible. Drea was computer literate enough to order stuff off the Internet, but that was about it-and even then, Orlando had had to walk her through the process several times before she grasped that all she had to do was follow whatever instructions were on the screen. She’d had it in her head that whatever she’d done on one website was what she had to do on every site.
Rafael remembered how she’d kept saying helplessly, “But it doesn’t make sense!” Was he supposed to think this same woman somehow got around his password protection and into his bank account, transferred out almost all of his cash into her account, then promptly moved it yet again to God knows where? The Drea he knew not only wouldn’t have been able to do it, she wouldn’t even have thought of it.
Her attitude toward money had been almost like a child’s. She’d never asked him for a penny. The way she looked at it, if she had plastic, or a checkbook, then she had money. If he hadn’t kept track of her account himself, she’d have had overdrafts all over the place, because she never paid any attention to her balance.
To accept that she could possibly have done this was to accept that she’d duped him, duped everyone, for two years. His ego violently rejected that, because he wasn’t a dupe, he was Rafael Salinas, and anyone who had ever tried to dupe him had died regretting it. He trusted no one. He’d had Drea investigated, he’d had her followed, and he’d kept a check on her. Not once had she said or done anything that would make him think she was anything other than exactly what she appeared, which was sweet and dumb.
“I’ll get back to you,” he said abruptly to Flores, and ended the call. He stared hard at Orlando, who was staring back at him. “Tell me how this could have happened. Tell me how someone got into my bank account and ripped me off to the tune of two fucking million dollars.”
“It had to be done from here,” Orlando said. He clicked on the computer’s history, and there it was, plainly showing that someone, using Drea’s computer, had accessed the bank’s website. “On the receiving end, both your laptop and hers would show the same IP address, because they go through the same router. If she got your password, as far as the bank’s concerned, you’re the one who made the transfer.”
“I didn’t give her the password,” Rafael snapped. “I never wrote it down, either.” Not even Orlando knew what his password was.
“She got it somehow.” Orlando kept his expression blank as he pointed out the obvious. “If you ever accessed the account while she was in the room, she might have paid enough attention to figure out the keystrokes.”
“This is
“That much money’s a powerful motivation, and the proof is right here.” Orlando tapped the computer screen. “I don’t think anybody grabbed her, I think she took the money and ran.”
Rafael stood there, rage and humiliation burning through him. He’d let himself care about her, and the slut had played him for a fool. He never should have let his guard down, never for a minute let himself believe that she cared at all about him. She had to be the best actress in the world, to keep up that act for two years without a single slip, to produce all those tears the day before yesterday. And he’d fallen for it; that was what ate at him like acid. He’d bought the whole enchilada, fooled himself into thinking she really loved him, hell, even that
She’d pay for this. No matter what it cost him, she’d pay.
“She can’t run far enough,” he said flatly. He’d like to take her apart with his bare hands, but he’d learned to put some distance between himself and the actual act, so even if he ordered it, he had some deniability. He could do without killing her himself, so long as he knew she was dead. He might regret not having the satisfaction of personally meting out justice, but vengeance would do almost as well, and he knew exactly how he was going to get it.
THE ASSASSIN WAITED three days after receiving Salinas ’s latest summons before he got in touch. He wasn’t doing anything else, but he was in the mood for some downtime and he was an independent contractor, not one of the bastard’s employees. Whatever Salinas wanted could wait.
He didn’t trust the summons; it came too soon after his afternoon with Drea. Maybe Salinas had changed his mind about the offer and was, in retrospect, feeling as if his machismo had taken a hit. It had taken a lot more than a hit, but the assassin didn’t think Salinas had figured that out yet. Drea was too good at what she did; she’d keep quiet about how much pleasure she’d gotten out of the deal.
So he waited, and he watched. He was as curious as ever about Salinas ’s future plans, but while he didn’t have many virtues, patience was one he possessed in abundance. Something was going on; he could tell by the expressions on the faces of Salinas ’s goons, on Salinas himself. The assassin had observed the man coming and going several times, and it was obvious he was in a bitch of a bad mood.
When he judged Salinas had waited long enough, he first indulged himself with a leisurely tour of the Metropolitan Museum, which was one of his favorite places in New York. He didn’t mind the tourists, or the gaggles of children; the exhibits were their own reward. When he was finished, he stood on the broad steps and made the call.
“Come to the penthouse,” Salinas ordered. “When can you be here?”
“I’m nearby,” the assassin said calmly, “but it’s a nice day. Bethesda Terrace, in half an hour.” He disconnected, then turned off his phone and slipped it into his pocket. Not only would Salinas have trouble setting up an ambush in such a short time, but the Terrace was a public place, full of both tourists and city residents. It was also wide open, so his avenue of approach wouldn’t be limited. From there he could disappear into the depths of Central Park, should Salinas be of a mind to have him followed.
He had no idea exactly where Salinas was, so half an hour might be an impossible deadline for him to meet. For himself, though, Bethesda Terrace was a pleasant walk. If Salinas was up in the penthouse, he’d have plenty of time to get there. If he was across town…tough. For something important, he’d make contact again.
The assassin enjoyed making things difficult for the bastard, even in such a small way. Pleasure came where he found it, though, so he followed both his instinct to play it safe, and his inclination to jerk Salinas ’s chain.
He walked into the park, pausing to get an ice-cream cone. Though he knew the park fairly well, he nevertheless bought a map, and spent a few minutes studying it because he liked to know exactly what his options were if he happened to need one. He kept the map in his hand, knowing Salinas would spot it, and draw the conclusion that the assassin didn’t live locally and therefore wasn’t familiar with the layout of the park. The conclusion would be half right, because he didn’t really
He found a vantage point and watched. If he saw anything that looked suspicious, he’d call off the meet. He knew Salinas wouldn’t meet him alone; a man like that couldn’t afford to go anywhere without his muscle in attendance. The assassin didn’t worry about the thugs he could see, though; it was the ones who weren’t out in the open that he looked for.
Finally he saw Salinas, only a couple of minutes late, and with three men behind him. The assassin studied the surroundings, but didn’t see anything suspicious: he knew many of Salinas ’s men on sight, so he didn’t have to rely only on behavior in judging whether or not it was safe to approach. No one appeared to be lurking without reason, no one seemed to be trying to stay out of sight. Finally he left his own concealment and strolled forward, still eating his ice cream.
Salinas was irritably checking his watch when he looked up and saw the assassin. “You’re late,” he snarled as he gestured his men back.
“Long line at the ice-cream stand,” the assassin said lazily. “What’s up?”
Salinas looked around, then took an old-fashioned transistor radio from his pocket and turned it on. The volume was loud, so loud that if Salinas hadn’t taken a step closer, the assassin couldn’t have heard him.
“Drea stole two million bucks from me, four days ago, and took a powder. I want you to find her and take care of the matter. Permanently.”
A rivulet of melted ice cream trickled down the cone. The assassin caught it with his tongue, hiding his surprise. “You sure? She didn’t seem bright enough-though I guess that would be the proof, right?”
“I’m sure.” Salinas gave a grim smile. “And, yeah, on the list of stupid things to do, ripping me off is right at the top.”
