He’d caught a break in that nothing important had happened in the city over the last four days-just the usual number of muggings and murders. There hadn’t been any terrorist attacks, no bicycle riders hurling bombs, no sensational happenings of any kind. Because things had been quiet, no one would be paying any attention to a back access to the video records from several days ago.
On the other hand, did he want to go to that much trouble before he even decided to take the job?
Hell, yes. For his own amusement, he wanted to know how she’d done it. He was even a little proud of her; she hadn’t let any grass grow under her feet. Salinas had seriously insulted her, and the very next day she’d taken action. He knew the banking hoops she would have had to jump through, knew the timing issues, because he’d played that game himself.
He was seldom amused, and never proud, so the fact that he actually felt both of those emotions was a little puzzling.
Or not. Another thing he didn’t do was play games with himself. The way he felt was directly tied to the admitted chemistry he’d had with her-not that chemistry would save her life if he decided to take the job. Attraction was one thing, but two million was two million.
Using his disposable cell phone, he placed the call. When the Brooklyn-accented voice answered with a terse
He didn’t identify himself; he didn’t need to. There was a long pause, then the voice said, “Simon.”
“Yes,” he said.
Another pause, then: “What do you need?”
There was no attempt to blow him off, or stall him. He hadn’t expected there to be. “I need access to the street cameras.”
“Live feed?”
“No, from four days ago. I know the starting point. After that-” An invisible shrug was evident in his tone. After that, his search could go in any direction, though after he did some background work on Drea he’d have a better idea of what she was likely to do.
“When do you need it?”
“Tonight.”
“You’ll have to come to my house.”
“What time’s best?” He could be considerate. In fact, he made an effort to be considerate; it didn’t cost him anything, and a little goodwill could one day make the difference between living or dying, escaping or getting captured.
“Around nine. The kids will be in bed by then.”
“I’ll be there.” He hung up, turned to his computer, and went to work.
Finding out Drea’s real name was Andrea Butts took no time at all. He wasn’t surprised that her name wasn’t Rousseau, though the “Butts” was a bit unexpected. He’d have been surprised if her name really had been Rousseau. Once he had her real name, he went into the DMV records and got her driver’s license information. Her Social Security number was a bit tougher, but he had it within an hour; after that her life was an open book.
She was thirty years old, born in Nebraska, never been married, no children. Her father had died a couple of years ago, and her mother…her mother was back in Drea’s hometown, so that was somewhere to check, even though he thought Drea was probably too smart to go back there. But she would be comfortable in the area, and she might contact her mother. There was one brother, Jimmy Ray Butts, in Texas, currently serving the third year of a five-year sentence for burglary, so she wouldn’t be going to him for anything.
That was it for immediate family; if he dug deeper he was likely to find aunts and uncles, cousins, maybe some high school friends. But Drea struck him as a loner, trusting no one except herself, depending on no one except herself.
He understood that philosophy. As far as philosophies went, it was the least likely to result in disappointment.
At exactly nine p.m. he leaned on the buzzer, and in a few seconds the Brooklyn-accented voice said “Yeah” in the same way he answered the phone.
The assassin said, “Simon,” and the door was buzzed open. The apartment was on the sixth floor, and he took the stairs instead of the elevator.
The apartment door opened as he approached, and a whippet-thin mixed-race man of about his own age gestured him inside. “Coffee?” he said, by way of both greeting and invitation. Scottie Jansen’s real first name was Shamar, but he’d been called Scottie most of his life, because kids in school had started calling him “Shamu” and thereafter he’d refused to answer to Shamar.
“No, I’m good. Thanks.”
“This way.”
As Scottie led the way into a cramped bedroom, his wife appeared in the kitchen door and said, “Don’t start something that’s gonna take you four hours to finish, because I’m going to bed at eleven.”
Simon turned and winked at her, and said, “I don’t mind,” and her tired face broke into a grin.
“Don’t even try sweet-talking me. I’m immune to it. Just ask Scottie.”
“Maybe you’re only immune to
She snorted and returned to the kitchen. “Close the door if you need privacy,” Scottie said, swiveling a battered office chair, the seat patched with duct tape, and plopping his skinny ass in it.
“No state secrets involved,” said Simon, and the unspoken words
Scottie flexed his long fingers like a concert pianist about to tackle a difficult score. He began typing commands, his keystrokes so fast they were a blur. Screens zipped past. Occasionally he stopped to stare at one, muttering under his breath the way all geeks seemed to do, then he’d continue. After a few minutes he said, “Okay, we’re in. What’s the starting point?”
Simon gave him the apartment building address, and the date, and parked his own ass on the foot of the bed, leaning forward so he could see. The room was small enough that they were almost shoulder to shoulder.
Unless you were watching either sex or assorted violence, there was nothing more boring than a surveillance tape. He told Scottie he was looking for a woman with long, blond, curly hair, and that helped, because he could speed through all the comings and goings of people who didn’t have long blond curls. Finally Simon spotted her and said, “There,” and Scottie immediately paused, then backtracked.
He watched Drea leave the building, carrying a large, bulging tote bag-he’d bet his life she had a change of clothes in there-and stumble as she got into a black Town Car. Scottie finessed the commands, skipping from camera to camera, following the car until it double-parked in front of the library. Drea got out, limping a little, and went in, and the car left.
Simon leaned closer to the screen, intently watching the exit. This would be where she changed. There were a number of things she could do with that mane of hair, but she would also need to ditch that light-colored jacket. What could she do to blend in with most New Yorkers? Wear black, that was what. And she’d pull her hair back, maybe stuff it under the back of her shirt, or wear something with a hood. A hood might be a tad unusual, given the heat, but people did weird shit all the time.
He looked for the shape of her body, the tote bag, anyone wearing black-which was almost everyone-any woman with her hair covered or slicked back.
He was gratified by the speed with which he spotted her. “There she is,” he said.
Scottie stopped the tape. “You sure?”
“I’m sure.” He knew every line of that body; he’d spent four hours kissing and stroking every square inch of it. It was her, beyond a doubt. She hadn’t wasted any time; she was out within ten minutes, maybe even before her driver found a parking space nearby. Her hair was darker, maybe she’d wet it, and it was slicked back, she was wearing head to toe black, and she walked without a trace of a limp, striding along without a hint of sway or jiggle.
She didn’t make it easy for Scottie. She walked a few blocks, got a taxi, and after she got out of the taxi she walked a few more blocks before snagging another ride. She zigzagged her way across the city, but finally she entered the Holland Tunnel and the network of cameras lost her. Still, the fact that she’d used the Holland instead
