Fuller looks down at his bare feet, sees some blood caked on his toenails. He digs his wallet out of his pocket and flashes tin.
'Police business. Get your rent-a-dick face outta mine or I'll beat your ass right here.'
The guard gives him steely eyes, but backs down. Fuller uses his star to get to the front of the line.
'I need to open my security box. Now.'
The clerk gets him some assistance, and Fuller is ushered off into the vault. They turn their keys in unison.
'I'll need a bag.'
The clerk returns a few moments later with a paper sack, then leaves him alone. Fuller empties out the contents of the box: a 9mm Beretta and three extra clips, six grand in cash -- shakedowns from his patrolman days -- a forged passport in the name of Barry Eisler. He stuffs everything into the bag and exits the bank.
A meter maid is writing him a ticket.
'Sorry, sister. I'm on the job.'
She eyes his feet, skeptical. He shows her his star, climbs into the truck, and peels away.
Mexico has tougher extradition laws, so Mexico it is. He spends a few minutes on the phone with an airline, reserves a seat on the next flight to Cancun. It leaves in three hours.
Just enough time to pack and take care of some important business.
Fuller doesn't want to get caught. He knows what happens to cops in prison. If they're on to him, they'll be staking out his house.
But he can't leave the country without killing that bitch he married. That just wouldn't do.
He dials home, rehearsing the lines in his head.
'Hello?'
'Hi, Holly. It's me.'
'What do you want?'
No fear in her tone. No nervousness or hesitation.
'Everything okay, babe? You sound strange.'
'Everything is not okay. These damn curtains are driving me insane. How could we have lived with them for so long, Barry? They're hideous.'
So far, she seems normal.
'Hon, I'm expecting some guys from the office to drop by later. Are they there yet?'
'Nope.'
'Maybe parked out front?'
'Why would they be parked out front?'
'Can you check for me, babe? It's important.'
'Just a second.' Rustling, footsteps. 'I'm looking at the street. No one out front.'
Fuller considers this. Maybe they haven't found out about him yet. Maybe he can go home, do the bitch, and be able to pack his bags and some things.
He instantly rejects the idea as too dangerous.
'Baby, do you remember where we bought our bedroom set?'
'Sure. Why?'
'Meet me there in an hour.'
'What for?'
Fuller smiles. 'We're shopping for curtains.'
'Really?'
'Really. Oh, and bring me a change of clothes and some shoes.'
'Why? What are you talking about?'
'Long story. Some street lunatic threw up on me, and I'm wearing my workout sweats. Just bring me shorts, a T-shirt, and my Nikes. Meet me in Home Furnishings.'
'Okay, Barry. See you in an hour.'
Fuller puts the cell phone away and turns right, heading for State Street. He'll kill her inside Marshall Field's. She's a clotheshorse, and it won't take much to get her to try on an outfit. He'll break her neck in one of the dressing rooms. It's not the fillet knife that he always wanted to use, but it should be satisfying enough.
Hands-on treatment always is.
Chapter 19
'She's on the move.'
Holly Fuller walked out of her apartment building and hailed a Yellow Cab.
