was like becoming an orphan all over again. Moments later, Liza came through the front door, and saw that he was weeping.
“Oh, Peter, I’m so sorry,” she said, and hugged him until the aching pain went away.
23
Langston Turnbull was a retired shopkeeper from Wales who’d had the misfortune of being the same height and build as Wolfe. Wolfe had spotted Turnbull on the beach in sunny Spain while on vacation, and later drowned him so he could steal the Welshman’s passport. The passport contained the only photo Wolfe had of the dead man. Physically, they shared much in common. Facially, not as much. Turnbull had sandy hair, a round face with flared nostrils, and wrinkles. Wolfe looked nothing like him.
That was about to change.
Wolfe waited until dusk before leaving his hotel. The police knew what he looked like, and would eventually track him down. By turning himself into Turnbull, he could check into another hotel under his new identity, and stay out of the law’s grasp.
There was a Duane Reade drugstore on every block in New York. Entering the branch on Eighth Avenue near his hotel, Wolfe glanced at his reflection in the window. His face was swollen and bruised, and would only draw further attention to himself.
He grabbed a shopping basket and started his search. The aisles were jammed with merchandise. How anyone could find what they were looking for was beyond him.
He heard the tiniest of noises. Someone had crept up behind him. Based upon the sound their feet had made, the person stood about five-two, and weighed a hundred pounds.
He spun around. “Yes?”
A diminutive Hispanic woman in a blue store uniform stood behind him. The last time someone had snuck up on him like that, he’d punctured their windpipe.
“I’m Carmella, the store supervisor,” she said. “Can I help you?”
“Your store’s layout is confusing.”
“Tell me what you want, and I’ll help you find it.”
Carmella guided him up and down the aisles. It was like having his own personal shopper, and he grabbed a tube of hair dye, a pair of barber shears, nail polish, a tub of makeup, hair spray, and a pair of cheap reading glasses.
“All done?” she asked.
Wolfe had to think. He’d turned himself into Turnbull before, and there was always one item he forgot to purchase before he made the transformation.
“I need a piece of plastic tubing,” he remembered. “A half inch wide, and a few inches long. My wife asked me to pick some up.”
“Do you know what she needs it for?”
“Love, we’ve been married twenty years. You learn not to ask questions.”
“Smart man. Let’s ask our pharmacist.”
Carmella talked a bearded man in a white lab coat into selling Wolfe a piece of plastic tubing. Wolfe paid for the items at the checkout with Carmella ringing him up. Behind the checkout was a cork board covered in flyers. One flyer had Wolfe’s face plastered on it with the word WANTED. If Carmella saw the flyer, he was done.
He nervously glanced around the store. The other employees were out of earshot. He sized Carmella up. She looked frail, and would be easy prey.
“Forget something?” she asked.
“Do you have the time? My watch has stopped running.”
She consulted her watch. Wolfe lifted his arm, prepared to chop her windpipe with the side of his hand. It was a trick he’d learned in the army. Without her windpipe, she couldn’t cry for help, and would die without anyone being the wiser.
Motion caught his eye. Outside the store, a pair of uniformed policemen walked past, swinging their night sticks in unison. He covered his mouth as if coughing, and watched them pass.
“It’s a few minutes past six,” she said.
He backed away from the counter, and moved toward the exit. He wanted to tell her to buy a lottery ticket. It wasn’t very often that one of his victims got away.
“Have a nice day,” she called after him.
Bathrooms in hotels were ludicrously small, and hardly big enough for a grown man to stand in. Hugging the sink in his room, Wolfe unscrewed the bottle of clear nail polish, and began to coat his face with the tiny brush. Facial recognition technology was used by most law enforcement agencies to catch fugitives, and was considered infallible. Wolfe knew otherwise. The software used in these programs recognized twenty-five different points on a person’s face. If four of those points were changed, the program could be fooled into thinking the person was someone else.
Soon the bottle of nail polish was empty. He dried his face with a hair dryer, then crinkled his cheeks, and made dozens of wrinkles appear. He looked ten years older already.
The next step was his hair. The hair dye he’d bought was called Just For Men, and he generously brushed the product into his scalp. Before his eyes, his hair turned from black to sandy blond. He didn’t look good as a blond, but neither had Turnbull.
Then came his face. Turnbull’s face was decidedly smaller than his. Wolfe solved that problem by brushing his hair onto his forehead, and carefully molding it into place with hair spray. It made his face look smaller than it really was.
His nose also needed work. Turnbull had flared nostrils. This was where the plastic tubing came into play. Cutting off two small pieces, he slit them open and stretched them out, then shoved them into his nostrils, causing both to expand.
The last item of business was the Order’s tattoo on his neck. Wolfe sported multiple tattoos, and they’d all faded over time. Not the Order’s. It was still as vibrant as the day he’d joined, something he’d never quite understood. He covered it with pancake makeup, and made it disappear.
He was done. Picking up Turnbull’s passport, he held it to the mirror, and compared his face to the dead shopkeeper. It wasn’t a perfect match, but no one ever looked like their passport photo, and he knew it would pass muster.
Something didn’t feel right. He stared long and hard at the photo before realizing what it was. Turnbull had worn a dark suit and necktie in the photo, and looked dignified. He needed a new outfit, and the transformation would be complete.
Eighth Avenue was a potpourri of discount stores run by Middle Easterners. He picked a store called The Gent that sold men’s clothes. Shaking off the raindrops, he went inside.
Behind the counter sat a man wearing a purple Nehru jacket straight out of the psychedelic sixties. Wolfe had a theory about people who dressed in period costume: They were not happy with their lives, and wished to be living another one. An old Beatles song blared out of a boom box on the counter.
“My name is Fami. Welcome to my store,” the proprietor said.
“I’m looking for some business attire,” Wolfe said.
“What price range do you have in mind?”
“The cheaper the better.”
“How cheap is cheap?” Fami had a voice like a bird.
“I don’t plan to wear the clothes more than a few times.”
“Try the bins in the back. Those are the cheapest clothes in the store.”
The sixties motif followed Wolfe down the aisle. Posters of Hendrix, Joplin, Lou Reed and the Velvet Underground, and Jefferson Airplane covered the walls. Wolfe’s memories of the music were as faded as the art
