She nodded spastically.
“Good.” He took a step back and addressed them. “Don’t say a word to each other. Count to 100, nice and slow, and then go your separate ways. And don’t get any ideas – I’ll be watching. And this never happened. Got it? You,” he said, shoving Chuck again, “fell down some stairs.” He turned back to the girl. “And you realized you are better off dating boys your own age.” Without waiting for an answer, he took off down the alley, taking the route he had scoped out the previous night.
Four minutes later, he was walking on a street a half-mile away, trying to slow his pace and his breathing. He rotated his head constantly, but there was no one in sight. He stopped to pull off his gloves, followed by the jacket and sweatpants he wore as a second layer over his shorts and t-shirt. Pulling a plastic trash bag from his pocket, he stuffed all of the clothing inside it.
His car was parked on a deserted side street, far from overhead lights. He opened the door but, instead of swinging his legs into it to drive, he kicked off his cheap oversized sneakers and stuffed them in a second plastic bag weighted with rocks. Adding the first bag to it, he triple-knotted the opening and tossed in on the passenger floor. Only then did he fully enter the car, pull on the flip-flops sitting under his seat, and drive away.
He made a few random turns in the city to be certain he wasn’t being followed before getting on the highway towards home. Once he entered the anonymity and speed of the highway, he relaxed just a bit. He had one more task to complete before getting home and ending this distasteful mission.
He pulled off just before the bridge over the C&D canal, driving parallel to it on a road he knew to be infrequently used and, more importantly, poorly lit. Killing his headlights, he drove a few hundred yards farther before stopping, rolling down the window to heave the bag of clothes and shoes as far out into the canal as possible. As soon as it slipped below the surface, he turned around and got right back on Route 1 south.
He was barely on the other side of the canal when his phone buzzed, scaring the shit out of him. He looked at the number. It was familiar, but he couldn’t place it, meaning it was most likely from Chops on one of those pay-by-the-minute burner phones, asking about the job. But Carson was always the one to initiate contact to report the job was done, and he hadn’t done so yet. Had something gone wrong already? Stomach churning, he answered the call. “Hello?”
“You know, chivalry must really be dead in today’s society if a woman can’t expect a call from her rescuer after she leaves him a note with her phone number on it!” Expecting a gruff, pissed-off voice, Carson nearly drove off the road in shock at the rapid-fire words with the silky, feminine inflection.
“Um, what? Who is this?”
“Seriously? Now I’m really offended!” The tone of the voice on the other end of the call was obviously anything but unhappy. “I can’t believe you have so many women blowing up your phone you don’t remember me. It’s Katie – lost Katie. Remember?”
Holy shit. “Oh, geez, hi Katie. I’m sorry, you caught me in the middle of something.”
Katie sounded unmoved by the excuse. “Mm-hmm. Must be awfully important.”
“It actually is. I had to take care of something that couldn’t wait.”
“Was it a matter of life or death?”
“Actually, yeah.” Mine.
A big huff came through the phone. “OK, in that case I guess I’ll give you a pass. But I was hoping to get together with you on Saturday, so you’re still on the hook for that.”
Geez, this woman is a pain in the ass! Carson, used to taking orders only from superior officers, was about to tell her where she could cast her hook, but hesitated. Until he got to the relative safety of his home, he was still “on mission” as far as he was concerned. That meant he had to consider every action he took. He was confident neither Stacy nor Chuck had gone to the police, but it was foolish and dangerous to act on assumptions. If he was rude to Katie, or even brusque, she might remember it, and it only took one little slip-up to start unraveling his finely-spun web of safety measures meant to hide his identity. Yes, officer, I did speak to Carson Fischer that night. He seemed awfully gruff and out of sorts. Why? That might lead to other questions. Cases, both criminal and other, had been solved from poorer starting points. It was better to be polite and compliant.
Plus she’s cute and fun to talk to.
Shut up.
“Well, if you say so, then I guess I am,” he replied with a partially-feigned defeated tone. “Wait. How did you get my number? I didn’t give it to you.”
“Oh, it wasn’t hard. Your personal cell number is in the online directory at the office.”
“That’s for business use only.”
She laughed. “Maybe, but it worked, didn’t it? Are you going to turn me in, narc?”
“No, I don’t want to deal with all the paperwork.” It wasn’t the best response, but it was the best he could do at the moment. “So what would you like to do?”
“Wow,” she said. “Are you really that lazy? I had to research your number, I had to call you, I had to tell you to ask me out, and now I’ve got to pick the activity? Oh no, admiral. You have to do at least some of the legwork.”
“OK.” He racked his brain for a
