So what else was. .? She examined the bank statement she was sent each month. A gesture of good faith from Drummond, each statement showed that Drummond had, as he had promised, deposited her monthly fee. Since all her necessities were provided, she had no need to use that money, Drummond had explained. Thus, when her assignment was over, she’d be able to withdraw the entire enormous sum.
The bank statement had an account number. She knew that she didn’t dare use the telephone in her condominium (it presumably was tapped), so she had waited for the rare opportunity when she was allowed to leave the condominium during the day, and when the bank would be open. It had given her enormous pleasure that during a pause in the political luncheon’s program of speakers, she had whispered to Alistair Drummond, who had brought her, that she needed to go to the ladies’ room. Taut-faced, Drummond had nodded his permission, gesturing with a wrinkled hand for a bodyguard to accompany her.
She had leaned close, pressing a breast against him. “No, I don’t want your permission,” she had whispered. “What I want is fifty cents. That’s what it costs to get into the toilets here.”
“Don’t say ‘toilets.’ ” Drummond had pursed his lips in disapproval of her vulgarity.
“I’ll call them rose bowls if you want. I still need fifty cents. Plus two dollars for the attendant with the towels. I wouldn’t have to ask you if you’d give me some actual money once in a while.”
“All your needs are taken care of.”
“Sure. Except when I have to go to the ladies’ room- excuse me, the rose bowl.” She pressed her breast harder against his bony arm.
Drummond turned toward Raymond, who was beside him. “Escort her. Give her what she asks.”
So she and Raymond had proceeded through the crowd, ignoring the stares of celebrity worshipers. Raymond had discreetly given her the small sum of money she had requested, and the moment she had entered the powder room part of the ladies’ room, she had veered toward a pay phone, inserted coins, pressed the numbers for the bank into which Drummond deposited her fee, and asked for Accounting. Several society women who sat on velvet chairs before mirrors and freshened their makeup turned in recognition of someone so famous. She nodded with an imperious “Do you mind? Can I have some privacy?” look. Conditioned to pretend not to be impressed, the society matrons shrugged and resumed applying lipstick to their drooping lips.
“Accounting,” a nasally male voice said.
“Please check this number.” She dictated it.
“One moment. . Yes, I have that account on my computer screen.”
“What is the balance?”
The nasally voice told her. The sum was correct.
“Are there any restrictions?”
“One. For withdrawals, a second signature is required.”
“Whose?”
Raymond’s, she learned, and that was when she knew that Drummond didn’t intend for her to get out of this role alive.
It took several weeks of preparations, of calculations, of watching and biding her time. No one suspected. She was sure of that. She made herself seem so contented that it was one of the best performances of her career. Last night, after going to her bedroom at midnight, after keeping her eyes shut when the maid looked in on her at two, she had waited until four to make sure that the maid was asleep. She had quickly dressed, putting on her sneakers and gray hooded exercise suit. She had stuffed her purse with the necklace, bracelets, and earrings that Drummond had promised her, the jewelry that she now knew was fake. She had to take them because she wanted Drummond to think that she still believed the diamonds and other gems to be real and that she would try to sell them. His men would waste time questioning the dealers she was most likely to approach. She had a small amount of money-what she’d been given for the attendant in the ladies’ room, a few dollars that she’d stolen in isolated dimes and quarters from her maid’s purse while her maid was distracted by a task in another room, twenty-five dollars that she’d brought with her the first day she’d started this assignment. It wouldn’t take her far. She needed more. A great deal more.
Her first task had been to leave the condominium. As soon as she’d realized that she was a prisoner, she’d automatically assumed that the door would be rigged to sound an alarm and warn her guards if she tried to escape in the night. The alarm was one of the reasons she had waited several weeks before leaving. It had taken her that long, whenever the maid wasn’t watching, to check the walls behind furniture and paintings and find the alarm’s hidden switch. Last night, she had turned it off behind the liquor cabinet, silently unlocked the door and opened it, then peered left down the corridor. The guard who watched the elevator could not be seen. He usually sat in a chair just around the corner. At four in the morning, there was a strong possibility he’d be drowsing, relying on the sound of the elevator to make him become alert.
But she had no intention of using the elevator. Rather, she left her door slightly ajar-she didn’t dare close it all the way and risk making an avoidable noise-then turned to the right, walking softly along the carpet toward the fire door. That door wasn’t guarded on this floor, but in the lobby, the exit from the stairwell was. With painstaking care, she eased the fire door open, closed it as carefully behind her, and exhaled, wiping sweat from her hands. That had been the part she most dreaded, that she’d make a noise when she opened the fire door and would alert the guard. The rest, for a time, would be easy.
She hurried down the cold, shadowy stairwell, the rubber soles on her sneakers making almost no sound. Forty stories later, energized rather than fatigued, she reached the lobby door but didn’t stop, continuing instead to the basement. As she made her way through dusty storage areas and the noisy furnace area, passing a clutter of pipes and circuit breakers, she feared that a custodian would confront her, but no one seemed on duty, and eventually she found stairs that led to a rear exit from the building, an exit that was far enough from the conventional exit that anyone watching the other exit wouldn’t notice someone leaving the basement.
Still cautious, she turned off the light near the door before she opened it, so that no illumination would spill out and reveal her. Then she was in an alley, feeling the chill of late October, hurrying along. She wished that she’d been able to bring a coat, but all the coats in her character’s closet had been expensive, designed to be worn with evening clothes. There’d been nothing as inconspicuous as a windbreaker. No matter. She was free. But for how long? Fear and urgency gave her warmth.
Without her wig, special makeup, and facial-altering devices, she no longer resembled her character. But even though the public wouldn’t recognize her, Alistair Drummond had a photograph of her original appearance. So she didn’t dare use a taxi. The driver, if questioned, would remember picking her up at this hour and in this vicinity, especially since she was Hispanic. The driver would also remember where he’d dropped her off. That destination would be a safe distance from where she intended to go. It would not reveal anything that put her in danger. Nonetheless, she considered it better if she permitted Drummond no leads whatsoever, false or true, and instead just seemed to vanish. Besides, given the little money she had, she didn’t dare waste it on a taxi.
So she ran, to all appearance an early-morning jogger on the nearly deserted streets. She went hunting, skirting Central Park, trying to look like an easy target. Finally, two kids with knives emerged from shadows. She broke both their arms and took the fourteen dollars she found on them. By dawn, her exercise clothes dark with sweat, she rested in a twenty-four-hour hamburger joint in Times Square. There she sacrificed part of her meager funds on several steaming cups of coffee and a breakfast of scrambled eggs, hash browns, sausage, and English muffins. Not the sort of breakfast she usually ate and certainly not recommended by the American Heart Association, but given the frantic, furtive day she expected to have, she needed all the calories and carbohydrates her stomach would hold.
She sacrificed more of her meager funds to go to a theater that showed movies around the clock. The only woman present, she knew that she’d attract predators in the almost-deserted seats at seven in the morning. She wanted to. When the movie ended and she left the theater, she carried fifty more dollars, money that she’d taken from three men whom she’d knocked unconscious, using her elbow, when each-a half hour apart-had sat next to her and tried to molest her.
By then, a few cut-rate clothing stores were open, and she bought a plain wool cap, a pair of wool gloves, and an insulated black nylon jacket that blended with her gray exercise clothes. She tucked her hair beneath her cap, and with her slightly baggy exercise clothes hiding her voluptuous breasts and hips, she appeared overweight and androgynous. Her costume was almost perfect. Except that her clothes were new (and she remedied that by dragging her cap, gloves, and jacket in the gutter), she looked like most of the other street people.
Next, it was time to pick her spot among the hucksters beginning to set up shop on the curb along Broadway.
