Planned perfectly…
But, of course, while plans can be perfect, the execution — so to speak — never is.
My God, a
The best she could figure was that one of her enemies — she’d made plenty over the years — had recognized her from the news about Ron, despite her effort not to be photographed in public and her changed appearance.
Or maybe it had nothing to do with Priscilla Endicott; maybe the man’s goal was to kill Mrs. Kitty Larkin. Hired by a former mistress of Larkin’s? she wondered. Or a jilted girlfriend?
She gave a bitter laugh at the irony. Here, the police and State Department were protecting her from a killer — just not the particular killer they believed him to be.
Priscilla now dialed a number on her mobile (she wouldn’t trust a hotel phone).
“Hello?” a man answered.
“It’s me.”
“My God, what the hell is going on? I see the stories — somebody’s after
“Relax.”
“Who the hell is he?”
“I don’t know for sure. I did a job in the Congo last year and one of the targets got away. Maybe him.”
“So he has nothing to do with us?”
“No.”
“But what’re we going to do about it?”
“You sound panicked,” Priscilla said.
“Of course I’m panicking. What—”
“Take a deep breath.”
“What’re we going to do?” he repeated, sounding even
“I say we have a goddamn good laugh about it.”
Silence. Maybe he thought she was hysterical. Then he asked, “What do you mean?”
“Our biggest problem has always been giving the police another suspect, somebody other than you and me.”
“Right.”
“Well, now we’ve
The man was quiet for a moment. Then gave a brief chuckle. “It could work,” he said.
“It
“In your account.”
“Good. I won’t call again. Just watch the news. Oh, one thing. I don’t know if it’s going to bother you…. It seems that Peter’s daughter just got into town from college. She’ll be with them when I get there.”
The man didn’t hesitate before asking, “What’s the problem with that?”
“I guess that means,” Priscilla said, “that there isn’t one.”
Two hours later the woman slipped out the side door of the hotel, unseen by the desk clerk. She’d taken a cab to a street corner two blocks from the town house of Peter and Sandra Larkin, then walked the rest of the way.
The wealthy lifestyle of these particular targets, with their private homes in Manhattan, was very helpful. Getting into a doorman building unseen could be a bitch.
She paused outside the town house and looked into her purse, checking the weapon, which she’d retrieved from the TV in the bedroom of Ron Larkin’s town house when she’d gone there to pack her suitcases earlier.
She now climbed the stairs, looked up and down the street. No one. She pulled on latex gloves and pressed the buzzer.
A moment later.
“Hello?”
“Peter, it’s Kitty. I have to see you.”
“Oh, Kitty,” the brother said. “We weren’t expecting you till tomorrow. But we’re glad you’re here. Come on up. We’re all in the living room. Second floor. The door’s open. Come on in.”
The buzz of the door lock echoed through the misty night.
Priscilla pushed inside.
She was thinking of the sequence. If they were all together, hit the most dangerous target first and fast: That would be any bodyguards. And the daughter’s boyfriend, if there was one. Then Peter Larkin. He was a large man and could be a threat. A head shot for him. Then the daughter, who’d be younger and possibly more athletic. Finally the wife.
Then she’d leave more of the planted evidence to link this killing to Ron’s: the steroids, the dark curly hairs (stolen from a barbershop trash bin), another fleck of rubber peeled off a running shoe she later discarded, more of the sand and dirt she’d scraped up from a marina in L.A.
Priscilla recited: Find the target, look for guards, check the backdrop, possible security systems, especially cameras. Aim, squeeze, count your rounds.
Climbing the stairs, she was aware of the musty smell of an apartment not much used, but the place was very elegant nonetheless. Both Peter’s and Ron’s fortunes were obscene. Billions. Thinking that this much money was controlled by just two individuals reignited some of her latent political views about inequality in the distribution of wealth, despite their charitable efforts. Still, Priscilla Endicott couldn’t very well take the high moral ground any longer; she herself was a wealthy woman now — and it was her craft of killing that had made her one.
Reaching into her purse, Priscilla lifted her gun, clicked the safety off.
She walked inside the living room quickly, the gun behind her back.
“Hello?”
She stopped fast, staring at the empty room.
Had she gotten the wrong room? she wondered.
The TV was on. The stereo too. But not a single human being was here.
Oh, no…
She turned to flee.
Which is when the tactical team — five officers — pushed from the two side doorways, shoving their weapons toward her, shouting, screaming, grabbing. In less than a second the.32 was out of her hands and she was on the floor, with her wrists cuffed behind her.
Lincoln Rhyme surveyed the town house from the sidewalk.
“Pretty nice place,” Amelia Sachs said.
“Seems okay.” Architecture, like decor, didn’t mean a lot to him.
Lon Sellitto glanced up at the tall building too. “Jesus. I knew they were rich, but really.” He was standing with the lieutenant from Emergency Services, the man who’d directed the takedown.
A moment later the door opened and the woman who’d been hired to kill Ron Larkin, his brother and sister- in-law was escorted out, cuffed. Given her ruthlessness and ingenuity, Rhyme and Sellitto had ordered her feet shackled too.
The officers accompanying her paused, and the criminalist looked her over.
“
He nodded.
But the killer didn’t seem to care about having her lawyer present when she spoke. She leaned toward Rhyme and whispered harshly, “How? How the hell did you do it?”
Locard’s Principle, the criminalist thought. But his answer to her was: “The fiber. The coir fiber made me
