“Good. The transfer went through. You can have your money as soon as you get out of that suit.”
Tobey turned for the bedroom. He’d performed the routine dozens of times before. He closed the door and Carlos listened as he wriggled out of the jacket and tossed it on the bed.
Carlos screwed the silencer onto the end of the .45. He’d have enjoyed taking a swipe at beheading him with the katana he kept in his bag. The bum was so slow the sword would hit him before he could move, but the boss wanted this one permanently unsolved. Not that anyone cared about this loser, but the gruesome methods Carlos enjoyed tended to attract attention. “Raise a clamor,” the boss had said, “and go to the slammer.” The boss was freaky about forensics. Gloves were a must and ignoring instructions, no matter how trivial, would put you on someone else’s task list.
Carlos pulled on his gloves and waited by the door with the gun ready. When he heard the water running, he slipped in. The old guy was leaning in toward the mirror with his hands on either side of the sink, supporting his tired body after the ten block walk. He was a good four inches taller than Carlos and fifty pounds heavier.
He never saw Carlos in the reflection.
His heel on tile brought the old man around, shooting upright, startled that he was no longer alone. Before he could turn, Carlos drilled a hardened fist into his kidney and dropped him to his knees, smacking his forehead on the sink on the way down. The impact rang solid, snapped his head back and he hovered an instant before collapsing the rest of the way to the floor.
Carlos needed an explanation for the bruises. He could have stood him up and done it there, but who knew where the bullet would end up if it ricocheted off his skull.
He yanked him out from under the sink and rolled him headfirst into the tub. If he shot himself here, he might fall and hit his head as he’d done on the sink. Tobey didn’t resist and he didn’t react when his knees and elbows whacked the fiberglass. The sink had knocked the fight out of him. He looked up glassy eyed as Carlos leveled the .45 a few inches from his temple. There was no fear in his eyes as the hammer dropped. He hadn’t had time to understand what was coming. Maybe Carlos was doing him a favor. His head jolted with the entry, deforming and oozing its contents down toward the drain.
Now the work began.
He pocketed the silencer, pressed Tobey’s fingers onto the grip and barrel, leaving at least four good prints, some overlapping others, and let the arm slump naturally down by his side. He tucked the gun into the hand where it came to rest. He drew the shower curtain around the tub to keep the smell in. The toiletries he stuffed into a bag in the main room. He piled the crumpled suit in on top and whisked through the drawers with gloved hands to make sure the old guy hadn’t gotten smart and left something behind. Finding nothing, he deadbolted the door and collected the bag.
He’d already wiped the room clean and he hadn’t touched anything he wasn’t taking with him since. Now with the bag by the window, he threaded forty-pound fishing line between the panes, passing three feet of it outside before winding it around the lock and tying a loop inside. With the window carefully open and the line protruding out, he passed his bag out to the fire escape and hung a pot full of pansies on the loop.
Halfway out the window he noticed the thousand on the table. He hurried inside for it and climbed back out. He pulled the window shut then steadily pulled the line until the lock turned into place. Next, he wound the line around his gloved hand and jerked, snapping it somewhere between the panes, leaving no clue that someone had been inside with Tobey when he’d met his demise
.
Carolyn Fletcher was a killer; not a deranged lunatic who killed for a thrill or an inner city thug who killed to take what she wanted from the meek. She’d killed only one man, her husband Dale, and then only to escape a life of physical and emotional abuse that was impossible to bear. Still, this one act defined who she was and who she could never be again. That moment forever changed her relationship with the one person that had mattered above all others, the one person she would give her life to protect.
Intermingled in a flash of hatred and fury, she’d seen a glimmer of a new life for her and her young daughter,
Eric
a. She picked up her husband’s golf club and swung mightily. She earned her freedom, but it came with problems she didn’t anticipate. Single parenthood was harsh. As much as she tried, she couldn’t stop the children from taunting
Eric
a that her mother was a murderer and that she’d grow into one, too. Ostracism made
Eric
a strong, but it also pushed the tiny family apart. Carolyn had her own regrets to cope with as well. During her pregnancy in high school, Carolyn had felt the isolation
Eric
a must have felt in grammar school. The pregnancy trapped her into a relationship that degenerated into a life of abuse. In darker moments, she unconsciously blamed
Eric
a, just like
Eric
a blamed her for the way the kids treated her at school.
Carolyn deserved the blame for both mistakes.
She whisked the vacuum around the living room carpet too fast to remove the deep down dirt, just as a clean house and a home cooked meal were insufficient to repair the gulf between mother and daughter. Busy as she was,
Eric
a made few trips to the apartment, precious few that didn’t coincide with a holiday or another special occasion. Today’s last minute visit was disconcerting. She hoped it was just another protest about her impending marriage and becoming a step-sister to a ten year old, but she worried it was something more serious.
Ten minutes later the vacuum was tucked in a closet and the lasagna nearly baked when Carolyn answered the door.
Eric
a walked in with a foreign air about her. She wore new jeans and a knit top, surprisingly casual for a Monday after work. She moved with an ease that had been missing since childhood. She stepped in, placed her hands lightly on Carolyn’s waist and rested her head against her shoulder a second before pulling back.
Carolyn ignored
Eric
a’s disapproving glance at her tank top and snug jeans. She dressed younger than her own daughter, who was so modest she swam with a T-shirt over her bathing suit.
Eric
a seemed to be fighting the stigma of her mother’s teenage pregnancy, a fight Carolyn had long since given up. If a fifty-two year old woman could turn a few heads, she had every right.
Carolyn closed the door and invited
Eric
a inside. “I was surprised by your call. Everything ok
?
”
“Great. I had a mini vacation. I needed some time away from work. You know, I forgot how nice it is to sleep in. I can’t remember the last time I had five days off in a row.”
“Fighting with your boss
?
”
Eric
a had been raging against authoritative men since her father died. The school psychologist expected her to become a pleaser like her mother, but her will was far stronger than anyone suspected. She made a hard turn in the opposite direction and dedicated herself to self-sufficiency. She excelled academically, financially, and physically to the point of obsession. Carolyn worried that the tight lid she kept on her emotions and her never-ending struggle for control would leave her bitter and alone. So far, experience proved her right.
“How could I not fight with him
?
He’s a sadistic dictator, who also happens to be clueless
and
he has it in for me.”
“That’s my girl, go along to get along.”
“It’s not my fault he’s a tool.”
“What about all those college professors you had such a hard time with
?
Were they tools too
?
”
Eric
a steamed. The relaxed expression was replaced by a more typically tense look. Carolyn felt a bit guilty, but she had a responsibility to steer her daughter toward happiness. The battle with her father was long won. If she’d just live and let live, things would come much easier. Rather than apologize, Carolyn led
Eric
a to the table, set out the salad and cut the lasagna.
Eric
a told of her problems with Brad. How he’d taken away her teammates until it was impossible for her to finish her project and how she’d worked day and night to succeed in spite of him. When she told how Brad had gotten the promotion she worked so hard for, Carolyn couldn’t help but share her daughter’s heartbreak.
Eric
a didn’t ask about Ted or the wedding plans and Carolyn didn’t bring it up. She’d be glad enough if
Eric
a would put aside her vendetta against marriage for a few hours and come to the ceremony.
Carolyn crunched into her salad and asked what
Eric
a had been doing with her time off.
Eric
a lit up as she described her trip to the farm. It was the first time she’d gone away with a man. A farm seemed the least likely of all places for a girl who’d lived her whole life in the city, but her time with the Turners had an impact. The relaxed look was back as she related her tours around the fields, the town and her fishing trip with Gregg.
Carolyn wondered if
Eric
a had found the man who could change her mind about marriage. The smile on her face said it was possible.
The passengers pressed back into their seats as the jet charged down the runway and rose in time for a glimpse of the setting sun before turning east over the ocean. Brad focused on a clump of blonde hair several rows ahead remembering the sexy smile she’d flashed as he boarded. She was the hottest woman on the plane. He’d watched her every movement as she swished down the aisle, stretched to store her carry-on in the overhead compartment, and especially when she bent to find a book in her leather bag.
The head of light hair bobbed over the seat as the plane climbed into the sky. When it leveled off her eyes settled into a worn paperback without one glance to the rear. For several minutes he awaited any sign a liaison might be possible during the weekend. He considered walking up the aisle, but when she failed to turn and meet his gaze even once, he stared gloomily out the window and mentally reviewed his preparations.
The ‘laundry trips’ were fairly routine except for the night crossing in the Cessna. Every detail he considered prepared him to survive those few hours. He had plenty of fuel in the underground tanks. When the weekend was over, he’d have enough left for an emergency flight if he needed to get out of the country quickly. He’d checked the weather reports before leaving
Boston
and no storms were expected in the area for several days. He’d make one more check before takeoff to be sure.
Years earlier, he’d cruised headlong into a storm that lurked for him in the mountains. After hugging the valley floor under clear skies, he’d circled a tall peak and flown straight into thick black clouds that were nearly invisible in the dark. The whipping winds had battered the tiny plane almost swallowing it whole. He’d made it through shaken but intact. After that he’d never flown without a recent weather report. Navigating the mountains and evading the authorities were dangerous enough.
He’d survive this trip and in a few weeks it would be over. As much as he hated Herman, his plot was true genius. Only Stu Tinsley came close to discovering them and the only thing that made him suspicious was Brad’s overreaction to his innocent questions. Next week, they’d tell the executives how the scheme operated and the firm would be thrown into chaos. Marty would fight back to preserve his place in the company his ancestors built. They’d blame
Eric
a and she’d be thrown in jail without a word printed in the media. Marty would compensate some of the victims then force Brad to resign. His sister, Sharon, might never talk to him again and he’d be unemployable in the investment industry. That was the best case scenario. If Herman sent the envelope things would get much worse.