Daddy's Little Killer (3 page)

The GPS in the car was a problem.  I
arrived in Pentagon City and parked at the metro station in a
tow-away zone.  Problem solved.

Seleeby missed the wallet entirely when he
rifled through my purse in a quick once over.  Had he looked
inside, he would've found an ungodly number of $100 bills and
identification that did not belong to the Helen Eriksson they were
investigating.  Dad's plan B and beyond thing was truly
ingrained in my DNA.  I wasn't foolish enough to keep any of
it in a bank, where a simple warrant would've opened a safety
deposit box.  No, I kept my cards close to the vest, and the
means to move on in a simple lock box inside Rick's safe in the
den. 

I've been carrying around plan B since I
thundered through the underbrush to play the role of grieving
ex-wife.  Hope is a crock of shit.  My head and my heart
knew it would come to this.

The complex in Pentagon City is designed for
tourists and residents alike.  The metro station is located
across the street from The Fashion Centre – a mall that refuses to
be named such – and within walking distance is a Ritz-Carlton
Hotel.  The alternate identification would come in handy, as
would my change in appearance prior to check-in.  As far as
David and his spies were concerned, I simply drove to the metro,
hopped on and disappeared for parts unknown.

Meanwhile, I could spend a night or two in a
comfortable hotel, buy some necessities, take a taxi to Reagan
Airport and vanish on my terms. 

I dashed into the mall first and purchased a
pair of jeans, sandals and a blouse from Banana Republic.  The
mourning garb got tossed into the trash on my way out of the
store.  It was a short jog around the block to
Harris-Teeter.  My hair is naturally chestnut with golden
blonde highlights.  Black was the obvious choice for a drastic
change in my appearance, but I couldn't quite let go of my little
bit of Dad that easily.  His hair, while probably quite gray
now, used to be nearly the same color.  Stripping that
similarity away seemed a step too far from who I really am.  I
grabbed a box of medium golden blonde and a cheap beach towel off
the rack and asked where the restroom was.

The girl who took my money was an average
teenager working her summer job, vaguely disinterested in anything
that wasn't Facebook or Twitter or a text message on her cell
phone.  She glanced up at me briefly, more holes punched in
her face than natural orifices, and jerked her head at the sign to
her left.  I waited patiently for her to count out the change
the register told her was due me and shoved it into the pocket of
my jeans.

I emerged from the bathroom 40 minutes later
with damp hair pulled into a pony tail and exited the store. 
She kept her nose buried in the smart phone's touch
screen. 

Next stop, back around the block and across
the street to Best Buy.  If I spent as much time on the phone
as I expected I'd need to, there would be more than 100 minutes
necessary for the pre-paid contract.  I opted for a Droid
model telephone since I could use it for internet access as well,
paid my fee and sought out stop number three.

The kiosk inside The Fashion Centre showed a
few options for the new hairdo.  I went for the cheapest, less
concerned about the quality of the cut and style than I was the
likelihood of someone remembering me.  Cheap place equated
higher volume of customers which translated into greater odds of
remaining unnoticed. 

My stylist unfortunately, was an older woman
who moved at the speed of molasses during the dead of D.C.
winter.  She played with my hair for five full minutes after I
told her I wasn't picky, just needed a shorter cut.

"Your hair is lovely.  I can't imagine
why you'd want to cut it.  Or why you colored it."

"I've been coloring for twenty years," I
lied. 

"Hmm."

Apparently she knew healthy hair versus
color damaged better than I would've liked.

"You've got a bit of natural curl.  Did
you ever see that movie back in the '90s, the one where Meg Ryan
falls in love with an angel?"

"Uh …"

"You'd look great with that cut.  It's
a bit short though, and I'd hate to see you leave here in tears
from lopping off too much in one sitting, hon."

"Just cut it.  I don't care what style
you choose.  If you say it'll look good, I'll take it."

She rambled on about things that might well
have been a foreign language as far as I was concerned, things like
long circle cuts and texturizing with something she called
notching.  Greek.  No, scratch that.  Greek would've
made more sense to me.

In the end, I was satisfied that I looked
nothing like Helen Eriksson.  Instead, I resembled one of my
childhood nicknames – scarecrow.  My too long, too thin neck
made me a little too giraffe like, but the last thing I planned to
do was bawl about it.  Instead, I thanked her, left a modest
tip and dashed off to get a room at the Ritz-Carlton.  I
splurged.

The executive suite was opulent with an
expansive view of the capital from the windows.  I kicked off
the sandals and dug my toes into the sea foam green
carpeting.  The mini bar beckoned.  I could smell the
woody currant in the merlot without removing the cork. 
Unfortunately, I didn't have time for wine.  Not while the
stores were still open.  Not while the FBI expected me to
return to the brownstone.

I purchased Louis Vuitton luggage and had it
delivered to my room before hitting Nordstrom's and Macy's.  I
indulged at Nine West to replace the shoes I threw away. 
Everything was going from the sales clerk directly to the
hotel.  One last stop, and I would be ready to start making
phone calls.

At the Apple store, I replaced the computer
that the FBI had no doubt confiscated hours ago.  It wouldn't
tell them anything they didn't already know.  Computers can be
great tools, but they are anathema to great criminals.  Where
legitimate work was concerned, a computer provided documentation,
verification, validation.  I would need that if the FBI's
witch hunt continued.  I walked out of the store with a
MacBook Pro and an incredibly lighter wallet. 

Perhaps it was my preoccupation with the
money spent today that dropped my guard enough to be
captured.  I was certain by the expensive cut of the suits,
the Italian branding and the complete lack of identification that
the men holding my upper arms in an iron grip weren't part of the
government agency with which I formerly associated. 

"Come along without a
fuss,
Helen
," one
of them growled with a smile masking the rage in his voice. 
"You wouldn't want to see a bunch of innocent bystanders
harmed.  Or would you?"

My disguise hadn't fooled them.  Maybe
I was more preoccupied today than I realized.

"Sweetheart?"

The man with no neck turned his head
abruptly to the left.

"Where are you … who are these men?"

I stared blankly into the face of a complete
stranger.  Somewhere above, my lucky stars were working
overtime.  I'm not of small stature by any stretch of the
imagination, about five eleven barefoot.  My captors were
taller than me.  This guy dwarfed all of us, and his frame
left no doubt that the large bones were cushioned by layers of hard
muscle.  He reached out and plucked me from the clutches of
men who I suspected were associated with Rick's former employer
Sully Marcos.

"Jennifer?"

I swallowed hard and took the gift he
offered.  I stepped close, pressed against his side and let
him be my armor.  "I don't know who they are.  They
called me Helen."

"Do you have some sort of business with my
wife?"

One of Sully's henchmen stared pointedly at
my left hand.

My white knight followed his eyes. 
"Fine.  She's not my wife until Saturday.  Darling, did
they hurt you?  Should I call the police?"

"Our mistake," thick neck said.  "Sorry
for the misunderstanding."

"See to it that you don't make it again,"
the angry stranger growled.  He steered me across the hotel
lobby and into an open elevator.  Not a millimeter of space
separated us until the doors slid closed.  He stepped forward
and punched the button for my floor.

Hell.  Out of the frying pan and into
the fire?

"What floor do you need?"

If I was quaking on the inside, at least it
wasn't showing outwardly.  Yet.  I licked my lips. 
"You already guessed correctly."

"I assume I read that situation
correctly.  Who were those men?  Are you in some kind of
trouble, Helen?"

"My name is Diana," I said.  As far as
the Ritz-Carlton was concerned, my name was Ms. Diana Farber. 
"I don't know who those men were or what they wanted.  It
scared the hell out of me."

His eyes were blue as a Tahitian
lagoon.  I felt layers of lies stripping away beneath that
stare.  I fidgeted and stared at the floor.  "Thank you
for rescuing me."  He thought I was helpless, not stunned that
Marcos had men watching me.  Better let him believe the lie or
attribute all of this to what he helped Marcos' men believe – that
it was merely a case of mistaken identity.

"I'm concerned that they didn't believe our
ruse," he said.  "What if they come back?  Are you
traveling alone?"

"I'm not leaving my room again," I shuddered
for good measure.  "Not until my taxi picks me up to take me
to the airport.  I'm flying home day after tomorrow."

"Where might that be?"

"I'm sorry.  I didn't catch your
name."

His eyes twinkled.  "I never gave
it."  Huge paw thrust forward.  "Bad form, considering
our wedding is on Saturday, wasn't it?  I'm Todd."

He didn't look like a Todd.  I shook
his hand and thanked him again as the elevator chimed. 

Todd made a sweeping gesture with one
arm.  "After you, Diana.  Although if you run into the
misinformed suits again, I'd suggest you answer to Jennifer."

"I'll try not to run into them again." 
My mind was screaming that they knew I was here.  The place
could be crawling with Sully's men any minute.  Perhaps the
charade offered by a total stranger was the true gift.  "Are
you here vacationing?"

"Business," he said.  "Four day
convention."

"Ah."  The conversation was taking a
turn for the painfully dull.  Since when were businessmen so
chivalrous after all?  "Well, thanks again."

"Do you have plans for dinner?" 
Dimples deepened in his tan cheeks. 

I shook my head.  "In light of what
happened, I think room service is on the agenda for tonight." 
And a hundred phone calls I needed to make to finalize my
plans.  Going home to the house on Long Island was out if
Sully was watching me.  Plus, it would probably be on David's
radar after I gave his team the slip this afternoon.

"Maybe they'll buy the story that you're my
fiancée if we don't let this encounter dampen our trip," Todd
suggested.  "Cozy dinner for two in the hotel's restaurant,
maybe a romantic stroll through the neighborhood later …"

"They could be back with guns next
time."  The urge to kick myself overwhelmed me.  I wanted
to quell the cringe, but it was too late.  Todd's hand reached
for me, cupped my cheek and tilted my face upward.

"Guns?"

"I'm probably letting my imagination run
wild.  For all I know, they could've been private
investigators bringing Helen home to an outraged husband."

Suspicion etched the tiny lines around his
eyes.  "Are you married?"

"Me?  No.  Then again, I'm not
Helen – whoever she is."  Unease chilled my blood.  For
all I knew, this guy could be part of Sully's work force. 
"Thanks for the offer of dinner, Mr. –"

"Hunter."

How apropos.  "Mr. Hunter.  I
appreciate the help.  I think rather than sticking around for
more cases of mistaken identity, I'll see what I can do to get my
flight home bumped up to an earlier departure."

He shrugged.  "If you change your mind,
I'm in the last room at the end of the hall."  He pointed to
the suite polar opposite mine.  "I'll be in town until
Wednesday, so …"

"Thanks."  Translation:  no way in
hell.

Chapter 3

I hate hard liquor.  My father always
said that hard liquor was for hard women.  A hard woman could
never appreciate the subtle nuances of weaving an effective tale
that could save her life.  Personally, I see his point, but
think the stuff tastes like kerosene anyway.  I never believed
anyone drank it for the delightful flavor.  Its numbing
effects however, are another story.

My hands shook hard enough to cripple easy
opening of the tiny bottle of scotch from the mini-bar.  On
the third attempt, the metal band broke and the cap yielded. 
I poured the amber liquid into the crystal glass at the bar and
downed the pungent liquid.  Gagged.  Twisted off another
cap.  Repeat. 

After three, the shaking had subsided enough
to dial the tiny buttons on the cell phone I purchased earlier
today.  I remembered the number George Hardy left on my
voicemail at home.  Three hours earlier on the west coast,
Hardy might still be in his office at four in the afternoon.

"Commissioner Hardy's office, may I help
you?"

"Yes, I'm returning a call to the
commissioner," I said.  "He telephoned me early this morning
with a job offer."

"May I have your name please?"

"I'm with behavioral analysis at the
FBI."  Maybe David hadn't processed my graveside resignation
yet. 

"One moment please."

There was a scarce pause, then, "Dr.
Eriksson?"

"Is this Commissioner George Hardy?"

"Yes, yes."

"This is Dr. Eriksson, Mr. Hardy."