Death Angel (14 page)

Drea was smart enough to change her appearance, too; he took that for granted. What he didn’t know was where she’d changed, or how she’d looked afterward. He could’ve asked
Salinas what was known about Drea’s movements on the day she disappeared, but where was the fun in that? Finding her without
Salinas’s help would keep him sharp, sort of like doing math in his head instead of using a calculator.

He had considerable computer skills, but in this case the cons associated with doing his own hacking outweighed the pros. There was no point in taking the chance of setting off an alarm when he could find out what he wanted to know by another avenue. A lot of things truly did revolve around the old truism that it wasn’t what you knew, it was who you knew—and it so happened he knew someone who worked for the city of New York, someone who owed him a debt so huge it could never be repaid, and who could access that network of security cameras.

He’d caught a break in that nothing important had happened in the city over the last four days—just the usual number of muggings and murders. There hadn’t been any terrorist attacks, no bicycle riders hurling bombs, no sensational happenings of any kind. Because things had been quiet, no one would be paying any attention to a back access to the video records from several days ago.

On the other hand, did he want to go to that much trouble before he even decided to take the job?

Hell, yes. For his own amusement, he wanted to know how she’d done it. He was even a little proud of her; she hadn’t let any grass grow under her feet.
Salinas had seriously insulted her, and the very next day she’d taken action. He knew the banking hoops she would have had to jump through, knew the timing issues, because he’d played that game himself.

He was seldom amused, and never proud, so the fact that he actually felt both of those emotions was a little puzzling.

Or not. Another thing he didn’t do was play games with himself. The way he felt was directly tied to the admitted chemistry he’d had with her—not that chemistry would save her life if he decided to take the job. Attraction was one thing, but two million was two million.

Using his disposable cell phone, he placed the call. When the Brooklyn-accented voice answered with a terse yeah, he said, “I need a favor.”

He didn’t identify himself; he didn’t need to. There was a long pause, then the voice said, “Simon.”

“Yes,” he said.

Another pause, then: “What do you need?”

There was no attempt to blow him off, or stall him. He hadn’t expected there to be. “I need access to the street cameras.”

“Live feed?”

“No, from four days ago. I know the starting point. After that—” An invisible shrug was evident in his tone. After that, his search could go in any direction, though after he did some background work on Drea he’d have a better idea of what she was likely to do.

“When do you need it?”

“Tonight.”

“You’ll have to come to my house.”

“What time’s best?” He could be considerate. In fact, he made an effort to be considerate; it didn’t cost him anything, and a little goodwill could one day make the difference between living or dying, escaping or getting captured.

“Around nine. The kids will be in bed by then.”

“I’ll be there.” He hung up, turned to his computer, and went to work.

Finding out Drea’s real name was Andrea Butts took no time at all. He wasn’t surprised that her name wasn’t Rousseau, though the “Butts” was a bit unexpected. He’d have been surprised if her name really had been Rousseau. Once he had her real name, he went into the DMV records and got her driver’s license information. Her Social Security number was a bit tougher, but he had it within an hour; after that her life was an open book.

She was thirty years old, born in
Nebraska
, never been married, no children. Her father had died a couple of years ago, and her mother…her mother was back in Drea’s hometown, so that was somewhere to check, even though he thought Drea was probably too smart to go back there. But she would be comfortable in the area, and she might contact her mother. There was one brother, Jimmy Ray Butts, in
Texas
, currently serving the third year of a five-year sentence for burglary, so she wouldn’t be going to him for anything.

That was it for immediate family; if he dug deeper he was likely to find aunts and uncles, cousins, maybe some high school friends. But Drea struck him as a loner, trusting no one except herself, depending on no one except herself.

He understood that philosophy. As far as philosophies went, it was the least likely to result in disappointment.

At exactly nine p.m. he leaned on the buzzer, and in a few seconds the Brooklyn-accented voice said “Yeah” in the same way he answered the phone.

The assassin said, “Simon,” and the door was buzzed open. The apartment was on the sixth floor, and he took the stairs instead of the elevator.

The apartment door opened as he approached, and a whippet-thin mixed-race man of about his own age gestured him inside. “Coffee?” he said, by way of both greeting and invitation. Scottie Jansen’s real first name was Shamar, but he’d been called Scottie most of his life, because kids in school had started calling him “Shamu” and thereafter he’d refused to answer to Shamar.

“No, I’m good. Thanks.”

“This way.”

As Scottie led the way into a cramped bedroom, his wife appeared in the kitchen door and said, “Don’t start something that’s gonna take you four hours to finish, because I’m going to bed at eleven.”

Simon turned and winked at her, and said, “I don’t mind,” and her tired face broke into a grin.

“Don’t even try sweet-talking me. I’m immune to it. Just ask Scottie.”

“Maybe you’re only immune to his sweet-talking.”

She snorted and returned to the kitchen. “Close the door if you need privacy,” Scottie said, swiveling a battered office chair, the seat patched with duct tape, and plopping his skinny ass in it.

“No state secrets involved,” said Simon, and the unspoken words this time echoed in the room.

Scottie flexed his long fingers like a concert pianist about to tackle a difficult score. He began typing commands, his keystrokes so fast they were a blur. Screens zipped past. Occasionally he stopped to stare at one, muttering under his breath the way all geeks seemed to do, then he’d continue. After a few minutes he said, “Okay, we’re in. What’s the starting point?”

Simon gave him the apartment building address, and the date, and parked his own ass on the foot of the bed, leaning forward so he could see. The room was small enough that they were almost shoulder to shoulder.

Unless you were watching either sex or assorted violence, there was nothing more boring than a surveillance tape. He told Scottie he was looking for a woman with long, blond, curly hair, and that helped, because he could speed through all the comings and goings of people who didn’t have long blond curls. Finally Simon spotted her and said, “There,” and Scottie immediately paused, then backtracked.

He watched Drea leave the building, carrying a large, bulging tote bag—he’d bet his life she had a change of clothes in there—and stumble as she got into a black Town Car. Scottie finessed the commands, skipping from camera to camera, following the car until it double-parked in front of the library. Drea got out, limping a little, and went in, and the car left.

Simon leaned closer to the screen, intently watching the exit. This would be where she changed. There were a number of things she could do with that mane of hair, but she would also need to ditch that light-colored jacket. What could she do to blend in with most New Yorkers? Wear black, that was what. And she’d pull her hair back, maybe stuff it under the back of her shirt, or wear something with a hood. A hood might be a tad unusual, given the heat, but people did weird shit all the time.

He looked for the shape of her body, the tote bag, anyone wearing black—which was almost everyone—any woman with her hair covered or slicked back.

He was gratified by the speed with which he spotted her. “There she is,” he said.

Scottie stopped the tape. “You sure?”

“I’m sure.” He knew every line of that body; he’d spent four hours kissing and stroking every square inch of it. It was her, beyond a doubt. She hadn’t wasted any time; she was out within ten minutes, maybe even before her driver found a parking space nearby. Her hair was darker, maybe she’d wet it, and it was slicked back, she was wearing head to toe black, and she walked without a trace of a limp, striding along without a hint of sway or jiggle.

Good girl, he thought with approval. Bold, decisive, paying attention to detail—way to go, Drea.

She didn’t make it easy for Scottie. She walked a few blocks, got a taxi, and after she got out of the taxi she walked a few more blocks before snagging another ride. She zigzagged her way across the city, but finally she entered the Holland Tunnel and the network of cameras lost her. Still, the fact that she’d used the
Holland instead of the Lincoln Tunnel told him a lot.

He was on the hunt. Drea might be good…but he was better.

11

IT REALLY PISSED DREA OFF THAT GETTING HER OWN MONEY from a bank had been so much trouble.

She’d taken her time on the drive to
Kansas
, because she didn’t want to get tired and make stupid mistakes, or maybe even have a car wreck. She had to fly under the radar, which meant paying cash for everything and otherwise not getting herself noticed. Once she had the two million she’d have more options, but until then she was limited.

Taking her time meant the drive had taken her three days instead of just two, but that was okay, because she’d enjoyed herself. She was alone, blessedly alone, answering to no one but herself. She didn’t have to act like a brainless twit, didn’t have to constantly smile and hide any hint of temper or impatience, or even a too-sharp sense of amusement.

How pitiful was it that for two years she hadn’t been able to laugh spontaneously at a joke? If she’d laughed at all, she’d had to ask questions first, as if she didn’t get the punch line. Rafael and his goons had spent a lot of time laughing at her in addition to the joke. Bastards.

She’d never have to make herself look stupid again, because she’d never again depend on a man for what she wanted. On the trip she ate whenever the mood took her, stopped to see anything that looked interesting, bought clothes based on what she wanted rather than some image she had to project. Instead of trying to look sexy, she went for the comfort of cotton pants, T-shirts, and sandals. After all, she was spending hours every day in the car, in the middle of summer.

Remembering the lessons learned from the bank in
New Jersey
, she knew she wouldn’t be able to waltz in and get the two million. All she’d get was another few thousand in cash, and the rest in a cashier’s check. She was already holding a cashier’s check for eighty-five thousand, for all the good it did her. Unless she was buying a big-ticket item, she couldn’t spend it. Yeah, like she could drop a couple of hundred bucks and ask for eighty-four thousand eight hundred dollars in change.

There was also the difficulty in carting that much money around with her. She couldn’t do it. She’d had to convince herself of the impossibility, so, with time on her hands, the first night on the road, she’d actually measured her remaining hundred-dollar bills. The way she calculated it, a thousand dollars, banded, was one tenth of an inch thick, so a ten-thousand-dollar stack would be an inch thick. That meant, roughly, ten inches for every hundred thousand, in which case a million would be a hundred inches, and two million would be two hundred inches, or a stack over sixteen feet high—kind of tough to carry around, and even tougher to stash out of sight. She’d be practically advertising for someone to knock her in the head and take her dough.

So, the money had to be kept in a bank, but she’d like to break the paper trail of cashier’s checks, even though by law the banks weren’t allowed to give out any information to Rafael. That didn’t mean he couldn’t get it, just that he’d have to go to a good deal of trouble, and how much trouble he went to depended on how angry he was. Two million dollars worth of angry, plus the insult to his machismo, meant he’d be willing to spend twice that much money to find her. That kind of revenge might not be cost-effective, but it would definitely be satisfying.

In order to break the paper trail, at some point she’d have to get the two million converted into cash, even if for just long enough to drive to another state and stash it in another bank. The problem was, banks didn’t like to hand out two million in cash, even to the person it belonged to.