Death Angel (9 page)

Almost everything here would have to stay. She selected some basic cosmetics, enough to get her by but not enough that Rafael would ever notice part of her stuff was missing. The rest she left scattered across her vanity, as if she were expecting to return. She rolled up a pair of black cropped pants, and a skimpy black shirt, and added them to the bag. Black was the least noticeable color in
New York
, because so many people wore it, even during the summer. Another bag, smaller and plainer, also went into the tote.

That was it. She’d buy everything else she needed as she needed it. She was satisfied that no one, looking at this room, would think anything other than that she’d gone shopping and would soon be back. Rafael, knowing how she loved clothes and makeup, would never believe she’d willingly left all this behind, and that would buy her precious time—she hoped. She’d have to make a clean escape; if the babysitter saw her, tried to catch her, then she’d have no grace period at all.

She paced. She watched the clock. After awhile, hunger pains drove her from her room to the kitchen. Rafael didn’t have a cook because he didn’t trust people outside of his network, and generally thugs didn’t develop their culinary skills, but he did have food delivered so there was always something available.

She made herself walk slowly, as if she didn’t have a lot of energy. The two men sitting in the living room looked around. To her relief, neither of them was Orlando Dumas. Their names were Amado and Hector, and if she’d ever heard their last names she’d promptly forgotten them. They were okay, sort of middle of the pack: not the smartest, not the dumbest. Cool. She could handle that.

“You feelin’ better?” Hector asked.

“Some.” She’d forgotten to keep coughing, but her voice was still a little raspy. “I’m going to heat some soup for lunch. Do you want any?” She doubted it, because she could see plates and glasses on the coffee table, indicating they’d already eaten, plus Amado had his hand in a huge bag of Doritos.

“Nah, we’ve already had lunch. Thanks, though.”

Hector had fairly good manners, for a thug.

Drea went into the kitchen and nuked a bowl of soup, ate it standing up at the counter. Her heart was kicking into high gear; she could feel the rhythm of the beats picking up in speed, feel the excitement beginning to race through her veins. She looked at the clock again: two p.m.

Showtime.

7

AFTER LOCKING HER BEDROOM DOOR, DREA GOT HER LAPTOP and logged on. She had carefully researched this, not because she’d been planning all along to wipe out Rafael’s bank account and go into hiding, but sort of as a “just in case” type of thing.

If Rafael had played straight with her, she’d have been content to rock along at the status quo for as long as he wanted her, then she’d take her jewelry and leave. That was what she’d expected to happen, and she’d played her part to convince him that she was completely harmless, so he wouldn’t worry about something she might have seen or overheard.

Besides all that, what if Rafael had been killed? Things like that happened to people like him. She hadn’t seen any point in letting all that money sit in the bank, his accounts frozen, until the feds stepped in and took it all.

So she’d planned for the future—her future.

She truly had no idea where or how Rafael kept his other set of books, for the big money that hadn’t been laundered. She hadn’t tried to find out, judging that effort way out of her league in terms of the risks she was willing to take. But the bank account that Rafael used for his personal needs, and the one from which he made transfers to the account he’d set up for her, well, that was different.

The penthouse had a hard-wired router for their computer use;
Orlando had told Rafael to go that route instead of wireless, as a wireless router made it easier for someone else to capture his information. Drea’s laptop’s IP number was different from that of Rafael’s laptop, but from the router outward only one IP number showed up at the other end, meaning that, if she accessed Rafael’s bank account, as far as the bank was concerned, the access came from the correct IP number.

Getting Rafael’s password had taken months of watching, catching glimpses whenever she could, watching his hands and working out what keystrokes he was using. If he’d changed his password regularly, she’d never have been able to figure it out, but like most people he didn’t bother. Nor was his password particularly imaginative: he used his cell phone number. He had two cells, an encrypted one
Orlando had gotten for him, and another one that he used for ordinary stuff. Drea didn’t know the number for the encrypted phone, but she’d often called his regular cell. After she’d figured out three of his keystrokes, she’d known what the password was.

She went to the bank’s website, then logged on as Rafael, holding her breath until the account information actually flashed onto the screen. First she went into his account preferences and changed the e-mail address so that any notifications would be sent to her e-mail address instead of his. From the research she’d done, she knew that a bank would send an e-mail when any unusually large transfers were made, and she didn’t want Rafael getting that e-mail today.

How long it would be before he—or rather,
Orlando—thought to check her e-mail account was anyone’s guess. At first, when Rafael realized she had disappeared, he’d check her room. He’d never expect her to leave all her clothes behind, so he’d be concerned something had happened to her, and he’d have his men searching for her. Unfortunately, that meant she also had to leave the laptop behind, because he’d notice immediately if it were gone. She didn’t care; there were no files she needed to keep, no photos saved on it.

Besides, she wanted Rafael to know what she’d done—after she’d had plenty of time to get away, of course. She wanted him to know that she’d made him pay. He might not find out about his empty bank account until he bounced a check, which could be days. That was the best-case scenario, but sometimes the ball bounced her way. She wasn’t counting on it, though; she intended to run far and run fast. She’d have to change her name, spend some money to get a new ID that would hold up under at least a first round of scrutiny, but she knew all about reinventing herself and the prospect didn’t bother her.

The e-mail problem taken care of, she went back to Rafael’s account information and took her first look at the bottom line. A savage glee filled her. Two million, one hundred eighty-eight thousand, four hundred thirty-three dollars and two cents. She’d leave him the two cents, she thought, because she was transferring only round numbers.

Maybe she’d be smart to take only the two million, and leave the hundred and eighty-eight thousand. That way he wouldn’t immediately bounce any checks, which might stack the deck in her favor. On the other hand, as he’d said, a hundred thousand was a hundred thousand. That was the Judas price he’d put on her, so evidently she was worth a hundred grand. Why shouldn’t she take it?

Two million, one hundred thousand dollars. It had a nice sound to it. She typed in her account information, jumped through all the electronic hoops, and with a keystroke was an instant millionaire. She waited a minute, then logged into her own account and stared in satisfaction at the nice big numbers. In case Rafael somehow discovered what she’d done, to keep him from simply transferring the money back into his account, she changed the password. He couldn’t get to the money now, because as far as the bank was concerned, he’d given it to her and it was hers to do with as she pleased.

The next step: move all that nice money to a different bank. Not right now, though; it was too soon. A routine e-mail alerting him to the transfer was one thing, but the last thing she wanted to do was trigger a personal telephone call. She’d wait an hour, maybe less, before the bank’s closing time to move the money to two separate accounts: part of it to a bank in Elizabeth, New Jersey, but the bulk of it she’d put in the little independently owned bank in Grissom, Kansas, where she still maintained the very first bank account she’d ever opened. The bank here wouldn’t, by law, be able to provide Rafael with any information about what she’d done with the money after it landed in her account.

She couldn’t help smiling. Rafael had insisted she open the account at his bank to make it easier for him to transfer money to her as she needed it. He had intended his name to be on the account, too, but he hadn’t been with her and somehow she’d “forgotten” that part of his instructions, though she’d dutifully had the statements sent to him so he could keep track of her spending. He’d been annoyed, but not enough to do anything about it, because he had assumed that, because he controlled how much and when any funds were deposited in her account, he also controlled her. He’d been wrong then, and he was wrong now.

Pacing, she reviewed the steps she’d taken so far, trying to think of any additional details. She added a thin black hoodie to her tote bag, so she’d have something to cover her hair with until she could get it cut. She could take a pair of scissors with her and hack it off herself, but she didn’t want anyone finding long hanks of hair in a trash can and putting two and two together. She’d get her hair cut tomorrow, in a hair salon, where people got their hair cut all the time and no one would pay any attention to her.

She checked the charge on her BlackBerry, tossed it in the tote, then added one final item: an empty wallet. That was all, she decided. What she was taking was minimal, just what she needed now. She was ready.

Crap, no, she wasn’t. Mentally smacking herself on the forehead, she hurried to her closet and retrieved the key to her safe-deposit box from where she had taped it to the inside top of her satin house slippers. Without the key, she wouldn’t be able to retrieve the jewelry she’d stashed there, or the bank routing numbers and her account numbers that were also in the box. She couldn’t believe she’d been about to walk out without the key. She’d have been helpless, unable to do anything, and she would have to either walk away without anything, or risk coming back here for the key, which would have meant Rafael possibly could discover what she’d done while she was still within his grasp. The thought made her shudder. Even if he didn’t, he would want to make love to her tonight, and she knew she couldn’t bear it. She couldn’t pretend yet again, couldn’t hide what she was thinking and feeling.

Going to the door, she coughed several times to cover any sound as she unlocked the door, then pulled it open. She went to the living room and paused at the entrance. Both Amado and Hector looked around at her. “I’m feeling a little better,” she said hoarsely. “Is it okay if I go to the library?”

She knew their orders, but she phrased it as a question anyway. She’d never given Rafael’s men any lip or attitude, acting as meek and mild as possible, and she didn’t change her act now.

“I’ll get the car,” Amado said, looking resigned as he got to his feet. He and Hector must have discussed the possibility beforehand, and Amado had drawn the short straw. Hector got to stay at the penthouse and watch sports, while poor Amado had to find a nearby parking space, then sit in the car and wait for her call.

“I’ll change clothes and be right out,” Drea promised. She knew they didn’t believe her, because she usually took forever getting ready, but today she moved with a speed and purpose she normally kept hidden. She pulled on a cream-colored pair of silk pants and matching tank, then slipped on a cropped silk jacket in hot pink. She was now so noticeable, and so easy to spot, that Amado wouldn’t recognize her after she changed clothes, even if she walked right past him. He’d be looking for the pink jacket and her mass of curly hair.

Slipping the straps of the tote bag on her shoulder, she looked around the room for one last time, saying good-bye to Drea Rousseau. The act has served her purpose, but good riddance.

“Bye, Hector,” she said as she left the bedroom and went to the door. “See you later.”

He waved a hand in reply, not looking away from the television. Drea let herself out, and stepped into the elevator. She was alone. As she pushed the Down button and the car began to move, a sense of lightness and relief began to seep through her, as if chains were falling away. Soon, her subconscious whispered. Soon—just minutes now—she would be free. She would be herself again. A few more minutes of pretense with Amado, and she’d be able to close the door on this part of her life.

Exiting into the lobby, she gave the doorman her usual friendly, empty-headed smile. Amado pulled to the curb as she stepped onto the sidewalk. He looked faintly surprised to see her so promptly, but hopped out and opened the rear door of the black Lincoln Town Car for her. There were thousands of cars just like it in
New York
; all the car services used them. Rafael used them as his personal cars because they blended with all the others, making it easier for him to shake anyone following him.

As Drea stepped into the car she thought she saw the assassin and panic froze her heart, her blood. She stumbled, almost falling, as her feet suddenly refused to work. Amado grabbed her arm. “You okay?”