Sometimes, and this was one, he loved what he did for a living.
The light went out downstairs. The house was now totally dark.
Just a few minutes more.
He fingered the snapshot in his pocket. It was too dark for him to be able to see it, but he was nearly as familiar with the image on it as he was with his own face in the mirror. Julie Carlson in a white bikini, slim and tanned and laughing, poised to dive into the swimming pool in her own backyard.
He’d taken it himself three days before.
One of the quartet of garage doors that faced his position rose, and seconds later a big black Mercedes purred silently down the driveway. The husband was leaving, right on schedule.
The garage door closed again. The Mercedes turned left at the end of the driveway, and drove away toward the interstate some five miles distant. The house was once again dark and quiet.
Everything was going down as expected.
The burglar alarm would be off, which made his job just that much easier. He had a window of maybe three and a quarter hours to get in and out before the husband returned. He would need far less.
Although he might want to linger over this one. Remembering the picture, he smiled. He definitely wanted to linger over this one.
Julie Carlson was a babe.
His instructions had been to make the hit look like anything but the professional, targeted job it was.
His reply had been, Can do.
Crouching, Basta set the small black satchel he carried on the carpet of golf-course-quality grass that covered the lawn and unzipped it. The steamy July heat, complete with swarms of hungry mosquitoes and a faint fruity scent, wrapped uncomfortably around him. It reminded him that he was wearing long pants and a cotton turtleneck, both black, on a night that cried out for shorts and not much else. A quick rummage through the contents reassured him that everything he might need was in the bag: burglary tools, duct tape, a small flashlight, a thin nylon cord and a pencil to use as a garrote, a box of surgical gloves, another of condoms. He touched his knit cap, making sure it fit tightly around his head and over his eyebrows. He’d shaved his body completely so as not to leave telltale hairs at the scene, but shaving his head and eyebrows would, he feared, make him too memorable to those who might be questioned in the aftermath of the crime. The last thing he wanted was to be memorable.
Besides, his thinning gray hair gave him an innocuous look, he felt. Countless people usually saw him in the days before a hit—neighbors, passersby, convenience-store clerks, trash collectors—but nobody ever remembered him, because he looked like a fifty-something Joe Average. DNA notwithstanding, the cap worked. The first two hadn’t had time to dislodge it before he’d had them duct-taped into immobility, and Julie Carlson wouldn’t either.
He was that good.
Sliding the flashlight into his pocket, he rezipped the bag, picked up his pistol, stood up and headed around to the back of the house. The swimming pool sparkled in the moonlight. Lush pots of tropical flowers gave off a heady scent. Cicadas and crickets and tree frogs sang.
South Carolina would be one of his favorite states, he thought, if only it wasn’t so damned hot and humid in the summer.
The back door, the sliding one opening onto the stone patio and the swimming pool, was his target.
In a matter of minutes he’d be inside.
Piece of cake. The alarm was off, the locks were laughable, the woman was alone, and they didn’t even own a dog. Might as well hang out a sign: Come and get me.
A light came on downstairs.
Basta froze in his tracks in the act of reaching for the doorknob, frowning at the window that was suddenly glowing warmly from within. This was unexpected. He retreated a few stealthy paces to the concealing shadow of an enormous magnolia, his senses on high alert. He’d been casing the house for three weeks, and she’d never once turned on a light after her husband was gone. Was she sick? Did they have company? No, he couldn’t have missed that.
What gave?
The light went off as suddenly as it had come on, and the house was dark and still once more. He stared meditatively at the looming facade, the shiny black windows, the two doors that he could see, probing the darkness for her with every instinct he possessed. He was so attuned to her now as predator to victim that he fancied he could almost hear her breathing through the brick walls.
Where was she?
A sound made him turn his head sharply. It came from the side of the house where he’d waited until just moments before. Alert as a dog on the hunt, taking care to stay deep in the shadows, he retraced his steps until he once more stood beneath the palmettos. His eyes widened as he saw that another of the garage doors was open now.
His pistol came up, but there was no way he could use it.
He could do nothing but watch as Julie Carlson’s silver Jaguar nosed out of the garage, gathered speed going down the driveway, then turned left at the street and vanished like a bat into the night.
Just as quick as that.
He was left to look blankly back at an empty house as, with a barely audible thump, the garage door closed again.
She was gone. It took a minute or so for that incontrovertible fact to sink in. When it did, he felt empty, cheated. A surging anger at having his careful plans disrupted threatened to swamp his previously good mood.
Could she have somehow known he was there? Basta looked quickly around, wary of a trap. Given the group he worked for, a double-cross was never beyond the realm of possibility.
Then good sense reasserted itself. There was no trap; he was too valuable to the organization for that. And she could not possibly have known he was there unless she was psychic.
The most logical explanation was that some sort of emergency had arisen. What, he didn’t know, but then, he didn’t need to know. The pertinent thing was that, sooner or later, she would be back.
And he would be waiting.
The certainty of that was calming. Glitches of this sort happened even to consummate professionals such as himself.
Acknowledging that, Basta felt better. Circling back around behind the house, he even began to hum. When he realized what the song was, he felt a spurt of amusement at the sheer appropriateness of it.
“Ti-i-ime is on my side. . . .”
2
“I DON’T WANT TO HURT YOUR FEELINGS or anything, McQuarry, but you sure are one ugly-ass woman.”
Mac shot his partner a withering look. Hinkle, walking beside him, was snickering openly. It was a suffocatingly hot Friday night in July, and the two of them had just met up in the parking lot of the Pink Pussycat, one of Charleston’s most notorious gay bars.
“Hey, I feel pretty, all right? Back off.”
“I wouldn’t date you, that’s for sure.”
“You are dating me, so shut the hell up.” Mac’s spike heel caught on a crack in the pavement and he stumbled, nearly twisting his ankle. Grabbing Hinkle’s arm, he recovered his balance with no harm done beyond a warning twinge. “Shit. How women walk in these things beats the hell out of me. My feet hurt already. I’ll be a cripple before the night’s over.”
Chortling, Hinkle pulled his arm free. “You better be keeping them hands to yourself, homes. Rawanda’s the jealous type. She’ll kick your ass, she catches you molesting me.”
“You’re just lucky the guy’s fucking prejudiced. Otherwise your black ass’d be in this getup.”
“I’d be lookin’ good, too, unlike some people I could name. Hey, man, you can’t go scratchin’ yourself if you’re gonna hang with me. It’s not ladylike.”
“I’m not scratching myself, I’m pulling up my fricking panty hose.” Mac gave the waistband, which seemed more determined to head south than General William Tecumseh Sherman on his Civil War–era march to the sea, another savage tug. “Shut up, here we go.”
They joined the throng on the sidewalk in front of the bar.
Located in the middle of a run-down area taken over long since b
y girlie bars and porn shops, the Pink Pussycat was a three-story cinderblock building painted flaming flamingo with a giant, reclining neon cat swilling a martini affixed to the front wall. The small curtained windows were outfitted with black iron bars like a prison. A bouncer checking IDs stood just outside the door. It was near midnight, and there was a line. At least half the patrons, Mac was relieved to see, looked as freaky as he felt. He was six-one barefoot, maybe six-four or six-five in the damned spindly heeled shoes, which meant that at the moment he towered over the crowd. Oh, well, at least being able to see over everybody’s head would make it easier to spot their target.
According to his sources, Clinton Edwards had a thing for buxom blond drag queens. And since Edwards’ wife was paying through the nose so she could nail him good in their divorce, Mac was willing to turn himself into a buxom blond drag queen, wired for pictures and sound, to get the dirt. He hated domestic cases, hated them with a passion, and this one was even slimier than most, but McQuarry and Hinkle, Private Investigators, were not successful enough to be particular about the jobs they took.
In other words, if it paid, he sashayed.
“That’ll be ten bucks.” The bald, multi-earringed bouncer looked them over without interest. In the spirit of getting into his role, Mac almost batted his heavily mascaraed eyelashes at him. But nah, the guy was shorter than he was but stocky, one of those weight-lifter types, and who knew, he might get into it. Fending off a two-hundred-pound-plus lovestruck fruit was not on tonight’s agenda.
Well, it was, maybe, but in any case not this particular lovestruck fruit. Edwards weighed somewhere north of two-fifty, according to his bio, but he was sixty years old and all lard.
Yum-yum, Mac thought with an inward sigh. Just his type.
The things he did to earn a living.
Hinkle paid, and they walked inside. It was dark and smoky and smelled of beer and BO. Plastic palm trees adorned the corners, and the DJ was playing “Margaritaville.” Couples, some male-male, some female-female, some who-knew-what, swayed on the tiny dance floor in the middle of the room. Up on the stage, a blonde with boobs the size of basketballs stripped in time to the music. She was peeling off her gold lamé panties before Mac realized to his horror that she wasn’t a woman. Averting his gaze, he forced his mind back to business and scanned the room for their quarry.
Somebody grabbed his ass.
“Yow!” Mac was so surprised he jumped a foot straight up in the air. Landing on his spike heels, he wobbled, tottered, and nearly went down. Catching himself on a table, he got his ankles straightened out and turned around. It was all he could do to stop himself from reaching for his Glock, which was conveniently holstered in his eighteen-hour bra.
“Hey, now, don’t you be grabbin’ my bitch.” Hinkle’s grin as he warned the bespectacled accountant type who was looking Mac up and down with clearly lascivious intent made Mac long to pop him one.
“Sorry, man, I didn’t realize she was with somebody.” The accountant held up both hands in a gesture of peace, leaned back in his chair, and picked up his beer. Over the mug’s rim, his eyes met Mac’s with an unmistakable message. Seeing that Hinkle’s attention was briefly elsewhere, his lips pursed in a silent kiss.
Mac’s eyes widened. Then he gritted his teeth and managed a saccharine smile.
“See you around,” the accountant said.
“Yeah, see ya.” It was his best falsetto. Careful to keep his assets out of reach, Mac turned and minced toward the bar. Christ, now both ankles were giving him trouble. He had to remind himself again just how much Mrs. Edwards was paying them. If he hadn’t, he would have turned tail there and then and gotten the hell out of Dodge.
“From now on, you watch my back,” he growled over his shoulder at Hinkle. But Hinkle wasn’t looking at him. He was staring across the room, an arrested expression on his face.
“Shit, there he is.”
“Where?” Alert now too, Mac followed his gaze. Sure enough, Edwards was seated with a gorgeous-looking blonde—Mac had to remind himself that the babe was a guy—at a little round table in the corner. As he watched, the blonde stood up, smiled flirtatiously at Edwards, then headed across the room. She disappeared inside a door adorned with a neon sign that read LADIES.
Jesus.
“Looks like you’re on, boss,” Hinkle said under his breath.
Mac looked at that door, looked back at Hinkle, and resigned himself to the inevitable. Sometimes a man had to do what a man had to do.
“You know,” he said in his creaky falsetto, “I think I have to go tinkle.”
With Hinkle laughing like a juiced-up hyena behind him, Mac teetered off to make a girlfriend of the blonde. If she could be persuaded to invite him and Hinkle to join her and Edwards at their table, his life was suddenly made a whole lot easier. If not, he was going to have to go to Plan B. He didn’t even want to think about Plan B. It involved getting friendlier with Edwards than he ever wanted to be with someone who didn’t have two X chromosomes.
Either way, he thought as he pushed through the door into the soft pink lighting of the little girls’ room, it was going to be a long night.
He should have listened to his grandma and become a lawyer.
* * *
Julie turned another corner, took a quick look around, and, for the third time in five minutes, pressed the button that secured all four car doors just to make sure they really were locked. All right, so driving a shiny silver Jaguar deep into Charleston’s bustling red-light district in the middle of a Friday night was probably not the smartest thing she had ever done. But then, when she’d left the house, she hadn’t known where she was headed, so she really couldn’t be convicted of total stupidity. Lying in bed listening to the distant hum of the garage door closing, she’d made up her mind, and lit out after Sid. She’d followed him blindly, desperate to know where he went when he snuck out of their house after he thought she was asleep, and she’d ended up here. Not exactly a positive reflection on their marriage, was it?
All up and down the street, neon signs blinked GIRLS! LIVE! ONSTAGE! and ADULT MOVIES and XXX. Acknowledging their import, Julie felt the knot that seemed to have lodged permanently in the pit of her stomach twist itself several degrees tighter.
Sid was forty years old and healthy as a horse as far as she knew. She was twenty-nine, with a slim curvaceous figure she worked hard to keep, great legs if she did say so herself, long black hair that waved naturally in the sauna-like heat, and a face that had taken her far from her wrong-side-of-the-track roots. She was clean, sweet-smelling, bought her lingerie at Victoria’s Secret. In other words, there was absolutely nothing about her that might turn a husband off.
She and Sid hadn’t had sex in more than eight months. And it certainly wasn’t from lack of interest or effort on her part. But trying to entice her own husband into bed without success was ego-busting, to say the least.
Especially for someone who had once been called the prettiest girl in South Carolina.
Sid’s excuse, when she confronted him about their dead sex life, was that he was under a lot of stress at work, so he’d appreciate it if she would just let him the hell alone. He was a contractor who, in partnership with his now-retired father, owned a very successful business, All-American Builders, which made tons of money developing subdivisions and building luxury homes across the state. She had no doubt that he was under a significant amount of stress.
But enough stress to keep him from having sex? Uh-uh. No way.
It had taken a while for the other shoe to drop, but finally it did when she’d found diamond-shaped blue Viagra pills mixed in with some vitamins in his medicine cabinet. At first hope had flared, and she waited with anticipation, sure he’d decided to see a doctor to fix their little problem. But nothing had happened. There’d been eight pills when she’d discovered the cache on Monday. By this evening—Friday—when she’d checked again, only six were left.
So she’d dressed for the night in her se
xy best, even going downstairs to make sure he saw her in it, then lay in bed waiting for the jackass to come to her.
The rest, as they say, was history. What was going on became suddenly clear.
Sid was having sex, all right—just not with her.
At least he’d apparently been telling the truth about stress impairing his sexual functioning.
Ever since she’d awakened to the sound of the garage door going up, she’d been sick to her stomach. It was hard to admit that her Cinderella, rags-to-riches, fairy-tale marriage had about as much life left in it as yesterday’s roadkill. To make matters worse, her whole family was now dependent on Sid: her mother and stepfather lived in a house he owned; her sister’s husband worked as a vice-president at his company, a job that paid Kenny perhaps three times what he was worth, enough for Becky to stay home with their two girls.
Divorce was such an ugly word. But Julie had a sinking feeling that she was looking it right in the face.
Until just a little while ago, when she’d finally had enough sense to add two and two and get four, she hadn’t allowed herself to seriously consider ending her marriage. Maybe, she kept telling herself, things would get better. Maybe work stress really was the reason Sid wasn’t interested in her sexually anymore. Maybe there was also a perfectly reasonable explanation for why he was so cold and brusque to her most of the time, and why he slept in the spare bedroom, and why he snuck out at night after she had gone upstairs to bed.
Yeah, and maybe there was an Easter bunny, too.
She’d asked him about all those things, nicely and at the top of her lungs and every other way in between. His response had been that the stress of keeping her in the style to which she was definitely not accustomed had both robbed him of his manhood and given him insomnia, he slept in the spare bedroom because he didn’t want his insomnia to keep her awake, and when he couldn’t sleep, he sometimes went out driving around his subdivisions. Looking at houses he’d built relaxed him.
To Trust a Stranger Page 2