The man started to do as told but quickly reached into his pocket. He answered the Fixer’s questioning look by holding up a silver charm on a necklace. “My kid’s,” he said. “She wanted me to fix the clasp. I better not lose it.” He casually walked over to his desk, where he hung the jewelry from the lamp’s switch.
The Fixer looked at him for a long moment, then nodded. “Take off the robe.”
The man did as he was told until he was standing naked. The Fixer motioned him over to a floor lamp that he switched on. “Stand in the light, and turn around slowly,” he commanded.
The man blushed but complied. “What are you doing?”
“Looking for scratches, bite marks. Do you remember anything like that?”
“Not sure,” the man said, continuing to turn.
“Okay, I don’t see anything.” The Fixer looked at his watch. “It’s two A.M. I want you to drive back with me to New York, do a little Christmas shopping in the morning, where you’ll be seen. I’ll have my people contact the press and make sure they get wind of the photo op. I have a friend with a hotel who’ll make sure his books say that you checked in earlier this evening—alone—so remember to tell the media that you came down early to shop before picking up your beloved wife and kids. Right now, I want you to run upstairs and take a shower, and I mean scrub every nook and cranny, and make the water as hot as you can, with plenty of soap and shampoo.”
Ten minutes later, the man walked back downstairs, towel-drying his hair. He was dressed casually in slacks, a button-down shirt, and a cardigan and was carrying a small suitcase.
Young men were carting several lawn bags out the front door as the Fixer stood in the foyer, talking to Peter and another sandy-haired young man. He signaled for the client to come over and nodded to his employee. “Jason, would you explain what you’ve been up to, please?”
The young man turned and said, “Basically, I wiped your security tapes clean from shortly before the young lady showed up; they won’t start recording again until about five A.M., long after we’re all gone.”
“What if somebody notices?” the client asked.
The Fixer shrugged. “Unless there is some reason for somebody to go back and review the tape—like a break-in—I think we’re pretty safe. They recycle every seventy-two hours. Besides, Jason here is a master at making it look as if such things were caused by power spikes or viruses.” He took the man by the elbow and guided him over to another young man he called Lex, who, like the others, was dressed in a black knit cap and a turtleneck, clean-cut but unremarkable. “How did the young woman get here?”
“She drove.”
“Then I assume that’s her BMW parked around the side?”
“Yes.”
The Fixer pulled a set of keys from his pocket and handed them to the young man. “Lex, would you do the honors? Park it in our garage until I decide what’s next. Remember, keep it under the speed limit, full stops—we can’t have you getting pulled over.”
“Yes, sir,” Lex replied as he took the keys and left the house.
The Fixer’s attention turned to Josh and another young man coming down the stairs with a large zipped bag between them. It was apparent what was in the bag.
“What . . . what are you going to do with her?” the man stammered.
“Better you don’t know,” the Fixer replied. He clapped his client on the shoulder. “I believe it’s time for us to go. We have a lot to talk about.”
Malice Page 48