by Thomas Perry
The next day he unloaded the revolver, did his best to clean the surfaces with a soft cloth made of a worn T-shirt, and then pushed some strips of the cloth through the barrel with a new, unsharpened pencil. Finally he rode his bike to his uncle’s apartment and returned the gun to its box in the back of the drawer. There was now one more round missing from the already-opened box of ammunition, but he was sure his uncle wouldn’t notice.
A few days later, he overheard his parents talking about Mindy. She had always been such a lovely girl. Nobody could blame her for moving away from Jamestown after what had happened, but losing her struck them as a tragedy for the neighborhood.
12
Joey Moreland opened the laptop again that night, signed onto the hotel’s network as a guest with one of the accounts he sometimes used, and began to move down the titles of the escort ads. He moved quickly past “Busty Latina, 21” and “Sexy MILF, 35” and “Platinum Blond Hottie, 23” and the others. He was still searching for the right girl. It was like holding a mask in his hand, and trying to find the face that would fit it perfectly.
When the boast was vague, like “Stunning Beauty, 22” or “You will never forget me, 27” he would often click to see the ad. He didn’t like to do it, because about half the pictures reminded him of what an unappetizing business this could be. The ads were often misspelled and ungrammatical. There were girls claiming to be eighteen who looked is if they belonged on a playground, and others claiming to be thirty who looked a hard-worn sixty.
Most of the pictures were shots taken by the girls themselves by holding a smart phone up to a mirror while they assumed a pose that they hoped would be titillating, but was often just a grotesque contortion that reminded him of cubist paintings in which the front and back of a model were shown simultaneously. The reflected backdrop would be a bathroom in a cheap hotel or an apartment bedroom so cramped and cluttered that a client would have to move clothes and shoes just to get to the narrow bed.
He saw another ambiguous title: “I promise to look my best and be on my worst behavior, 24.” He clicked on that title, and there she was again, just as she had been in other cities. It really was only a matter of searching for her. The same strawberry blond hair; the smile; the skin that looked like porcelain on her breasts and buttocks but was so heavily freckled on the shoulders that the freckles nearly melted into a tan.
He enlarged the picture and looked more closely. The eyes were bright blue, and the eyelashes that he knew were blond had been covered with black mascara. Her expression was just the right combination of amusement at the human condition—the absurd set of common needs that were about to bring them together—and a hint of the longing she was feeling for a man like him. He was sure. He copied the number and called it on his cell phone.
When the recording prompted him, Moreland said, “Hi. My name is John Carter. I saw your ad on Backpage, and I wondered if you had time to see me tonight. I’m at the Four Seasons and my room is five ninety-two. You can call the hotel and get connected to me. I’ll be here for a while.” He hung up and turned on the television.
It took her two or three minutes to call back. He lifted the phone. “Yes?”
“Hi. This is Kelly. You called me?”
“Yes, I did. How are you?”
“I’m fine. You said you’d like to see me tonight.”
“I would.”
“Do you want to come to my place?”
“I’d like you to come to the Four Seasons.”
“It’s a little more expensive if I come to you. An extra hundred.”
“That’s okay.”
“What time?”
“Can you come at ten?”
“Yes. Please have my gift ready. All right?”
“All right. I’ll be looking forward to seeing you at ten.”
In the fourteen years since Mindy had disappeared from his life, he had continued to learn what he could about women. He was a good listener because he was listening for vulnerabilities, for ways he could exert power over them. He had to charm them into wanting him to win, even though winning was getting them to abandon self-protection and common sense. He had become highly skilled at satisfying women sexually. His face was unlined and boyish even though he was twenty-eight, and that helped. Many escorts liked his unthreatening face.
He showered, shaved especially close, and met her coming in the doors to the lobby. “Kelly?” he said.
She looked at him, and he could see her eyes focus on him as her mind worked rapidly to see if she recognized him or if he was a cop. He was smiling, so after that instant she smiled too. It was a simple trick. Smiling released endorphins. She would begin feeling good in a few seconds. “I’m very pleased to meet you.” He said it into her right ear because that was the shortcut to the left brain, which was the side that needed to be alerted that he was the one. He took her arm in the first couple of seconds and walked her into the bar, because a touch gave a woman the subconscious impression he was a strong, confident man taking charge of her. They sat at a table in the bar, and he said, “I’m going to have a martini. Would you like one?”
Kelly might or might not have ordered a martini if she had been left alone, but once he had said it she seemed to find herself wanting one without thinking about alternatives. She said, “Yes, please.”
“You’re very beautiful,” he said. “And you have perfect taste in clothes.” His smile broadened and he leaned close to her right ear again to whisper, “I’m very pleased.”
She could hardly not have known she had beauty, because her livelihood depended on it, and she probably heard it every day. But perfect taste was a form of intelligence, and the compliment made her feel even more desirable, and that made her more likely to desire.
He said, “Are you Irish? I can’t help wondering.”
She said, “I’m part Irish, with a little German thrown in.”
He kept her talking so he could mirror her expressions. “Did you grow up right in Boston?”
“No. My family is still in the South,” she said. “I still have the accent when I let myself have it.” She said that part with the accent. “You can’t be from here, or we wouldn’t be in a hotel.”
He appeared delighted by everything she said, and never took his eyes away from hers. “I was born in California,” he said. “I travel around a lot on business. I just got here a few hours ago.”
He noticed that she was already beginning to mirror his expressions and his posture. Everything was working already, without much effort on his part.
The waitress arrived with the martinis, and she gave him a chance to take out his soft leather wallet and open it to flash a thick layer of hundred-dollar bills while he found a fifty for the drinks. He noticed that Kelly was not the only woman whose eyes focused for a millisecond on the wallet and then flicked back to his eyes. The waitress gave him a smile to rival Kelly’s, and as she thanked him her head gave a little bow. It was aphrodisiac to a woman to notice that other women acknowledged the value of the man she was with.
He carefully lifted his glass and clinked it against Kelly’s, then leaned back in his chair and sipped it while he studied her over the rim. “That’s good, isn’t it?”
“I like it,” she said. “I don’t drink very often, though.”
“Why not?”
“It’s bad for my figure and my complexion.”
“No wonder you’re so beautiful.” Alcohol also made women less likely to be critical of men’s failings, and less inhibited. He estimated that she weighed about a hundred twenty, so one drink would be enough to make her feel good, but two would make her sleepy. He asked her to have dinner with him.
At dinner he made an effort to learn more about her. She was smart, and seemed to have some education. She knew what artists had exhibitions in Boston museums at the moment. “You might go and see
the Newman show at the Hibble Gallery tomorrow,” she said. “If you can keep yourself from hiring another girl for one afternoon. And if you haven’t been to the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum on one of your trips here, you should go. The concierge will arrange it for you, and the doorman will tuck you right in the taxicab.”
She was intrigued by and grateful for the delicious and expensive dishes he ordered for her, but as he’d expected, only tasted them and left them unfinished.
He asked her about the books she liked, and she was vague about that. He told her honestly about his own preferences. “I travel most of the time, so I read a lot. Lately I’ve been driving, so I listen to audiobooks on the road.”
He expected her to ask which books, but instead she said, “Why do you travel?”
“I’m a consultant. I go to businesses and I tell people what to do, then go away and let them take all the credit.”
“I’m sure you’re good at it. You eat at very expensive places.” She leaned forward and said quietly, “I’ve been wondering. What are you expecting tonight?”
“Pardon me?”
“It’s okay. We’re not talking loudly, and nobody’s close enough to hear.”
“You mean, do I have a fetish or something unusual in mind?”
“Well, you might. And that would be just fine. I’m not at all judgmental. But you’ve been very nice to me, and I don’t want to disappoint you.”
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m pretty ordinary in every way. I hope I’m not too dull. I’m not a married guy whose wife won’t do what he wants, or something. I’m just a single man who isn’t in a relationship right now.”
“Okay,” she said. “I’ll just have to work harder to make your wish come true—you don’t know what it is.”
He called for the check, signed it, pulled out her chair, took her hand, and walked her out to the lobby and into the elevator. By the time they reached his floor he had decided she might be the right girl.
He was gentle, romantic. He made sure Kelly felt unrushed and unpressured and appreciated. He touched her softly and didn’t speak, so she could imagine whatever she liked. But slowly, gradually, he began to use the techniques he had first learned from Mindy when he was fourteen, and had perfected in the fourteen years since then with many other women. He made the experience about Kelly’s feelings, sensations, and desires. He prevented her from reverting to habitual actions that her mind would associate with work, and unrelentingly aroused and stimulated her until, after about two hours, he knew she was his.
They lay still for a long time, and he watched her fall asleep. When she was sleeping deeply he got up and turned on his laptop computer. He bought two admission tickets for the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum and made reservations for an early dinner at Clio, then climbed back into bed and went to sleep.
When he awoke Kelly was dressing. “Have to go?” he asked.
“I’m afraid so. It’s morning.”
“I guess I’d better get you your money.” He got up and went to the dresser, counted out twenty hundreds, and handed them to her, then lay back on the bed.
She folded the bills in half and put the wad into her purse. She smiled. “I should be paying you.”
He shook his head. “Please don’t.”
“What?”
“Say things like that. I know I’m no different from the last guy or the next. I don’t want you to think I’m an egotistical jerk that you have to flatter.”
“I don’t think that at all. You’re a great lover, and you know it.” She jumped onto the bed beside him and tickled his ribs. “Admit it or I’ll tickle you until you pee. Admit it, Mr. Don Juan. Admit it.”
He flipped her over onto her back and held her wrists. “That was the best money I ever spent. You don’t have to lie to make me happy. I’m happy.”
“Good for you. I’m happy too,” she said. “It reminded me of what I like about men. If they were all like you I’d do this for nothing.” She struggled to free her hands, but gave up and lay still. “Give me one kiss.”
He gave her a long, gentle kiss.
“Now let me go before the staff sees I’ve been here all night and figures I must be an escort.”
He sat back, and she got up and picked up her purse. She took a step, then stopped. “How long are you in Boston?”
“I haven’t decided.” He went to the desk and opened his laptop.
“If you want to see me again, I’ll charge you half price. See? You must be Don Juan.”
He said, “I have tickets for this afternoon at the Gardner. Will you go with me and show me around?”
“I don’t know.”
“That can be the half-price date.”
“Done.”
“And I have reservations for an early dinner at Clio afterward.”
“Clio?”
“Massachusetts Avenue and Commonwealth, across the bridge from MIT. Kitchen opens at five-thirty, right when we’ll be starving from walking around and looking at paintings. Okay?”
“You’re spending an awful lot of money at once,” she said. “I don’t want to get you in trouble.”
“No trouble. I can’t always spend thousands of dollars a day, but I don’t often find much that I want. Can I pick you up at one?”
“Make it twelve-thirty. There’s a lot to see.” She stepped to his laptop and typed Google Maps and her address. “There. That’s where I live. I’ll be waiting.”
She left, and he looked at the map on the screen. It wasn’t a bad place—outside the congested areas in a quiet suburb. He wouldn’t mind living there for a while.
Joey Moreland had learned patience. He had no reason to rush Kelly into anything, or even to bring up the idea of living with her. If she thought of it, then she would never suspect his motives in accepting her invitation. He made sure he called her once a day, either to make a date with her or to tell her that he was too busy with his consulting job to see her. He always made sure that he included something in every conversation that made her think of money. He said today that the next time they met, he would drive her to Providence for the evening because there was a lobster restaurant that was highly recommended. Since that first night, whenever he’d seen her he’d brought a present, small but expensive—a silk scarf, a pin, a pair of gloves, lingerie; always the right brand, the best quality.
He had not needed to say that she must never call him, because discretion was standard procedure in her profession.
His profession took up much of his time. The man he was being paid to kill was Luis Salazar Cruz, a Mexican federal prosecutor who had become famous for his success against the Sinaloa and Gulf cartels. The broker had told Moreland that Salazar was fifty-one years old, six feet two inches tall, with wavy coal black hair and a small, neat mustache. He wore very good suits, most of them charcoal gray. It was a reasonable expectation that he would be protected by his own bodyguards, and by people from the Boston police. Because Salazar was a high-risk visitor, the police would probably station a couple of snipers nearby. Killing him and getting away afterward would take thorough planning and calm, efficient execution.
This job was why Moreland had decided to buy the Long Range Sniper Rifle and become expert with it. He could set himself up in a high place two thousand meters from Salazar and shoot him. A police sniper would be armed with a .308 rifle with an effective range of one thousand meters. It would be a deeply uneven match, one that would give Moreland enough margin for error to make the kill and easily get away.
Joey Moreland was a reliable assassin who could be expected to stay in the trade forever. He had been recruited ten years ago by Dick Holcomb. People outside the trade didn’t know that name, but once it had meant something. Dick Holcomb was a former soldier and a former mercenary who had become one of the people to call for unusual and difficult we
t jobs.
Moreland graduated from Jamestown High School at the age of seventeen and realized that there was no practical reason to stay in the southern tier of New York. There seemed to be little left to do there that didn’t involve construction, and nothing was being built. He went to Southern California. At first he tried to live by doing odd jobs, but had no success. He stole a few cars and helped chop them for parts, and then delivered a couple of shipments of drugs and money for a crystal meth lab in Tujunga. When the police found the lab, he became a burglar. He had been introduced to a pair of fences, the Hurtz brothers. They would meet him at a bar in Van Nuys called the Eagle, and tell him the sort of thing they were buying at the moment. He would go to a neighborhood where those items were likely to be, and steal some. One night the inevitable happened. A home owner woke up and met Joey Moreland in a dark hallway. Joey killed him with the crowbar he’d brought.
The police never figured out who had killed the man, but the Hurtz brothers were never in doubt. The brothers—Ron and Dale—made most of their money on the simple premise of buying things cheap from people who had not paid for them and then reselling them for more. But on this occasion Dick Holcomb paid the brothers for an introduction to Joey Moreland. When Joey sat at a table across from Holcomb, the first thing he noticed was that Holcomb’s eyes were an odd color. They were almost yellow, like a cat’s.
“What do you want me for?” Moreland asked him.
“I don’t know if I do,” Holcomb said. “I have a job to fill. It pays more than boosting things from houses—any houses—but it’s not for everybody.”