Death Angel

by Linda Howard

  “I didn’t transfer anything into her account yesterday!” Rafael bellowed, getting up and walking into his bedroom where Orlando was already sitting in front of Rafael’s laptop, checking his e-mail account. With everything going on yesterday, Rafael hadn’t bothered with crap like that.

  Orlando scrolled quickly through the messages, then looked up at Rafael and shook his head. “There’s no message from the bank here,” he said.

  “I didn’t get any e-mail,” Rafael snapped. “If I had, I’d have called, because I didn’t transfer any money yesterday. How much we talking about?”

  “Ah…two million, one hundred thousand dollars.”

  Rafael felt as if his head was going to explode. “What?” What the hell was going on? Had whoever snatched Drea forced her to give them the money in her account? But who in hell had transferred it from his account into hers in the first place? Drea didn’t have his password, and it wasn’t like he had it written down anywhere for her to get, not that she’d have recognized it as anything other than his cell phone number anyway.

  “Ah—”

  “If you say ‘ah’ one more time I’m going to reach through this phone and rip your fucking throat out,” Rafael said harshly. “I didn’t transfer anything yesterday, I sure as hell didn’t transfer any two million bucks, and I didn’t get a fucking e-mail. So put the money back in my account!”

  “I-I can’t,” Flores stammered. Rafael could almost hear the “ah” he’d barely stifled. “The transfer was made from your IP address using your password, and in any case, as I told you, the entire amount was transferred out late yesterday afternoon. Our bank no longer has control of these funds.”

  “Somebody ripped me off, and I don’t give a fuck what the bank controls and what it doesn’t. You people let somebody get my money, so you can damn well get it back.”

  “We can’t do that, Mr. Salinas. Legally, the bank’s hands are tied—”

  “There’s no way in hell the transfer was made from my computer, because I didn’t do it, so don’t tell me about legal!”

  Orlando got a very peculiar look on his face. Abruptly he got up and left the bedroom, leaving Rafael shouting into the phone. He was back in less than a minute, carrying Drea’s laptop. He placed it beside Rafael’s laptop on the desk, disconnected Rafael’s machine, and connected Drea’s. Then he opened her e-mail program and began scrolling. She had about twenty messages, most of them junk from various stores where she’d done some online shopping, so going through them didn’t take long. Orlando stopped scrolling and pointed at the screen.

  “Hold on,” Rafael said into the phone, bending down to look at where Orlando was pointing. Orlando opened the message and there it was, the e-mail the bank had sent. What was his e-mail doing on Drea’s computer?

  “We found your e-mail,” he snarled. “It didn’t come to me, it went to my girlfriend. You couldn’t even get that right, so—”

  “I assure you, Mr. Salinas, the e-mail went to the address that’s specified in your account information.”

  “I set it up myself, and I sure as hell didn’t use my girlfriend’s e-mail address, I used my own.”

  “Nevertheless, that’s the address that’s on our records now, and any change came from you using your password, so we have to assume you knew what you wanted to do.”

  “I’m telling you, I didn’t—” Rafael stopped, breathing hard, as an awful possibility began dawning on him. Despite the sudden feeling in his gut, his brain automatically rejected the idea. It wasn’t possible. Drea was computer literate enough to order stuff off the Internet, but that was about it—and even then, Orlando had had to walk her through the process several times before she grasped that all she had to do was follow whatever instructions were on the screen. She’d had it in her head that whatever she’d done on one website was what she had to do on every site.

  Rafael remembered how she’d kept saying helplessly, “But it doesn’t make sense!” Was he supposed to think this same woman somehow got around his password protection and into his bank account, transferred out almost all of his cash into her account, then promptly moved it yet again to God knows where? The Drea he knew not only wouldn’t have been able to do it, she wouldn’t even have thought of it.

  Her attitude toward money had been almost like a child’s. She’d never asked him for a penny. The way she looked at it, if she had plastic, or a checkbook, then she had money. If he hadn’t kept track of her account himself, she’d have had overdrafts all over the place, because she never paid any attention to her balance.

  To accept that she could possibly have done this was to accept that she’d duped him, duped everyone, for two years. His ego violently rejected that, because he wasn’t a dupe, he was Rafael Salinas, and anyone who had ever tried to dupe him had died regretting it. He trusted no one. He’d had Drea investigated, he’d had her followed, and he’d kept a check on her. Not once had she said or done anything that would make him think she was anything other than exactly what she appeared, which was sweet and dumb.

  “I’ll get back to you,” he said abruptly to Flores, and ended the call. He stared hard at Orlando, who was staring back at him. “Tell me how this could have happened. Tell me how someone got into my bank account and ripped me off to the tune of two fucking million dollars.”

  “It had to be done from here,” Orlando said. He clicked on the computer’s history, and there it was, plainly showing that someone, using Drea’s computer, had accessed the bank’s website. “On the receiving end, both your laptop and hers would show the same IP address, because they go through the same router. If she got your password, as far as the bank’s concerned, you’re the one who made the transfer.”

  “I didn’t give her the password,” Rafael snapped. “I never wrote it down, either.” Not even Orlando knew what his password was.

  “She got it somehow.” Orlando kept his expression blank as he pointed out the obvious. “If you ever accessed the account while she was in the room, she might have paid enough attention to figure out the keystrokes.”

  “This is Drea we’re talking about. She could barely figure out how to turn on the shower.” Okay, so that was an exaggeration; they still weren’t talking about a mental giant here.

  “That much money’s a powerful motivation, and the proof is right here.” Orlando tapped the computer screen. “I don’t think anybody grabbed her, I think she took the money and ran.”

  Rafael stood there, rage and humiliation burning through him. He’d let himself care about her, and the slut had played him for a fool. He never should have let his guard down, never for a minute let himself believe that she cared at all about him. She had to be the best actress in the world, to keep up that act for two years without a single slip, to produce all those tears the day before yesterday. And he’d fallen for it; that was what ate at him like acid. He’d bought the whole enchilada, fooled himself into thinking she really loved him, hell, even that he was in love with her.

  She’d pay for this. No matter what it cost him, she’d pay.

  “She can’t run far enough,” he said flatly. He’d like to take her apart with his bare hands, but he’d learned to put some distance between himself and the actual act, so even if he ordered it, he had some deniability. He could do without killing her himself, so long as he knew she was dead. He might regret not having the satisfaction of personally meting out justice, but vengeance would do almost as well, and he knew exactly how he was going to get it.

  THE ASSASSIN WAITED three days after receiving Salinas’s latest summons before he got in touch. He wasn’t doing anything else, but he was in the mood for some downtime and he was an independent contractor, not one of the bastard’s employees. Whatever Salinas wanted could wait.

  He didn’t trust the summons; it came too soon after his afternoon with Drea. Maybe Salinas had changed his mind about the offer and was, in retrospect, feeling as if his machismo had taken a hit. It had taken a lot more than a hit, but the assassin didn’t thi
nk Salinas had figured that out yet. Drea was too good at what she did; she’d keep quiet about how much pleasure she’d gotten out of the deal.

  So he waited, and he watched. He was as curious as ever about Salinas’s future plans, but while he didn’t have many virtues, patience was one he possessed in abundance. Something was going on; he could tell by the expressions on the faces of Salinas’s goons, on Salinas himself. The assassin had observed the man coming and going several times, and it was obvious he was in a bitch of a bad mood.

  When he judged Salinas had waited long enough, he first indulged himself with a leisurely tour of the Metropolitan Museum, which was one of his favorite places in New York. He didn’t mind the tourists, or the gaggles of children; the exhibits were their own reward. When he was finished, he stood on the broad steps and made the call.

  “Come to the penthouse,” Salinas ordered. “When can you be here?”

  “I’m nearby,” the assassin said calmly, “but it’s a nice day. Bethesda Terrace, in half an hour.” He disconnected, then turned off his phone and slipped it into his pocket. Not only would Salinas have trouble setting up an ambush in such a short time, but the Terrace was a public place, full of both tourists and city residents. It was also wide open, so his avenue of approach wouldn’t be limited. From there he could disappear into the depths of Central Park, should Salinas be of a mind to have him followed.

  He had no idea exactly where Salinas was, so half an hour might be an impossible deadline for him to meet. For himself, though, Bethesda Terrace was a pleasant walk. If Salinas was up in the penthouse, he’d have plenty of time to get there. If he was across town…tough. For something important, he’d make contact again.

  The assassin enjoyed making things difficult for the bastard, even in such a small way. Pleasure came where he found it, though, so he followed both his instinct to play it safe, and his inclination to jerk Salinas’s chain.

  He walked into the park, pausing to get an ice-cream cone. Though he knew the park fairly well, he nevertheless bought a map, and spent a few minutes studying it because he liked to know exactly what his options were if he happened to need one. He kept the map in his hand, knowing Salinas would spot it, and draw the conclusion that the assassin didn’t live locally and therefore wasn’t familiar with the layout of the park. The conclusion would be half right, because he didn’t really live in any one place; he stayed in various places for various lengths of time, and right now that place happened to be a few floors below Salinas.

  He found a vantage point and watched. If he saw anything that looked suspicious, he’d call off the meet. He knew Salinas wouldn’t meet him alone; a man like that couldn’t afford to go anywhere without his muscle in attendance. The assassin didn’t worry about the thugs he could see, though; it was the ones who weren’t out in the open that he looked for.

  Finally he saw Salinas, only a couple of minutes late, and with three men behind him. The assassin studied the surroundings, but didn’t see anything suspicious: he knew many of Salinas’s men on sight, so he didn’t have to rely only on behavior in judging whether or not it was safe to approach. No one appeared to be lurking without reason, no one seemed to be trying to stay out of sight. Finally he left his own concealment and strolled forward, still eating his ice cream.

  Salinas was irritably checking his watch when he looked up and saw the assassin. “You’re late,” he snarled as he gestured his men back.

  “Long line at the ice-cream stand,” the assassin said lazily. “What’s up?”

  Salinas looked around, then took an old-fashioned transistor radio from his pocket and turned it on. The volume was loud, so loud that if Salinas hadn’t taken a step closer, the assassin couldn’t have heard him.

  “Drea stole two million bucks from me, four days ago, and took a powder. I want you to find her and take care of the matter. Permanently.”

  A rivulet of melted ice cream trickled down the cone. The assassin caught it with his tongue, hiding his surprise. “You sure? She didn’t seem bright enough—though I guess that would be the proof, right?”

  “I’m sure.” Salinas gave a grim smile. “And, yeah, on the list of stupid things to do, ripping me off is right at the top.”

  10

  NEVER PISS OFF A SMART WOMAN.

  Given the timing, he didn’t have to be a genius to understand what had happened. Drea had been more than upset by Salinas giving her away; she’d been furious. This wasn’t just an “I’m leaving you” message, but an “I’m leaving you and take that you bastard!” gesture. As gestures went, it was an attention-getter.

  Amused, he took another lick of ice cream. He was more inclined to applaud her than go hunting for her. Still, a job was a job. “Make your best offer,” he drawled. “What’s it worth to you?” He couldn’t decide if he’d take the job until he knew how much was on the table.

  Salinas looked around and thumbed the volume on the radio even higher. The people passing by gave him annoyed looks, not that he gave a shit. “The same amount she stole.”

  Two million, huh? That definitely put a different light on the situation. He’d have to think about it, but in the meantime he didn’t want Salinas looking for anyone else to take care of the situation. If he didn’t take the job, his delay would at least give Drea a better chance of getting away clean, and the thought gave him a certain satisfaction. He didn’t have to like his clients, but he had nothing but contempt for Salinas.

  “Half up front,” the assassin said. “I’ll let you know where to wire it.” Then he tossed the rest of the ice-cream cone in a nearby trash can and strolled away, his manner relaxed, though his eyes never stopped searching his surroundings. He spotted someone who was almost certainly a fed, too suit-and-tie for his surroundings, stooping to tie his shoe while keeping his head slightly turned in Salinas’s direction. That would be Salinas’s tail, hurrying to catch up.

  The assassin wasn’t particularly concerned. His meeting with Salinas had taken less than a minute, not enough time for a tail to get in place and snap some photos. By the time the tail had arrived, the meeting was over and he was already walking away. He went across the Bow Bridge, then into the heavily wooded Ramble, where there was plenty of cover. Though the day was hot and humid, the temperature hovering close to ninety, there under the thick shade the air was cooler, and he could feel a slight but pleasant breeze against his skin.

  He deliberately didn’t think about the offer; time enough for that later, when he was certain he wasn’t being followed. As a matter of habit he focused intensely on the right now, aware of everyone around him, whether or not anyone was approaching him from behind, what his ever-changing avenues of escape were. Paying attention to details had kept him alive this long, so he saw no reason to change his habits. That was why he spotted the second tail almost right away; this guy wore jeans and running shoes, so he wasn’t the fed who’d been following Salinas.

  The assassin calmly analyzed the situation. Just because this new tail wore casual clothes, didn’t mean he wasn’t a fed. It just meant he was better prepared. The FBI wouldn’t have any reason for having him followed other than his meeting with Salinas; it was possible they were exploring any and all contacts. Or the tail could be one of Salinas’s goons, following him for God knows why. Maybe Salinas was pissed because he’d had to walk to the park, and he thought an attitude adjustment in the form of a beating was needed—though, in that case, he’d better send more than one man. Maybe he wanted to know where the assassin lived, no more than that, on the theory that there was no such thing as too much information.

  He kept a steady pace. Up ahead the path took a sharp turn, and the tail’s view would be blocked by trees and shrubbery for…he considered how far behind him the tail was…about seven seconds, which was plenty long enough. The tail must have noticed the same blind spot, because he picked up the pace. The assassin didn’t respond by speeding up, which would have telegraphed his awareness he was being followed. He was close enough that it didn�
��t matter, though his time was down to about five seconds.

  He made the turn, whirled, stripped his white shirt off over his head and crumpled it in his hand as if it were a towel, then burst into the steady, loping pace of a runner as he rounded the turn going back in the direction from which he’d come.

  The tail didn’t even glance at him as he loped by; instead, the guy was hurrying to get around the turn and get him back in vision.

  Good luck with that, he thought as he cut off the path and disappeared into the thick growth. He was just another shirtless runner, among hundreds, maybe thousands, who were sweating through their routines in the park that day. His dark gray pants, at first glance, would resemble sweatpants enough that no one would think twice about him. Only his shoes would be a giveaway, because who went jogging in Gucci loafers? Evidently he did, but it wasn’t something he recommended.

  When he was a hundred yards away, he paused to pull on his shirt. The humid heat had caused sweat to sheen his skin, and the fabric stuck to him as he tugged it into place, but he wasn’t breathing any faster than normal. Keeping a leisurely pace, he made his way out of the park.

  “DID YOU GET a shot of the meet?” Rick Cotton asked, his expression calm as he listened to the answer.

  Xavier Jackson marveled at Cotton’s forbearance. He hadn’t said, “Did you at least get a shot of the meet?” and there was nothing in his tone that implied any hint of impatience. Most SACs would have been biting heads off left and right, but not Cotton. He was always fair, even when the results weren’t what he’d hoped for.

  They hadn’t been prepared for Salinas to walk anywhere, much less into Central Park. By the time the agent on the street had realized Salinas wasn’t being picked up by a car, he and his entourage had already been halfway down the block. Then, though he’d been hurrying as unobtrusively as possible to catch up, a traffic signal had caught him and forced him to wait before he could cross the street. As a result, the meet had already happened before the agent could catch up, and all he could give them was a partial description of the man Salinas had gone to meet, for all the good it did them. About six-one, two hundred pounds, short dark hair described at least a hundred thousand men in the area, if not more.