She went back to the destroyed office. The last thing she did before leaving his office for good, closing the door behind her, was to use her AID to jimmy his, leaving it a few seconds of memory the poorer, and still stuck in the hush box. For a Darhel, this kind of death scene constituted the ultimate in “natural causes.”
She was still shaking uncontrollably when she walked down the last flight of stairs, out into the falling snow and biting wind, and into the back of Harrison’s cab. The endorphins and Provigil-C released their grip, and she groaned as everything from the crack on her head to the muscles in her toes started to hurt.
In her persona as Mark’s girlfriend, Cally O’Neal was again in a sweater dress, and still busty. It was always either highlight her mammary assets or make her look fat with padding. Harrison had chosen to play them up as his interpretation of the “girlfriend” role, this time in a cheaper, off-the-rack, blue dress, topped with a gray wool coat. She felt conspicuous, even though he had assured her that the supportive bands of tape holding her cracked ribs in place were invisible under the clinging dress. A mix of lambs’ wool and angora, the knit was thick, soft, and fuzzy. He assured her he had chosen it to blur outlines, anticipating the need. He’d praised her luck in keeping her face intact, but winced as he layered on makeup to cover the red and rising bruises. Artful highlights and shadows concealed the swelling. He’d assured her the illusion would hold for an hour or two, even though she’d look like she’d layered on her foundation with a trowel. It couldn’t be helped, so she’d have to play to it, making the character fit the behavior. He’d helped by giving her a couple of fake blemishes, making them look as if she had tried to conceal them, and only partially succeeded — a woman sensitive about her flawed skin.
Felicity Livio was supposed to be barely adult, with education and training fitting her for entry level clerical work. She looked the part.
George, aka Mark Thomason, met her just inside the entry to the building. The wind had started to pick up, carrying big, clumpy snowflakes built of the wet air coming off the lakes. They’d be breaking up into powder soon, as the temperature dropped.
Acclimated to Charleston, despite all her travels she hated snow. It put her in an even worse mood as George put his arms around her and tried to kiss her. She ached, she was cold, and he was male. None of this made her like him right now. “Get your fucking hands off me unless you want to lose them,” she hissed, turning her head towards the door and away from observers.
“What the hell’s the matter with you? We’re supposed to be lovers!” he whispered in her ear.
She jerked away, unmercifully squashing the need to scream as his hand pulled against a rib. “Then we’re having a fight. I mean it, keep your mitts off me,” she muttered, plastering on a fake smile and walking briskly towards the elevator, heels clacking on the marble floor.
He trailed in her wake until she stopped in front of the guard. “Job interview. I’m walking her up,” he said.
The guard scanned his ID, issued her a temporary, and she stalked to the elevator, scanning the red temp badge and hitting the call button. She could tell he’d love to bitch her out about her behavior, but couldn’t. So she was taking her mad at Stewart out on him. So what? He was a man. Men were on her shit list right now. Rational thought didn’t enter into it. And she didn’t care, dammit. Goddamn insensitive son of a — A bell tinged and the elevator opened.
George’s lips tightened as she relaxed her stiff posture, smiling at him as if absolutely nothing was wrong. He schooled his own features into something more appropriate before the elevator stopped and binged again.
“Where to?” she asked.
“This way.” He didn’t quite sound the part, but what could you expect?
She smiled and greeted Ms. Felini on automatic. Introductions were introductions. As the door closed behind them and the other woman offered her a seat, she looked at Cally curiously.
“I hope everything’s all right. You and Mark looked a bit… stiff,” she said.
“Oh, it’s the moving in together thing. Small small, really. He has this absolutely awful lamp,” she improvised.
“Ah. One must go through these little adjustments, mustn’t one?” the interviewer said. “So if I hire you, we’re not going to have any discord in the office, are we?”
“Oh, no.” Cally laughed. “I’ll let him off the hook the second he gets reasonable and ditches the lamp from hell. He’s not that attached to it, he’s just being stubborn. We’ve been through this kind of thing before.”
Prida laughed with her, and the now-relaxed job applicant eased back in the comfortable leather chair, crossing her legs.
“Can I get you some coffee? You must be cold,” the other woman said.
“Oh, oops. Yes, please.” The assassin flushed and took off her coat, hanging it on the brass tree behind the door. It doesn’t hurt, I feel fine. I feel abso-fucking-lutely fine. Ow, dammit.
Cally had to admit that she wasn’t as attentive as she should have been during the interview, and maybe didn’t make a terrific impression. But after all, it wasn’t as if she really wanted the job. She was still well within the range of credibility as she listened to the boring parade of duties, from digging through spam filters to data entry.
Felini showed her out with the line, “We’ll call and let you know, dear.” The operative summoned a smile as if she really cared and asked the way to the ladies’ room. Once there, she went to the second to last stall, the one least likely to get occupied, took a plastic pen and pad of sticky notes — the only things she’d dared smuggle through the front door — out of her purse. On it she scribbled, “Out of order — maintenance.” Slapped on the door, it should ensure she wouldn’t be disturbed. If someone from cleaning or maintenance did try to check, she’d have to take steps. Incapacitating but not immediately lethal — not if she could help it. Bodies, no matter how killed, tended to do immediate things that stank. Not to mention the dilemma of where to put one. Silencing live people for any significant span of time also had its problems. Hopefully, things wouldn’t come to that. Considering the problem and its possible solutions took her mind off her hurts, although not in a particularly pleasant way. It would have been nice to have her PDA, but not possible. Papa was bringing a fresh one for her, ready loaded with a recent backup of her own buckley’s memories and all her data. Until then, she was alone. Well, minus her PDA. Not that having a buckley with her was the same thing as not being alone. Not exactly.
From his uncontested position under a hot steam vent, Tommy had turned down propositions from eleven hookers — seven of them female, or apparently so — when the sweep came around just before oh-three hundred. He was one of a few caught in the net who weren’t gibbering in panic. Three passed-out drunks barely stirred to grumble at being moved, before settling down in the body-heat warmth of the semi trailer. He wasn’t good at panic. It didn’t look credible on a man of his gargantuan size. He sat on the floor, contriving to look stupid. It was usually a good substitute.
He had initially been clean, inside malodorous clothes designed to conceal the effects of regular bathing. After seven hours in the dirty clothes, conspicuous cleanliness was no longer a problem. The uniformed thugs doing the sweep — formally called an urban assisted renewal program — initially looked like they intended to tazer him. His slack jawed, amiable compliance, as he slid into a more central position in the terrified herd, had saved him one small discomfort. Small, of course, was relative.