Suzanne casually glanced around the parking lot. She had intentionally left her rental car in the darkest corner, and now gestured for him to follow her. She hit the key fob and the four-way lights flashed once to indicate that the car was open.
“It’s in the trunk, tucked right back in a black bag in case I got pulled over,” she told him. His excitement was palpable and he could barely keep his feet still. Half a million dollars was in the trunk of that car, and it was his.
He was so excited that he didn’t notice the heavy plastic sheeting in the trunk, nor did he have any idea that he poked his head inside where there were no witnesses, and no cameras.
Silently, Suzanne withdrew her small silenced weapon, a World War II era ‘Hush Puppy,’ from her handbag, pressed the muzzle to the back of his head to minimize the flash in the dying light, and pulled the trigger. She caught his legs as his body slumped and tipped him all the way in, taking the car keys from his pocket in the process. She quickly pulled a heavy trash bag over his head and pulled it tight around his neck, wrapping a strip of tape she had placed on the trunk lid around it.
Satisfied that the blood and brains wouldn’t leak too much, she shut the trunk and locked the car. She glanced round again quickly, her breath misting in front of her face as she breathed rapidly, and saw that nobody had noticed the interaction. She placed the keys to the rental under the driver’s side front wheel and climbed into Quentin’s car.
“Fucking lemon, just my luck,” she muttered to herself as she moved the stale-smelling driver’s seat and drove out into traffic.
An hour north of the city, she pulled in to a rest stop and left the car running. She climbed into the passenger side of the same truck, which had dropped her in town hours before and was chauffeured back to base. There was nothing, not a trace, of her or their involvement in what would be the slow-moving investigation into the disappearance of a nobody with a criminal record for drug dealing. They had never made contact through any electronic means, nothing could be traced to her, and the rental car would be returned wearing its original plates after all forensic traces of the dead body had been removed.
Behind her, well-spaced and aware of any possible, however unlikely surveillance, drove the dark sedan. The EMP devices, the lemon she had driven and the sedan containing the body of Quentin Aaronson had disappeared from her life, Suzanne didn’t know where to—OpSec—but she had done her part. For now.
“MOST CITIES ARE VERBS; NEW YORK’S A NOUN.”
Tuesday 8 p.m – Waldorf Astoria Hotel
Cal had read that quote by John F. Kennedy written on a wall somewhere before he dragged his suitcase into the grand lobby of the hotel. He was sure his mood had something to do with it, but he simply wasn’t feeling it.
His anger at doing this alone was killing him; all he had wanted was somewhere hot with a beach, a pool, and a bar. He could have spent two weeks in Spain—all-inclusive—for less than this hotel had cost him for five days. That had been Angie’s fault too. She had demanded they have a city break in New York for their honeymoon so she could shop and he could see the sights, and now she was nowhere to be found.
So there he was alone in New York and feeling, not for the first time, like a young Macaulay Culkin only without the fun.
He paused as he entered, marveling at the immaculately patterned carpets, the acres of dark wood and golden gilt detailing on the high ceilings. A uniformed bell hop sprang forward to reach for his case with an expectant smile. Looking every part the tourist, Cal walked toward the shining reception desk being followed by his luggage where a woman in a uniform, which looked more expensively tailored than the wedding suit he never got to wear, smiled at him.
“Hi there, sir” she said. Her name badge said she was called Bridget.
“Hi,” Cal replied, feeling boorish and underqualified to be there. “I have a reservation. Owen Calhoun?”
“Sure thing, sir,” Bridget answered, her smile still sparkling at him. “Just let me check the system.” Cal waited as she tapped at keys efficiently, stealing another glance around the room and feeling even more out of place as a man probably twice his age walked through the lobby with a stunning girl at least a decade younger than Cal on one arm.
“Congratulations!” Bridget exclaimed, snapping his focus back to the desk. “I see you’re here on honeymoon, so we’ll bring a bottle of French champagne on ice up to your room shortly,” she went on, still smiling and completely failing to register his teary-eyed look of violence as she also failed to grasp that the guest’s wife was nowhere to be seen.
“Can I have someone take your bags up to your room Mr. and Mrs. Calhoun…?” she said, trailing away as the smile finally wavered when she registered the look on his face and the obvious lack of a Mrs. Calhoun.
“It’s just me,” he said, his voice cracking and betraying him. He coughed and started again.
“It’s just me. There is no Mrs. Calhoun. And all champagne is French, otherwise it’s just fizzy wine,” he said petulantly, finally matching his behavior with his feeling of being out of place.
Bridget didn’t know what to say, her mouth opening and closing but the public-facing smile still trying hard to stay on point.
“I…” she began, still smiling but dying under the weight of embarrassment and shame. Cal instantly regretted his harsh words and apologized.
“I’m sorry. It’s been a tough couple of weeks,” he told her, gaining her condescending sympathy as her ‘happy welcoming smile’ underwent a corporate metamorphosis into ‘dealing with upset guest’ mode.
“Well,” Bridget said, rebooting and recovering from the mishap “I…”
“I’ll take it from here, Bridget, thank you,” said a rich, cultured male voice from behind him.
“Mr. Calhoun,” said the voice, making Cal turn and regard an exceptionally well put together man. He was tall, maybe six two, and had the body of a swimmer with hair graying at his temples like it had been dyed that way to make him seem infinitely wiser in the ways of the world.
“My name is Sebastian, I am the concierge here.” He placed his left hand on his chest and sketched the smallest of bows, like a man used to greeting people from all over the world. Cal, in contrast to the exquisitely dressed man in front of him, dwarfed in both height and manners wearing scruffy jeans and a T-shirt, held out a hand. Sebastian shook it, holding it in a firm grip and not letting go as he leaned his head to the side to catch Bridget’s eye.
“Bridget? Perhaps we can switch out that French champagne for a bottle of malt whisky?” he said with a smile, making his orders sound like a polite request.
“Certainly, Sebastian,” Cal heard Bridget say from behind him.
“Mr. Calhoun,” Sebastian said, “may I call you Owen?”
“Nobody calls me Owen,” Cal replied, “call me Cal.”
“Okay Cal, walk with me?”
He snapped his fingers and a uniformed bellboy ran forward to take Cal’s bags. Sebastian picked up a key card from the reception desk and walked toward the elevators. Cal, relieved of his luggage which disappeared into a separate elevator, found himself swept along with the smooth man as though caught in his wake.
“Whereabouts in England are you from?” Sebastian asked him as the doors closed.