On the way back from Seven Star, he had resolved to keep his Beretta PX4 Compact at his side, day and night, until the threat was identified and eliminated. Since July in South Florida wasn’t the best weather for a shoulder-holster concealed carry, he had switched to Hawaiian shirts and started wearing the Beretta on his belt.
He pulled off his ear protection and picked up the phone. “Felix.”
“It’s Aria. Did you hear?”
He clenched the Beretta. “No.”
“Allison’s dead. She died in a car crash. Apparently she fell asleep at the wheel and—” Aria paused.
Felix waited.
“You know that star pendant she always wore.”
“Her good luck charm?”
“It ended up in her neck. That’s not what killed her. The police estimate she was going eighty when she hit a lamp post. But it’s still kinda creepy.”
“Didn’t her airbag work?”
“Apparently she still had one of the faulty Takata bags.”
“Where did you get your info?”
“From Tory. He just called me. I have him providing me daily updates on my delayed replacement. And that’s why I’m calling.”
Felix pointed downrange and pulled the trigger, sending a slug of copper-jacketed lead through the six ring on his paper target.
“What was that?”
“The sound of frustration leaving my body.”
“Well, then I should be making that sound too. I want to die, but my replacement has been delayed. I’m calling to ask you to put pressure on Tory to get it done. He screwed up. He’s the one who has to fix it. Heaven knows we’re paying him enough.”
“Hold on a minute. What do you mean you want to die?”
“I want the killer to think I’m dead.”
Felix hadn’t considered that approach.
“As Jacques Eiffel’s widow, my death will be reported. I’m planning to fake an accident overseas. I’m thinking Nepal. A Mount Everest climb. But before I fly off to the ever after, I need to know which dear, dear friend to put in my will.”
“Which is why you need to know your replacement.”
“Exactly. So please, put pressure on Tory.”
“They say pressure is the first ingredient for making mistakes. Be careful what you wish for.”
“I never heard them say that.”
“I kinda just made it up, but that doesn’t mean it’s not true. Look, Aria, you’re in great shape. Better than any of us. You’re literally on an island where you can see anybody coming. Did you get those security measures implemented?”
“I did. It’s amazing how quickly you can get things done if you throw enough cash at contractors. I’ve got radar, sonar, guys with guns, and a panic room as posh as any apartment on Fifth Avenue.”
“Then quit worrying about the Grim Reaper. I hear worrying ages you.”
“Very funny.”
“Seriously. You’ve got to live your life. Just don’t pursue any adrenaline rushes while doing so. No hang gliding or parasailing. Tory will come through before you know it. Meanwhile, stay on your island, stock up on food, kick off everyone you don’t trust, and don’t let anyone visit.”
“That sounds like good advice. Thank you, Felix.”
“You’re welcome.”
Felix had not lied to Aria. He did believe she was safe on her island. He did believe that Tory would come through. But he also thought her idea of disappearing had merit.
His own replacement was set to take place any day now. First Tory would dispose of the original owner. Then there would be a cooling-off period to make sure no alarm bells sounded. No missing-persons filings. No suspicious activity reports. Then he’d swoop into Seattle, tie up any loose ends, and document an exit to someplace far from Washington State. He had been targeting the north shore of Oahu, but Aria had him thinking it might be better to charter a yacht in a fictitious name and head off the grid.
Felix still had no idea who was behind the murder of his friends. But he was growing increasingly confident that the leak was coming from Tory’s end. Not Tory himself, and certainly not intentionally, but Aria was right. The presence of one leak did predict others.
Tory would have to go, of course. It would have been much more convenient to have the man who handled the replacement process also manage the monitoring, but that was too risky now. Tory had effectively died the day he reported the Zachary Chase problem. Even if Felix hadn’t acknowledged it to himself at the time—a wise tactical move given the operative’s elevated ability to sense deception—he had known deep down that offering to double the annual maintenance payment was a diversion.
Speaking of deception, Felix had to figure out how to lure Tory into a trap—once the last three replacements were completed. Preferably a trap he could spring remotely, say from a yacht in the South Pacific. What to do? What to do?
47
The Little Things
TORY FOUND HIMSELF SCANNING the road for tailing motorcycles as he exited Interstate 5 onto Fairview and headed north toward the Eastlake area of Seattle. It wasn’t rational, he knew, if for no other reason than that the offending motorcycle was rusting away at the bottom of a ravine. But ever since Zachary Chase had foiled the Aria operation, Tory found himself on the lookout for helmeted surveillance.
He told himself there was no way Chase could be here. Seattle was a fresh con, not a repeat performance. Tory himself was a ghost. Born in Finland, he’d come of age completely off the American grid. By the time social media emerged, he knew to keep clear of it. And when he immigrated to the United States, it was for a major private security corporation. Triple Canopy put the C in clandestine. Therefore, to the best of his expert knowledge, not one single picture of him had ever appeared on the internet.
Tory also knew that he had left no fingerprints at the Williamsburg Inn. For decades now he had maintained the habit of mentally cataloging everything he touched and wiping it down before leaving a room. That was why housekeeping always found a dry washcloth just inside his hotel room doors. He’d repeated that procedure at the mortuary before fleeing the scene of the crime, although the handkerchief had gone back into his pocket.
Despite his confidence that Chase had nothing to go on, Tory couldn’t slip the annoying, nagging feeling. He knew it was a once-bitten, twice-shy response to having been surprised in that Virginia crematory. But knowing the cause wasn’t the same thing as finding the cure.
He surveyed vehicles and scanned faces as he pulled into the Residence Inn’s parking lot. Satisfied that he was surveillance-free, he backed into a visitor spot near a side door.
Despite the name, this Marriott was eight stories of anonymity. Little chance the innkeeper would remember his guests, much less their visitors. That was why he’d selected it. That and the corporate hotel feel.
Tory walked straight through the lobby and into the dining room. He found John Maxwell drinking his morning coffee and looking excited. Exactly as expected. Precisely as instructed.
John rose as Tory approached his table, extending a hand. “Good morning.”
Dry palm, Tory noted as they shook. “You ready for the first day of the rest of your life?”
“Yes, sir.”
John had been born and raised on the distant outskirts of Louisville, Kentucky. Horse country he called it, even though as near as Tory could determine, his mark couldn’t tell a colt from a stallion, or a bridle from a halter. John watched whatever sport the Cardinals were playing, and drank whatever beer was cold.
He had worked for UPS ever since graduation, moving as required. For the last five months, home had been Columbus, Ohio. His first shift manager position. The pay was good, very good, but the job was getting boring.