Then one fine day in July, Amazon had come calling. “As you might have heard, we’re rapidly expanding.”
If there’s one important thing you learn at UPS, it’s fast and flawless action. John had shown his stripes to the corporate recruiter. Interview offered. Interview completed. Offer extended. OMG! Offer accepted.
“If we pay off your apartment lease, can you pack the pickup and be in Seattle Monday morning?”
“Four days, twenty-four hundred miles. No problem.”
And here he was: contract signed, fate sealed, body delivered. “Welcome aboard,” Tory said, smiling with self-satisfaction.
“I really appreciate the personal service, Mr. Bronco. UPS would have just had me show up and ask for HR.”
“You did the long haul. It’s my pleasure to take you the last mile. I see you’re packing your car keys and paperwork.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You won’t need them. HR has copies and the realtor will be dropping you off tonight.”
“Realtor?”
Tory spread his arms. “Even with the corporate rate, this place is pricy. It’s in our best interests to help you get settled. Joan Tiefenthaler will be showing you around after lunch. She’s done dozens of relocations for me. Never had a complaint. Sound good?”
“Sure. Thank you.”
“Why don’t you drop your stuff in your room so you’re not stuck lugging it around.”
“Okay. Thanks. It will just take a sec. I’m on the first floor.”
Tory knew as much. He’d requested the first floor when booking. He just needed to know the room number.
“So will I be with HR all morning?” John asked as they walked.
“Afraid so. As a big company, we’ve got a lot of forms and a few mandatory videos. But you’re a UPS guy, you know the drill.”
“That I do.”
John left his belongings behind and Tory led him out the side door. Ten minutes earlier the sky had been clear, but now it was raining. “Some people complain about the rain, but I kinda like it. Makes you enjoy the sunny days all the more if you know what I mean. And there’s nothing more beautiful than a sunny day in the shadow of Mount Rainier.”
“I don’t mind one bit, Mr. Bronco. I’m just thrilled to be near an ocean.”
Tory’s black Camry was a rental, but you’d never know if you didn’t notice the bar code on the lower left corner of the windshield. He wasted no time starting the engine and putting it into gear.
John was still struggling with his seatbelt as Tory pulled back onto Fairview. “Seatbelt’s stuck.”
“Really? It’s never been an issue before. Give it a sec. Maybe you pulled too fast.”
Tory kept driving while John tugged. The chime started. Then the voice kicked in. “Please fasten your seatbelt. Please fasten your seatbelt.” Was there anything more annoying?
“It’s really stuck.”
“You want me to pull over so you can climb in back?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
Tory tuned in 102.5, the classic rock station, and learned that Bono still hadn’t found what he was looking for. They listened to him lament for a mile while the Camry’s chime competed with U2’s guitars and drums.
“This is ridiculous,” Tory said, turning into a self-service car wash. He pulled into one of the wash bays so they’d be out of the rain and put the transmission in park. “Give it one last try.”
When John twisted in his seat to study the feed mechanism, Tory plunged a needle into his thigh.
48
Rat Trap
I GAVE THE MIAMI APARTMENT a 360-degree scan before turning to the realtor with a satisfied smile. “This one feels right.”
“It’s a rare find,” Jeanette confirmed. “You’ve got location, views, and lots of light. It’s a bit smaller than the others, but I think it’s a sensible trade.”
This was the third apartment we’d visited in South Beach, but the first that had the right view. A view that would allow Tory to pinpoint its location.
Lesley had gotten back to me twenty minutes after my affirmative reply to her email. The man who had introduced himself to Skylar as Tom Bronco was really Tory Lago. A Finnish national with an intelligence background who now lived in the United States. She supplied some basic résumé information, but nothing else, and I hadn’t turned up anything additional on my own. Our nemesis was living off the grid.
Skylar and I turned from the high-rise apartment window to address the realtor. “Would you mind giving us a few minutes, Jeanette? I’d like to get a feel for the place.”
“Absolutely. Take your time. I’ll make some calls in the hall.”
Skylar led me to the balcony. I stayed by the sliding glass door while she walked to the rail. The long blonde Jenny Johnson wig gave her a completely different look, especially when paired with the oversized black sunglasses, one arm of which Skylar now bit playfully between plump red lips.
I snapped a few photos from various angles, paying as much attention to the background as the fore. Then we did a few together, propping the phone on a light fixture and triggering it with my watch. Finally, Skylar stripped down to her bathing suit and I took a few boyfriend shots from the bedroom balcony. Between the landmarks and the two angles, Tory would have enough to triangulate the address.
Skylar had fun with the shoot, posing playfully and giving the photos an authentic vibe. We’d discussed the scenario earlier. How exciting it would be to move into a South Beach apartment and start a new life with someone you loved.
I couldn’t help but notice that Skylar’s thigh muscles were enormous. She had swimmers’ shoulders as well, of course, but neither were glaring if she didn’t flex. Standing there smiling in a bikini that brought out the green ring around her amber eyes, she looked exceptionally healthy.
“Why aren’t you married?” The question circumvented my prefrontal cortex, shooting straight from my lizard brain to my tongue.
Skylar reddened as I kicked myself, but she didn’t seem put out or offended. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
I quickly changed the subject. “I think we’re good. I mean, I think we have enough photos.”
She pulled her dress back on. White cotton with large daffodils whose stems I now noticed also played off her eyes.
Jeannette hung up her phone as we walked into the hall.
“I don’t think we need to look at any more today,” I said.
“Are you sure? There’s a similar unit a quick two blocks north on Alton.”
So much for this being a rare find.
“We need a bit of time to think,” Skylar said.
“I understand completely. The process can be overwhelming.”
She dropped us at Café Au Lait just after 3 p.m., the start of the slow period between lunch and dinner when chefs did their prep work. The French bistro was almost empty. Just a few late lunchers lingering over croque-madames, steak-frites, and cassoulets. The hostess, an early-twenties knockout who obviously avoided the rich temptations surrounding her, informed me that the kitchen was closed until 6:00.
“We’re here to see Sandy Wallace,” Skylar said, stepping into view. She’d put on a ponytail wig and applied makeup while studying a Facebook photograph.
The hostess did a double take. “You are Sandy Wallace.”
“Tell Sandy her twin is here.”
“Of course,” she said with a pleased appraisal. “If you’d like, you can have a seat.” She motioned to the dining room.
We sat on the side of the booth nearest the kitchen. Sandy appeared a minute later, wearing a white chef’s coat but no hat. Skylar stood to greet her.
Skylar and I had discussed at length how best to approach the lookalikes on their recruiting missions. Given the high stakes and low number of targets, we agreed that meeting face-to-face was the way to go. We also figured the dramatic twin entrance would make the strongest impression and soften the lookalikes for the shocking tale to come.