19
Some risks were worth taking. It was a matter of principle.
The delivery-person gear that had served so well wouldn’t do now. But with some adjustments, the same ploy would work.
The peacoat – ordinary, simple. Not quite as bulky as the brown, and a bit shorter, but it would serve. The navy cap with earflaps and bill, pulled low, but with just a little hair from the short wig straggling out beneath it – a dull dark brown bought months before, and with cash. Still, it paid to seal it, and to remember to take care before removing it during the real work.
Couldn’t wear shades, but the bill of the cap would help there. Old black boots, already sealed, with thick black trousers bagging over them.
The makeup added a nice touch, darkening the skin on the face a few shades. And it covered the carefully applied putty that broadened the bridge of the nose. The appliance over the teeth – annoying – altered the shape of the mouth, added a distinct overbite.
That’s what a witness would remember if anyone bothered to look and see. Dark complexion, overbite, short, straggly dark brown hair.
Add the plaid scarf – navy and gray, bundled and wrapped over the chin, then the navy gloves over hands already sealed, and the bulk of a tattered black messenger bag.
She studied herself now in the full-length triple mirror, assessing every angle, every detail. Compared it inch by inch with the sketches the department had released.
Without the lifts she was nearly two inches shorter, and without the brown coat not as stocky in appearance.
No one would look at the messenger and see the delivery person.
Like going undercover, she thought. Eve would appreciate that. Eve would understand the time and trouble it took to make yourself into someone else to do what needed doing.
She’d better start appreciating.
Before strapping on the messenger bag, she checked the contents yet again. More sealant, in case, protective suit, high-powered flashlight to check the scene for trace, tweezers on the slim chance of trace, bags for sealing anything if necessary.
Clamp for the tongue, though she planned something different this time. A little addition to the routine. And another kind of message.
Thinking of it, she lifted out the thin, sharp scalpel in its protective case.
Something different, she thought again. Smiled and smiled. Something creative.
She slipped the scalpel back in place, took out the fresh marker, its backup. She wasn’t sure what she’d say this time, not like the first when she’d written so many drafts in her journal first. This time, she’d let it come to her, after the work was done.
And this time, once she was clear, she’d send a message directly to Eve from one of the false front accounts she’d been collecting.
You hurt me, she composed in her head, putting another over me who has been your loyal and unselfish friend. You came after me as if I were a common thief, a mad dog, a criminal. True justice calls for balance, so I must hurt you for us to regain our even ground. For us to understand true mutual respect.
It’s for your sake I’ve done this as the constant attention, the glory and fame has, I fear, distracted you from your calling.
To serve justice, you must be pure. I see now that you can’t be pure again until the author of this fame and attention is eliminated. It’s for the best, Eve. All that I’ve done, all that I will do, is always with your best interest in my heart.
I remain,
Your one true friend.
Yes, that was what needed to be said. Maybe she should draft it out now, while it was fresh in her mind. The work tended to cloud things. Or did it clarify them?
She’d wait. The work came first. Eve came first.
Cozy in her flannel pants covered with fluffy kittens – something she wore only when alone – Nadine read another batch of reader/viewer mail. She’d already had a couple of assistants separate it into correspondence that dealt with her weekly news show, Now, correspondence about the vid, correspondence about the book, and correspondence that mixed some of those together.
She had a selection of news channels running on her screen muted, and music blaring to keep the energy pumping. If anything caught her eye on screen, she’d mute the music, unmute the screen.
She had a pot of coffee – real coffee now that she could afford it, thanks to The Icove Agenda. Which meant thanks to Dallas.
Or thanks to the Icoves – or the clones who’d killed them.
Was it strange to be grateful to a mad scientist and his selfish son – or more accurately to be grateful they’d been murdered?
Something to ponder another time, but she knew she secretly hoped one of the clones would eventually contact her, agree to a one-on-one.
Of course, she got contacts constantly from people claiming to be an Icove clone, but so far, not a single one had checked out. Attention-seekers, she thought now. Or crazies.
But one day, just maybe.
What was it like knowing you’d been created in a secret lab, programmed from inception to look a certain way, to have certain skills, to fulfill specific purposes?
How many of them had survived, and now lived lives with their secret? Working, sleeping, eating, having sex.
She’d wondered if one of the clones, out of a weird sense of gratitude and connection, was the killer Dallas hunted. But it didn’t fly, or not high enough. To really fly she’d have found some correspondence that clicked with Dallas’s from the killer.
And while that could be an interesting follow-up, she didn’t want to spend all her time and energies on the Icove business. She’d moved on. What she should be doing, she thought, as she lit an herbal, let some stress slide out with the smoke, was working on the draft of her true follow-up. The Red Horse Conspiracy.
Not sure about the title, she thought. Maybe Legacy would be better. The Red Horse Legacy, as it had proven to be just that.
She’d think about it, she told herself while she brought up the next e-mail. The title would be important, of course, but the story, that was the real winner. Mass murders brought on by delusions. The virus created by an Urban War cult leader, and brought into the here and now by his ambitious sociopath of a grandson.
Yes, maybe legacy said it better.
She still needed to pin Dallas down, shoehorn more details out of her, but she had more than enough for the first draft. And she’d get back to it once she’d gone through another hour – tops – of correspondence.
Of course, she should still be basking in the sun – or starlight – warmed by island breezes and Bruno. But work came first.
She and Dallas had that in common. Work ethic – maybe workaholism, she admitted – and a bone-deep belief in truth, in justice, had formed their friendship.
Would this killer really understand that? She doubted it. Like the Red Horse victims, this woman ran on delusion.
What had infected her? Nadine wondered, sitting back, blowing fragrant smoke at the ceiling. Childhood trauma, a tragic love affair, or just fucked-up DNA? Any or all, she thought, or a dozen more roots. Madness, the little crazies and the big, had all manner of beginnings.
She shifted tasks as her comp signaled an incoming.
Ms. Furst,
Mr. Cabott is messengering over a packet for your attention. Please respond directly to Mr. Cabott tomorrow morning after eight a.m., after you’ve received and reviewed the contents. He will be unavailable until that time.
Mistique Brady
Intern to Della Bonds
Nadine frowned at the e-mail. Unavailable, my ass, she thought, and was tempted to contact her producer right then. She was supposedly still on vacation.
Still, Bing Cabott wouldn’t spring for a messenger unless he thought it was something solid, so she’d look it over – then contact him. Or maybe just tag Della, who’d likely know more in any case.
She looked down at her kitty-cat pants and decided she wasn’t going to put on more professional pants for a damn messenger. But she would, pride demanded, wash off the bright pink super-hydrating facial mask, which blew because she could’ve left it on for another hour.
She scuffed off to the bathroom in her fuzzy blue slippers – again only worn when flying solo – and ran the water in the sink to warm.
It took far too long to get from tepid to warm, in her opinion, and gave her time to glance around her bathroom.
Dated, she decided. The whole place was dated – and had been fine and dandy when she worked only the crime beat. But now her finances had changed, as had her career path.
She’d never give up the crime beat, but writing, well, that had been an unexpected love. She could work the crime beat, write, and do her weekly show – none of which she’d give up without a bitter and bloody fight. But she’d give up the apartment without a whimper.
Did she want to invest in a lovely and dignified old brownstone – along the lines Louise and Charles had chosen? Or did she want some shiny penthouse with a killer view? Maybe a creative loft space in the Village? A converted warehouse where she could throw amazing parties?
This was the dilemma, and why she’d made no move at all. Yet.
Time to decide, time to make that move. She’d contact a realtor after the first of the year. Or… she’d ask Roarke. Who knew more about real estate than the guy who owned so much of it?
One thing for certain, wherever she landed would have a kick-ass bathroom – and a spacious dressing area. Time to reap some of the benefits of her hard work, and the good luck that had landed sizzling stories in her lap.
With a glance in the mirror she considered pulling her hair out of the band that held it back in a little tail – reminded herself it was only a messenger, and she didn’t have to be camera ready.
The buzz decided her, and she walked out, as is, to answer the intercom.