Amy Holder is in possession of some extremely sensitive information regarding Victor Connolly and the Connolly family business. She is threatening to use the information against Victor in exchange for money. I cannot stress to you enough how crucial it is to retrieve this information before she can make good on her threat. You are being trusted with this job and confidentiality is imperative. Neither of us want to get on the bad side of a man like Victor Connolly. You are to watch Amy Holder and learn everything about her. Do not engage until I tell you to but be ready to act at a moment’s notice.
Like clockwork, Amy pushes through the double glass doors of the bar at 5:25 p.m. For the last two weeks, she has stayed home until around five in the evening, then she commutes a measly two miles to this country club, where she’ll drown herself in vodka martinis until closing.
Amy is five foot seven with an athletic build and honey-blond hair that hits right below her shoulders. The makeup is light, the jewelry is nonexistent, and she rocks a perpetual resting-bitch face.
By the time she slips onto her favorite stool, a bartender with a name tag that reads Morris, in a pressed button-down shirt with the club’s logo, delivers the first of many drinks with a warm smile and a cheerful hello. Devon has definitely gotten more comfortable in playing an active role over the last few years.
“Would you like to see a menu, Miss Holder?” he asks.
“Maybe a little later,” she replies.
“Of course, just let me know when you’re ready,” he replies as he walks away.
This exchange is also a constant: same question, same answer. She won’t ask for a menu, and he won’t offer one again, but all it takes is a slight nod and her glass will be refilled within seconds.
I’ve been in and out of this bar for the last eleven days, but it’s the third night in a row that I’ve settled in for the duration, not bothering to hide anymore. She sips her drink and ignores everyone around her. If she has a phone, she has not once taken it out and looked at it. There’s not a single person here, myself included, who hasn’t glanced at their phone at least once, even if it is just to check the time.
But not Amy.
Amy will sit at the bar and drink anywhere from four to six martinis, then she’ll grab her purse and drive the short distance home, some nights swerving back and forth across the yellow line the entire way. She lives in a townhouse that is worth more than it should be because of its location. She’ll wake up the next morning and start the whole process again.
And since there is no way to get inside her house without losing sight of her, hanging around this club is my only option.
From my place across the room, I track groups as they come and go just as I’ve done night after night. The bar area fills with members heading in from rounds of golf and tennis as they either celebrate or commiserate over the day’s game. The restaurant caters to the families looking for a dinner out. Both areas are loud and chaotic.
This sitting around and waiting is getting to me.
Usually, I get a little lead time before a job starts, but within twenty-four hours of getting word from Mr. Smith, I was crossing the city limits into Decatur. Because of the frantic nature of my arrival, I assumed I would be making contact immediately, but I have been instructed to do the exact opposite. And now two weeks have gone by and all I’ve done is watch her drink her dinner.
That doesn’t mean I don’t know what’s happening here.
The reason I’m in a holding pattern is because someone else is working behind the scenes trying to make a deal with her to return the information on her own. Not that they are playing nice, but because it’s the best way to make sure they get back everything she took.
The only thing protecting Amy right now is that she is still in possession of the blackmail material. And regardless of whether she turns it over willingly or I have to take it from her, the second it’s out of her hands she’ll feel the full wrath of Mr. Smith and the Connolly family.
And just as I was warned after the Tate job, I have no illusions that I am alone here. Amy Holder has become the number-one priority to Mr. Smith, so there will be nothing left to chance.
I move to the bar, choosing a stool three down from hers with a big open space between us, and signal for another glass of wine.
Devon sets it down in front of me and asks, “Would you like to see a menu?”
With a smile, I say, “No, thank you,” and he moves off to help a group on the other side of the bar. Even though I’m not sure if I’ll need him for this job, I’ve gotten to where I don’t want to do a job without him. We’ve become an inseparable team.
“You’re new here,” Amy says.
I take a minute to glance around to see if she’s talking to me. When it’s clear she is, I answer, “Yes, just moved to town.” I turn on my stool to face her, opening myself up to a conversation.
She scans me up and down, then turns back to her martini.
“I know what you’re looking for, but you’re not going to find it here.” She swirls a finger in her drink and then brings her finger to her mouth, sucking the liquid off it. “You won’t find it! Tell your people!”
I can’t help but shrink back from her outburst.
Amy brings her glass to her lips and takes a deep drink, finishing it off, then waves the empty glass in the air. “You’ll never, ever, ever find it!” She’s loud enough that several heads turn her way.
She spins around to face me, gives me a big toothy grin, then turns back to the bar. “Gone,” she shout-whispers.
I identified the guy who was sent to watch me watch her a few days ago. Older guy who stays in the back corner of the room, dressed like he’s just finished a round of golf. I know there’s a high probability he’s sending Mr. Smith real-time updates on what is going down right now, so I have to tread carefully, since I was told not to engage her. I don’t want to be taken off this job.
“I believe you have me mistaken for someone else. I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say, then turn back to face the bar, taking a sip of the wine in front of me. Mr. Smith will be pissed I’m the reason she’s losing it.
Watching her in my peripheral vision, I see her shoulders deflate almost as if she’s frustrated with me. I watch her for several seconds, then she beams when another cocktail lands in front of her. “Morris! My hero!” she squeals.
The crowd’s interest in her dies down and the volume rises as the conversations around us resume.
I swivel just slightly in her direction so I can watch her a little more easily.
She notices I’ve turned and she follows suit. “The first time you showed up at the club was Monday before last at six seventeen p.m. You wore a light-blue tennis skirt and white sleeveless top. Hair pulled back. You ordered a vodka cranberry. The next night you got here at five forty-five p.m. wearing a floral shift dress. You had two glasses of Chardonnay.” She’s pointing the plastic drink stirrer at me while she rattles off the exact arrival time of each visit I’ve made here, including what I ate, drank, and wore, her volume increasing as she goes. “And every night, your midnight blue Lexus SUV follows me home.” She even recites the license plate number.
I’m glancing around the room, noticing we’ve attracted an audience again. My shadow in the back corner is openly staring at us. The only other time I have been confronted like this was by another drunk woman, Jenny Kingston. Images of her lying on the floor, blood pooling around her head, flood my memories, along with the question my boss asked me after: What would you have done if she hadn’t fallen on her own? It’s a question that has haunted me for eight years.
I have to try to salvage this situation. “I’m new to town and this seemed like the best place to meet people.”