You heard of people in such situations hopping over to Cuba. But you needed a visa to get in, and I didn’t have time. Same with Morocco, same with Russia, same with every other country I could think of that wasn’t likely to have signed an extradition treaty with the United States. Where could I flee to, tonight, on a direct flight? A city big enough that I could disappear? The answer, when it came to me, was obvious.
I felt around the bottom of my handbag for an object I’d thrown in days ago and forgotten. Please let me not have taken it out. There. My fingers closed around cold metal. This would come in handy.
Fifty-one
* * *
It’s harder than you might think to get rid of a gun.
Sure, you could toss it in a Dumpster, or into thick undergrowth by the side of the road, and hope for the best. But if you want to maximize the chances of that gun’s not coming back to haunt you, then the disposal site of choice has to be deep water.
In Atlanta, that meant the Chattahoochee River.
Hunched down on the back of the bus, speeding away from the Sinclares’ house, I opened maps on my phone and identified a promising spot. The Chattahoochee River National Recreation Area was only a short drive from my hotel. The website described a three-mile hike called Indian Trail, along the “lesser-frequented eastern banks of the river.” There appeared to be a small parking lot, and from there several paths forked off to various vantage points above the river. On a Wednesday afternoon in November, I hoped they might not be frequented at all.
When I eased my rental car into the Indian Trail lot an hour later, I was wearing the blonde-bombshell wig again. Also, a sweatshirt that I’d bought in the hotel gift shop, pale pink with HOTLANTA spelled out across the front in cursive rhinestones. Inconspicuous it was not. On the other hand, if the goal was to avoid being recognized, I could not have been dressed less like my usual self.
Only one other car was parked in the lot. A pea-green Prius. The owner was nowhere in sight. I climbed out and selected the muddiest trail, on the theory that other hikers might be discouraged. Ten minutes later I arrived at a high bluff overlooking a bend in the river. I glanced around. Spotted no one. In the red clay where I stood were boot prints, and paw prints from a dog. They could have been five minutes old, or five hours, or five days. I took a deep breath, hollered out, “Hello?”
My voice echoed across the water. No one answered.
I considered, hollered, “Help! I need help!”
No answer. Good.
I pulled the Smith & Wesson from my purse and hurled it as far out as I could. The river was wide here and I lacked the strength to hit anywhere near the middle, where the water was presumably deepest. It would have to do. The gun splashed and sank. I held my breath, half expecting a SWAT team to jump out from behind the pine trees and cuff me on the spot. No one appeared. Next I threw the cardboard box containing the remaining forty-five bullets. Then Ethan Sinclare’s mobile phone. I’d already had the presence of mind to crush the SIM chip beneath my boot, in case police were already tracking it. In case they were already hunting for me. That left my own phone. I turned it over in my palm, weighing the pros and cons. I needed it until I was away on that plane tonight. But the risk of giving away my movements was too great. I flicked my wrist and sent it flying. It sliced into the water at least twenty feet farther out than my previous attempts. My aim was improving.
My next problem was money.
Thanks to Boone and Sadie Rawson and the wonders of compound interest, I was rich. But once police started searching for me, I would need to stay off the grid. I wouldn’t be able to access my bank account. My credit cards would be useless. I couldn’t just withdraw half a million dollars cash, throw it in a suitcase, and check it on the plane. So how could I take my money with me?
I mulled this dilemma as I sped back up the trail, turned the car around, and drove to a local branch of my bank. The teller didn’t bat an eyelid at the size of the check I was depositing. I asked her to place the money in my checking account, then asked for $10,000 in cash, in $50 bills. That would tide me over for a while if I was frugal. She counted out the money with inch-long, fake fingernails painted hot pink.
“Loooooove your top.” She slid the money through the hole at the bottom of her Perspex window. “Are those rhinestones? I like a little bling-bling. You got the whole diamonds-are-a-girl’s-best-friend thing going on.”
I stared at her. A moment passed.
“You need something else, sugar?”
“Actually . . . yes. Do you have a phone book back there? I want to look up something in the yellow pages.”
She drummed her talons on the counter, click click click, then nodded and made to stand up.
“And I’m going to need another cashier’s check.” I tilted my head, running the numbers. “Made payable to me, please. For two hundred and fifty thousand dollars.”
? ? ?
TIP-TOP DIAMONDS IS in southeast Atlanta, on a long, dreary road otherwise dominated by car dealerships and drive-through hamburger joints.
I’d selected it because the ad in the yellow pages bragged about having the city’s largest selection of certified loose diamonds. Also, because it wasn’t Tiffany’s. I didn’t need pretty blue boxes. I needed a place that knew to shut up and not ask questions when a broad in a rhinestone HOTLANTA sweatshirt rolled in, looking for a bulk discount on a quarter million dollars’ worth of bling.
Inside was a waiting area with peach-tinted, wall-to-wall carpeting and a shiny leather sofa. No gems in sight.
“May I speak with the owner?” I asked the woman who had buzzed me in.
“Certainly, madam. Did you have an appointment?”
“I’m looking to make a significant purchase.”
“Ah. Okay. Just one minute.”
She was gone for nearly ten. I squirmed on the sofa. I needed to be out of here in half an hour if I was going to make it to the airport, drop off the car, and catch my flight. I had no time to try another store. It was here or bust.
At last an exceptionally thin man in a flashy suit appeared and introduced himself as Juan. Affixed to his lapel was a metal button that read BUYING A DIAMOND? DON’T PAY RETAIL. Beneath this hung another button: CUT DIAMONDS. CUT-RATE PRICES.