Smooth Operator (Teddy Fay) (9 page)

K
aren had to get out of there fast before the Arab came back with his doctor bag. She had no idea what the phone call was that saved her, but she couldn’t count on it happening again.

The big man came in with her lunch, a sandwich on a plastic plate. He set it on the floor and went out. Karen didn’t have to look at it to know what it was. Processed cheese with mayonnaise on white bread.

Karen ignored her lunch, went to the door. There was no sound from the other side. The big man was gone. She took out the safety pin. She’d bent it wrenching it out of the door. She folded it back into the shape that had almost worked before. She exhaled nervously, and fitted it into the keyhole.

It wouldn’t go. Something was blocking it.

Karen pulled it out, knelt down, and peered through the keyhole, trying to see what the problem was.

She couldn’t see a thing. They’d plugged the hole. Why? Just to keep her from looking? If so, what didn’t they want her to see?

Or were they on to her? Had they plugged the hole so she couldn’t try to pick the lock?

Karen took the fully straightened pin and thrust the pointed end into the keyhole. She immediately hit the obstruction. She poked around at it, and realized what it was.

The key!

The big man had left the key in the lock. Now if she could just turn it from the inside.

She poked at the key with the point of the safety pin. But it was hopeless. She couldn’t get a purchase to turn the key. And she couldn’t grab it with the other end of the pin.

What could she possibly do?

She needed a newspaper. If she had a newspaper she could slide it under the door, poke the key out so it fell on the paper, and then pull it back. But they weren’t going to give her a newspaper. She’d asked, but they refused. Probably didn’t want her to know what was going on. It wasn’t that they didn’t want her to read. After all, they gave her a book.

All right. What could she do with a book?

T
eddy stopped in at the CIA headquarters to pick up the equipment he’d requisitioned online under the name of Charles Dobson. He flashed Dobson’s ID and looked appropriately bored while the agent verified the card and double-checked the provisions. Naturally they checked out. Teddy had uploaded agent Dobson’s service record to the CIA mainframe while he was on Holly’s computer. And Charles Dobson looked enough like Fred Walker that the ID photo wasn’t hard to match. A slightly different hairstyle did the trick.

Minutes later Teddy was out the door with four handguns, a sniper rifle, a generous supply of ammunition, half a dozen burner phones, and a few choice burglar tools, such as heavy-duty bolt cutters.

Teddy went back to the second-rate hotel he’d checked into earlier that morning. Not that he couldn’t afford a first-rate
hotel, he just didn’t want that kind of attention. No one gave a damn about him here. As long as he had his room key, he could activate the elevator. He rode up to the eighth floor and let himself into his room.

Teddy stashed the equipment under the bed, took out one of the burner phones, and called Betsy on her cell. “Hi, honey. I don’t have much time to talk.”

That was their code. When Betsy heard that, she knew to give no specific information, just make generic responses and wait for her cue.

“I tried to call you before,” Teddy said, “but it’s crunch time and I’m very busy. I won’t have time to watch TV, so remember to set the DVR.”

“You got it.”

Betsy hung up the phone with a sense of foreboding. There were no shows Teddy wanted her to DVR. He’d been trying to give her a message.

Before she had time to think about it, a production assistant ran up to summon her back to the movie set.

—

TODAY THE MOVIE
CREW
was shooting on the sound stage at Centurion Studios. Betsy tapped Peter on the arm. “I gotta run back to the office.” He nodded, and she went out the door.

Peter’s office was at the other end of the lot. Betsy could have
taken a golf cart, but she always walked so she did now. There was no reason to make anyone think she was in a rush.

Betsy hurried into Peter’s office, grabbed the remote, flicked on the TV. It was tuned to ESPN. Betsy shook her head, clicked the remote, and changed the channel.

It was still breaking news on MSNBC:
CONGRESSMAN ASSASSINATED
.

Betsy sucked in her breath.

Good God, Teddy. What have you done now?

K
aren took the paperback thriller, opened it in the middle, put it facedown on the floor, and broke the spine. She flipped a few pages and smashed the spine again. She picked up the book, grabbed the pages, and slowly, carefully tore them out.

They came out attached by the glue from the spine. She carefully separated two pages from the bunch. She opened them up in the middle and flattened them out. The pages held. She set them aside, and did it again. She tore out a dozen more attached pages.

Now, if she just had a way to stick them together. Tape, or glue, or staples. Anything.

The room had clearly been used as a workroom. The old metal sink was stained with bleach and floor wax and shellac and varnish and whatever else had been dumped into it over the
years. One blue paint smear was fairly thick and relatively fresh. It appeared to be enamel paint. It gave when Karen picked at it.

Karen dumped the sandwich on the floor and used the edge of the plastic plate to scrape some paint off the sink. She diluted it with water, mushed it around with her fingertips. After several minutes it felt slightly sticky.

It was poor glue at best, but it would have to do. Karen laid two pages on the floor side by side and smeared a half-inch line of paint down the edge of one. She overlapped the other, then leaned all her weight on them, pressing them together against the floor as hard as she could. She relaxed the pressure, sat back on her heels to evaluate her work. It wasn’t big enough, of course, she’d have to add to it, but it would tell her if her paint-glue would hold.

It wouldn’t.

The pages came apart as soon as she tried to tug them across the floor. And that was without the added weight of the key. She needed better glue.

Karen had been so engrossed in her task she’d neglected to clean up. The big man would be coming in to get the plate. There was paint on the edge of it. And paint on her hands. And the pages from the book were lying on the floor.

Karen gathered up the pages and shoved them back in the book. She washed her hands and washed the plate. The plate fared better. When she was done, there was just a trace of paint on the edge, barely detectable. Her hands would not pass a close inspection.

She put the sandwich on the plate. She knew she should eat it, or the big man would wonder why, might think she was sick. Then the Arab would come back with his doctor bag and try to cure her. She shivered at the thought.

It didn’t matter that she had no appetite. She had to choke down the sandwich.

Karen blinked.

The cheese and mayonnaise sandwich.

Mayonnaise.

—

IT WORKED.
The mayonnaise held. The two pages passed the tug test. Cursing herself for wasting so much time with the paint, Karen pasted pages together into a single sheet. It was a rectangle, three pages wide by two pages deep. It should be enough. If only the key didn’t bounce sideways, or too far away from the door.

Karen knelt down and started to slide her makeshift sheet of paper under the door, just below the key.

The key turned in the lock!

Karen whisked the paper away from the door, thrust it under the mattress, and threw herself facedown on the cot.

The door opened and he came in. She snuck a peek. To her relief, it was the big man. He scowled at her uneaten mangled sandwich, but he didn’t say anything, he just picked up the plate and went out.

She waited a minute to make sure he was gone. Then she retrieved the paper from under the mattress. It was crushed and torn. All the pages were separated. And the big man had taken the sandwich, so there was no mayonnaise to fix it.

It wouldn’t have mattered.

He’d also taken the key.

M
illie Martindale had no problem recognizing Karen Blaine’s boyfriend from the pictures on her Facebook page. According to several girls in the dorm with whom she’d spoken earlier, Karen had just broken up with the young man, and he wasn’t taking it well. Millie found him slumped over a beer in the college bar. She slid in next to him and said, “Hi.”

He took no notice. He might not have heard her.

“Are you Jason?”

He looked up then. “Who are you?”

“I’m a friend of Karen’s.”

He winced as if her name hurt. “Oh, come on.”

“We were supposed to go away for the weekend. She didn’t show.”

“So?”

“I haven’t seen her since. I’m worried about her.”

He shrugged, and took a sip of his beer.

“I’m sorry to bother you. I know you guys broke up.”

“Who told you that?”

“The girls at the dorm. Look, I know how you feel. Believe me, I’ve been there. But it’s not the end of the world. And it doesn’t mean she won’t change her mind.”

“There’s another guy!”

He said it loud. Heads turned. The bartender looked over. Millie waited for him to look away and said, “How do you know?”

Jason said nothing, stared at his glass.

“Did she tell you there’s another guy?”

“I saw him!”

He said it loud again. This time the bartender said, “You wanna keep it down?”

Millie put up her hand and nodded compliance to the bartender. She turned back to Jason. “You saw him?” she said. She tried not to appear too eager. “What did he look like?”

“I didn’t get a good look. But he was way too old for her, with his fancy clothes and big SUV.”

“You saw them together?”

“He picked her up at the dorm.”

“Did he bring her back?”

“What, you think I waited there all night? She went out with him, I haven’t seen her since. Some long date.”

“I’m sorry.”

“When she comes back she’ll lie about it. Right to my face, she’ll lie about it. But I’ve got pictures.”

Millie’s pulse leaped. “Pictures?”

“I took pictures with my cell phone.”

“You got pictures of her with the guy?”

“That’s right.”

“That’s smart. Let me see.”

Jason was wearing blue jeans and a sports shirt. He fished in his pockets and came out with a cell phone. In his drunken state he had trouble switching it on.

Jason’s photos weren’t great. He’d apparently taken care not to let Karen’s boyfriend see him. As a result, they were shot from a distance and tended to feature the couple’s backs. And the man was mostly in the shadows. Still, one or two might be good enough to use.

Millie bought Jason a beer and managed to distract his attention while she slipped the cell phone under a napkin on the bar. Then she simply waited him out. Half a beer later he got up and headed for the men’s room. She grabbed the cell phone, called up the pictures, and spent several agonizing seconds figuring out how to send them. Working feverishly, she forwarded them to her own phone.

They weren’t sending. What was it with these phones? Sometimes they were instantaneous, sometimes they got hung up. She didn’t have time to reboot and resend. The pictures just didn’t go.

They went. The phone flashed, and the screen returned to normal. Millie put down the phone just as Jason came back.

Millie smiled and pointed.

“Left your cell phone on the bar.”

K
aren was running out of options. The safety pin wasn’t strong enough to turn in the lock. The key was gone. The paper was shredded by the bedsprings.

The bedspring. She’d all but given up on the bedspring, just as she’d all but given up on the safety pin.

And yet.

Karen flipped up the mattress, retrieved her spring. She took the safety pin and tried to put them together. The wire of the spring was just the right size to fit in the clasp of the pin. It just wasn’t the right shape. No matter. Karen could bend the wire.

After several abortive attempts Karen managed to fit the wire snugly into the clasp of the pin. It would be hard to hold it there, but she twisted the other end of the pin around the spring with the point sticking out.

Karen held her breath and fitted the makeshift key into the lock. She gripped it tight and turned. The point of the pin went
into her finger, gave her some purchase. She eased the key in and out, trying to find the place where the tumblers would turn.

It was horribly frustrating. It was almost working. The key would move slightly, then it would slip. Her finger was torn and bleeding. She kept removing the key and making adjustments. Some made it better, some made it worse. None made it open. She kept on trying.

—

ABDUL-HAKIM LOOKED UP
from the couch. “It’s time to go.”

The big man was annoyed. He was watching a game show on TV in the adjoining room, and he was keeping it low like he’d been told, and he ought to be allowed to watch it. But no, the guy decides out of the blue it’s time to go, and now isn’t soon enough.

“Uh-huh,” he said without moving.

“Go get the girl.”

The contestant on TV was going for the showcase. “Just a minute.”

“Now!” Abdul-Hakim said it in no uncertain terms.

The big man sighed and heaved himself out of his chair.

—

THE LOCK CLICKED
OPEN.

Karen couldn’t believe it. She was sure they’d opened it from
the other side, and she sprang back onto the cot. But no one came in. She got up, went to the door, and listened. She heard nothing. She tried the knob. It turned and the door opened.

She couldn’t see a thing. There were no lights. Karen stood for a moment and let her eyes grow accustomed to the dark.

Overhead pipes. Heating ducts. A concrete floor.

She was in a basement, but it wasn’t pitch-dark. There was a trace of light. Where was it coming from? Karen glanced around.

There were two small windows near the top of the far wall. They’d been painted black, but some light was leaking in. They didn’t look big enough to climb through. There were some crates she could climb on, but they didn’t look high enough.

Karen looked around frantically, but couldn’t see anything useful. Just a couple of lawn chairs and a lawn mower.

She paused. A lawn mower!

There must be a door to the outside!

Karen started across the room and—

Her face fell.

No one was using the lawn mower. It had been brought down there and junked. It was actually missing a wheel.

Suddenly a shaft of light split the darkness of the cellar. Karen jumped back into the shadows.

The big man came down the cellar stairs. Two steps down he reached out, grabbed a string, and pulled on an overhead light. It was a hundred-watt bare bulb, and it lit up the shadows. Karen
was sure he could see her. She shrunk back, willed herself to be very small.

The big man clumped down the stairs and plodded across the cellar toward her room. He turned the corner and was out of sight in the alcove in front of the door.

Should she risk trying for the stairs?

She’d never make it. He was at the door. He had only to push it open and he’d be back.

But there was no place to hide, and time was running out.

Why wasn’t he back?

—

THE BIG MAN
pulled the skeleton key out of his pocket, fitted it in the keyhole, and unlocked the door. He turned the knob and pushed.

It didn’t open.

He frowned. How was that possible? The door should be open.

He turned the knob and pushed the door again.

No. It was still locked.

He looked at the skeleton key. Could it be the wrong one? Even he knew that was a dumb idea. The key had turned, but the door was locked. It didn’t make any sense.

He stuck the key back in and turned it.

The lock clicked open.

—

SHE SHOULD HAVE
GONE.
It was taking longer than she thought. She should go now.

Karen scrunched backward into the shadow.

The big man exploded around the corner and thundered down on her.

Karen was trapped. She turned to meet her fate.

The big man rushed by her and stormed up the stairs.

Karen couldn’t believe it. She crawled out, ran to the stairs, and listened. She heard nothing. That was odd. She’d expected to hear the big man raise the alarm, but he hadn’t.

Karen crept up the stairs. The door at the top was open. She stuck her head out, looked around.

The cellar door was at one end of a long, narrow hallway.

At the other end was the front door.

Karen listened, trying to determine where the big man had gone. She could hear footsteps overhead. He was searching the upstairs rooms.

Karen started down the hall.

To the right was the door to the kitchen, but it had no exterior door. She kept going, past the stairs to the second floor. Now the big man couldn’t come down and cut her off. She was almost there. Just the living room and the foyer to go.

Karen’s eyes were on the knob of the bolt lock on the front door. She could turn it with her left hand while her right hand
turned the doorknob. A matter of seconds. The big man couldn’t stop her.

Karen froze.

Through the door to the living room she could see the Arab was on the couch, his black doctor’s bag on the coffee table in front of him.

Karen shrunk back in alarm. The front door was a tantalizing fifteen feet away, but there was no way she could reach it now.

Overhead the footsteps got louder.

The big man was coming back down the stairs.

Karen was trapped. She couldn’t go forward, and she couldn’t go back.

There was a coat closet on her left. Karen pulled the door open and ducked inside.

—

“SHE’S GONE!
”

Abdul-Hakim sprang to his feet. “What?”

“She’s not there!”

“You left the door unlocked?”

“Hell, no!”

“Then how did she get out?”

“I don’t know!”

Abdul-Hakim was sure he didn’t. The big man never knew. “Search the house.”

“I did.”

“Before you told me?” Abdul-Hakim said ominously. “How long has she been out?”

“I don’t know.”

“Check if the doors are locked.”

“They open from the inside.”

“They don’t lock from the
outside
. If the dead bolt’s on, she didn’t use it. Search the house.”

“I told you. I searched the house.”

“Search it again. Check the closets.”

—

KAREN PEERED OUT
from the coat closet. The Arab was guarding the front door. She shrunk back in again.

She was trapped. The Arab would see her the moment she came out, and the big man’s search wouldn’t take long. Any minute he’d wrench the door open, and that would be that.

Footsteps thundered down the hall.

Karen peered out the tiniest crack.

And here he came, straight at her.

He reached for the doorknob.

Karen caught him by surprise. She threw all her weight against the door, slamming him into the wall. Before he could react she sprang from the closet and sprinted up the stairs, just ahead of the Arab and the big man.

Karen raced down the hall. There was a bathroom at the other end. She dashed in, slammed the door, and locked it just as the big man hit it full force. The door splintered but held.

The bathroom had a window, small but she could fit. Karen hopped up on the toilet, grabbed the bottom half and heaved. The window slid open, not all the way, but enough.

The door splintered again. The doorknob was nearly broken off.

Karen stuck her head and arms out the window and began to shimmy through.

There came a tremendous splintering of wood.

Karen felt the hands on her legs, yanking her away from freedom. She crashed to the floor under the weight of the big man and all the breath was knocked out of her.

From somewhere she could hear the voice of the Arab saying, “Bad girl.”

Then she felt the prick of a hypodermic needle, and everything went dark.