Look Closer(67)

I’m thinking the south side, beyond the garage, along the gangway between the house and the large wooden border fence, where a window has been propped open for the past five days. Probably a kitchen window. It looks tall and wide enough for me to fit through. I may have to punch out a screen.

Oh, and here she comes right now, jogging up Lathrow Avenue, finishing up her three-mile run—the beautiful, sexy Lauren the Gold-Digging Skank, wearing those aqua running tights that probably give every man she passes a hard-on.

She is gorgeous, I will have to give her that. I can’t fault Simon for falling for her.

Oh, sure I can.

So it’s time to keep moving, just a casual, up-tempo walk in my workout clothes, headphones on, not even looking in her direction as she passes me.

Enjoy the rest of your life, Lauren. You have five days left.

? ? ?

I walk back to my car, parked up by the elementary school (one place where you can park by the curb and nobody thinks much of it), and drive back to Grace Park. I park in the alley garage, as always, and walk into the house through the private rear entrance.

There is a coat closet by the back door that Simon never uses. I open it and pull out the Halloween outfit I bought for Christian, an oafish robe with a long hood. I bought it at one of those seasonal Halloween stores that opens just in October, renting vacant commercial space and hanging those gaudy signs.

I paid for it in cash, of course. I put my hair up, wore a baseball cap, wore fake eyeglasses and a puffy coat. I didn’t see any security cameras in there, but if they were there, they couldn’t possibly make me out.

The “Grim Reaper,” they call this costume, complete with a long sickle, but that part I threw away. The robe will cover up Christian’s body features, and the elongated hood will entirely block any view of his face while allowing him to see out.

It will be perfect.

Below that, a new pair of Paul Roy Peak Explorer boots, size thirteen, Christian’s shoe size. I bought those in cash, too, at a discount shoe store wearing a completely different disguise.

I carry the shoes and the costume through the ground floor of the house to the front closet, near the front-entrance garage where Simon parks. I open the closet and look down. A pair of old loafers Simon hasn’t worn for a while. A backup pair of running shoes.

And yes, another pair of Paul Roy Peak Explorer boots.

Same model, same color as the ones for Christian.

I head upstairs, into the master bedroom, and open Simon’s closet. In the back of the closet hangs a Grim Reaper costume Simon bought for himself last year but never wore.

Also a perfect match for the one I bought Christian, like the boots.

Matching costumes, matching boots.

Simon isn’t the only one who holds a grudge.





62

Christian

“I got it,” Vicky tells me when she gets upstairs into my condo.

She hands me the bag with the Grim Reaper costume.

“You paid cash for it?” I ask. “Avoided cameras?”

“Yes.”

I remove the costume from the bag and pull it over my head with Vicky’s help.

“How do I look?”

“I’ll tell you how you look,” she says. “You look like something out of a Stephen King movie. But more importantly? You look totally anonymous.”

We head into the bathroom so I can look in the mirror.

“It’s formless,” says Vicky. “And your face is too far inside that long hood to see.”

“Yeah, it works.”

“You’re totally anonymous. Anyone who saw you in that, they wouldn’t know if it was you or some scrawny teenager. They wouldn’t know if it was you or some dumpy, middle-aged parent.”

“They wouldn’t know if it was me or your husband, Simon?”

“Exactly,” she says.

“I like it. Perfect. Good job. You have the boots, too?”

“Yes,” she says. “Simon has the same pair.”

“What size are they? Size thirteen, I hope?”

“Size thirteen,” she says. “And yes, I also bought these in cash, and I wore glasses and a hat and dressed differently than when I bought the costume.”

Good, this is good. We head back into the main room.

“We have to cut off all contact with each other,” I tell Vicky. “There can’t be any trace of our connection.”

“Absolutely.”

“What evidence do you have of a connection to me?” I ask. “Did Simon know you met with me?”

“Simon doesn’t know you exist,” she says. “I didn’t tell him I was interviewing financial advisers. I’d never want him to know that.”

“You have some materials, brochures, that kind of thing, from my office?”

“I think I still do.”

“Find them and shred them or burn them.”

“Okay,” she says.

“You ever write my name down? Look me up on your computer?”

She thinks about that. “I looked you up on my computer when I was researching financial advisers.”

“Then dump the computer.”

“I can wipe the computer—”

“No, no, wiping the computer isn’t enough. Cops can recover all that stuff. Break it into pieces and dump it in a river. I’m not kidding, Vicky. This is important.”