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; I unwrapped it to find a Glock 33. "Oooh. Serious bondage gear!"
"Got a waistband holster. Should fit under your jacket. Keep it on, all times."
I found the holster and slipped into it, then double-checked my makeup application in the visor mirror, making sure the faint, thin scar on my neck was hidden. "Not bad. I have to work on my aging techniques, though. I can never get it right. You'll have to teach me sometime."
He made a noise in his throat that I took for agreement, then turned into a strip mall so we could get some research material.
* * *
Joyce
"I can try, but..."
The dry-cleaning clerk shrugged, bit back a yawn. Given that it was barely 6:30 in the morning, the yawn and the heavy-lidded eyes could be excused, but Joyce knew it wasn't lack of sleep that was causing the younger woman's attention to wander. She just didn't give a damn.
"Look," Joyce said. "You opened five minutes ago, so you can't possibly be overbooked yet. Your sign says you offer same-day cleaning. I need same-day cleaning."
"We are overbooked. With regular customers." A slow quarter-smile. "If you were a regular customer..."
"I am a regular customer. I've dropped off clothes every Friday for the past three months."
The clerk's eyes narrowed behind her microframed glasses. "I work Fridays and I've never seen you."
"Of course you have. I talk to you every week!"
The young woman's expression didn't change. "I've never seen you."
Joyce pulled back and shoved her hands in her pockets, torn between crying and screaming. Maybe she should do both. Throw a hissy fit, see if that made her more memorable next time. She sized up the clerk, considered throwing herself at the young woman's mercy, telling her the truth. Look, I've just been through the world's shittiest divorce. I have my first date tonight and this old black dress may not look like much to you, but it's the only thing I have to wear.
Joyce imagined saying the words. Imagined the clerk's reaction. Imagined the smirk, the glitter of condescension. Imagined her response, "Oh, I'm soooo sorry, but no. Can't do it." Another smirk. Now piss off, you old cow. No twenty-year-old ever imagined herself sinking so low, her self-confidence puddled around her ankles, her ratty apartment and divorce petition exposing her failures as a wife, a woman.
"Piss off to you, too," Joyce muttered under her breath, gathering her dress from the counter and swooping from the store with as much dignity as she could muster.
The door swung closed behind her. Joyce paused, and looked up and down the street, hoping another "same-day cleaning" sign would miraculously appear. There must be other places in town, but she had no idea where they were. She'd only moved there three months ago to take a job from a sympathetic friend.
She inhaled sharply. Okay, maybe she didn't know where there was another cleaner, but she could find out. Joyce strode to the nearest phone booth, pushed open the doors, reached for the phone book...and found an empty chain.
"God-fucking-damn it!"
She hiccuped a laugh. Now that felt better, didn't it? She glanced down at the dress slung over her arm. Ten years old. Ten years out of style. Made for a woman ten years younger. Screw this. If she was going on a date, she was doing it right. Break the bank and buy a new dress. Maybe something from the sales rack at Barneys. She checked her watch. Not yet seven. If she started work early, she could take an extended lunch hour, use the time to buy a dress. She smiled. Problem solved.
Joyce drove into her office building's underground garage. The lot was almost completely empty. She shivered as she walked toward the elevator. Picked up her pace. Slid her car key between her index and middle fingers, the way her daughter had taught her after taking a self-defense course at college. Any guy jumps you, Mom, go for his eyes.
Joyce reached for the elevator button, then paused. Was this such a good idea, getting onto an elevator so early in the morning? What if it stopped between floors and she was stuck there alone? Or what if she wasn't alone? Yes, it was silly, but still...She glanced toward the stairs. A five-floor climb. It wasn't like she didn't need the exercise.
As she rounded the second flight of stairs, she caught sight of something on the step. Folded green paper. She paused, leaned over. Twenty dollars. She laughed, the sound echoing through the empty stairwell. Twenty dollars toward a new dress. How perfect was that?
As her fingers brushed the bill, a current of air swished behind her. She looked up to see a blur flying toward her head. Over her head. The world went white. She opened her mouth, but something jammed against it. She bit down, tasted plastic. A plastic bag over her head. A hand or arm pressing it into her mouth, cutting off her screams.
Her hands flew up. Too late she felt the keys slide from her fist, heard them tinkle against the concrete. She panicked, clawing, kicking, but hitting only air. She tumbled forward. Felt a hand between her shoulder blades. A shove. Her head struck the sharp edge of the step. Light and pain flashed. Her daughter's face. Go for his eyes, Mom. Darkness.
The man looked down at her body, sprawled awkwardly over the steps, skirt shoved up to reveal one cellulite-pitted thigh above her knee-highs, her arm stretched over her head, fingers grazing the twenty as if, in death, still reaching for it. He almost laughed.
A twenty placed at eye level. A human trap, guaranteed to catch the first person who climbed these stairs. There was an element of risk here, something he'd never allowed himself before. If she hadn't been alone, he'd have had to scrap the whole plan. But the thrill of it, the purest surge of power, came from knowing that if this attempt failed, it made no difference in the overall plan. Kill this person, kill another. Kill here, kill there. Kill now, kill then. For once, it didn't matter. There was no contract, no obligation. He could take risks, enjoy them even, and, to his surprise, he found that he did.
He looked down at the woman. His penultimate strike, perhaps even his last. That was the plan anyway. He'd make this last hit and then, if all went well and the police stayed stumped, he'd stop here. If it didn't go smoothly--and one always had to plan for contingencies--he had one more victim in mind, someone who could take the blame.
