Page 78 of Two Kinds of Stranger

He had gone to extraordinary lengths to make the situation appear as a murder suicide to the police. Elly surviving wasn’t a problem because no one would believe her. But an independent witness corroborating Elly’s story about a man with a suitcase poisoning her, well, that changed things considerably.

He had to kill this man, Novak. Killing Elly would only raise suspicion.

Novak had to die, and because he lived in a different world his death could be explained by other means. The police weren’t looking for him, so his death could be because of a drug deal gone bad, a debt or a random encounter on the dark, dangerous streets of this city.

He drove around the city until it grew too dark to see the faces of those huddled on the sidewalks or doorways. Another day trawling the streets with nothing to show for it.

He wondered if Novak hadn’t gone into hiding. Perhaps something had happened to him.

His phone buzzed and he pulled over.

A text from Grace.

She enjoyed last night. Wanted to do it again.

She didn’t know yet, thought Logan. Grace hadn’t realized what he’d done.

She would find out, soon enough.

He drove to one of his apartments, the loft in Midtown. Parked the car and took the elevator to the top. Once inside, he told his home hub to play Beethoven. While the music filled the sparse, industrial space, Logan went into the bedroom, laid out his clothes for the evening and the items he’d bought from Amazon.

A Wi-Fi blocker.

A radio jammer.

A large, soft make-up brush for applying foundation.

A small bottle of titanium dioxide powder.

A flashlight.

A powerful, tube-shaped magnet about six inches long.

A roll of trash bags.

A bottle of water.

Wet wipes.

And his lock picks.

Nothing here was illegal. It was all freely available to purchase from the world’s largest store. Apart from one item, of course.

A nine-millimeter Beretta. Just in case things went badly wrong. Some years ago, Logan had arranged, through the dark web, to meet a man beneath a bridge in Brooklyn at three in the morning. The man arrived in an old Cadillac, popped the lid of his trunk and showed Logan an array of handguns and small assault weapons. They were ex-military hardware that had fallen off a cargo plane and miraculously lost their serial numbers when they landed. Logan had chosen the Beretta, one extra magazine and a box of ammo. He had yet to use the weapon, but he kept it well maintained and knew how to use it.

He exercised: pull-ups and push-ups, crunches and squats.

It had cost a quarter million dollars to install in his bathroom, but the plunge pool was Logan’s happy place. He kept the temperature low–ice-bath low– and stayed in three minutes, until his hands began to shake. Then he got out and into a hot shower. He scrubbed every inch of his body with a hard brush and soap to remove as much dead skin as possible. When he was done, he stood in front of the mirror.

He didn’t look like a man, he thought.

His skin was red from the heat of the shower and the body scrub. He could have been a demon, born from flame.

He put on skintight Lycra leggings, and the same style long-sleeve shirt. This would cut down on the DNA from sweat that went into the black combat pants and black sweater. He would dispose of all his clothing afterwards, of course, but it paid to be careful.

He put on black socks and molded, flat-soled moccasins, the kind of footwear that leaves only a blank, foot-shaped print in soft earth. No tread. Before he put on his balaclava, he rolled it up so it looked like a beanie, then placed it on his head. Slowly,he packed his backpack, careful to make sure he had everything he needed.

It was time.