Page 113 of I’ll Be Watching You

“Please. They’re going to kill me.”

“Where are you?”

“I’ll text you the address. Thank you, Margo. Thank you so much. I don’t want to die.”

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Joe Carter

Though Tim Miller’s truck wasn’t in his parking spot, Carter went up to his condo and let himself in.

It was a nice space for a bachelor, he thought. A small kitchen, but clean—Carter respected cleanliness. A large living room with a balcony that overlooked Papago Park in the distance. Comfortable sectional couch, large screen television, extensive gaming system.

Carter didn’t understand the allure of video games, but it seemed most men under forty played them. Carter would much rather spend his time with a beautiful woman than killing orcs or pretending to survive a zombie apocalypse.

The bedroom wasn’t as tidy. Neither was the bathroom. A drawer was open—there were extra razor cartridges, but no razor. No toothbrush. No comb. He opened the shower and noted there were several partly filled containers of shampoo and conditioner, but an open spot on the shelf that would have fit two.

In the closet, there was a large suitcase on the floor, open. Nothing inside. Had there been a smaller suitcase he had taken with him?

He opened the drawers of the dresser. Half the underwear drawer was empty.

He closed it. The man had bolted.

Carter walked over to the desk. There was no computer—a laptop used to sit here, the connections dangling off the desk. However, a tablet was charging next to the bed. He smiled.

Tim Miller believed he was tech savvy. But he wasn’t the only one.

Carter took out his phone and brought up a list of passcodes for all the people who worked for Peter Stockman. The individuals didn’t know they had them; that would defeat the purpose of spying on people who worked for them. People used their passcodes for everything, and it was just a matter of having cameras in the right places to learn what he needed to know.

Miller’s passcode was simple; Carter would have been able to guess it if he didn’t already have it. His mother’s birthday: 1 0 1 3 6 5.

He was in.

Miller’s computer search history was also accessible on the tablet. Carter scanned, saw where the kid had made a reservation. Flagstaff. Two hours away.

“You are a fool, Mr. Miller,” Carter said. He kept the tablet. Every text message would go through here as well. He hadn’t texted anyone since the call from Peter Stockman. That could change.

He left as quietly as he’d arrived. He called Sal once he was in his car.

“He bolted. Flagstaff. I have his location. He rented a house for the weekend.”

“Take care of it,” Sal said.

“Consider it done.”

Two hours there, thirty minutes to stake out the place and make sure Miller was alone, one minute to kill him, two hours to get home.

Carter put on his favorite rock playlist and headed north.

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Mildred Maddox

Mildred stepped into the club and breathed in the too cool, artificial air. Even in November, businesses kept the AC on too low. But she’d always liked Sal’s club with the rich, dark colors, classy decor, scent of good whiskey permeating the leather seats. It was a place she could relax, where no one knew her but knew she was important to Sal, so treated her like royalty.

She smoothed out Roger’s black bow tie and suggested he enjoy a Scotch at the bar while she spoke with Sal. He brightened in that slow, satisfied way he had when someone let him off the hook. He gave her a sweet kiss and sat in one of the leather chairs near the bar, relieved to be released from any pretense of business. She watched him chat with the cocktail waitress. He was still an attractive man even at the age of seventy-two. He looked over at her, as if sensing her watching him, and gave her a smile that still made her feel as if it were just Roger and Mildred against the world. They’d had a very good, very successful life together.

She didn’t plan on having incompetent people make their retirement years difficult.