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“It’s just . . . I think I fucked up, really bad.”
“I don’t want you to think. You put it out of your mind, all the way. You have to be focused. You can’t afford to miss a move, miss a signal. In a few hours, you’re going to be lying in that bed, in the dark. When he comes in, his whole purpose will be to kill you. He’ll be wearing night-vision goggles. He likes to work in the dark. He’ll see you, but you won’t see him. Until we make the move, you won’t see him. So you can’t fuck that up, or you’re going to get hurt. You get hurt, you’ll really piss me off.”
“I’m sorry about this afternoon.” Peabody shoved in the strawberry ice cream. “I had myself all worked up. I’d kicked my own ass as many times as I could on the way back from the exam. I just needed to kick somebody else’s. And I started thinking, if you’d just called me in I wouldn’t have taken that stupid, goddamn exam.”
“You did take it. And tomorrow you’ll know the results. Now put it aside and do the job.”
“I will.” She held out a spoonful of ice cream to Eve.
Taking it, Eve sampled. “Christ. That’s just horrible.”
“I think it’s pretty good.” More cheerful, Peabody took the spoon back and dug in for more. “You’re just spoiled because you get the real thing now. Thanks for not being mad at me anymore.”
“Who says I’m not? If I liked you, I’d have sent somebody out for real ice cream instead of stealing a civilian’s frozen crap.”
Peabody just smiled, and licked the spoon.
Chapter 23
He’d be getting dressed now, Eve figured, as she looked out through the privacy-screened windows of Mitchell’s loft. It would be full dark soon. Marsonini had always had a long, leisurely meal, with two glasses of wine, before a kill. Always an upscale restaurant, booking a corner table.
He could spend two, even three hours over it. Savoring the food, sipping the wine. Ending with coffee and dessert. A man who enjoyed the finer things.
Renquist would appreciate that.
Eve could see him now, in her mind’s eye. Buttoning a perfectly white, bespoke shirt. Watching his own fingers in the mirror. It would be a good room, well appointed. He wouldn’t tolerate anything but the best—as Renquist or Marsonini.
A silk tie. Probably a silk tie. He’d like the way it felt in his fingers as he slipped it on, as he finessed the perfect knot.
He would take it off after his victim was subdued and restrained. Carefully hanging every article of clothing to avoid creasing. He wouldn’t want creases any more than bloodstains.
But for now, he’d enjoy the act of dressing well, of good material against his skin, and the anticipation of the food and wine, and what followed it.
She could see him, Renquist, turning himself into Marsonini. Grooming the long red hair that was his pride and his vanity. Would Renquist see Marsonini’s face in the mirror now? She imagined he would. The darker complexion, the less even features, the fuller mouth, the pale, pale eyes that would peer out from behind tinted shades. He would need to see it or the night wouldn’t have the same flavor.
Now the jacket. Something in light gray, maybe, perhaps with a faint pinstripe. A good summer suit for a man of discriminating tastes. Then the lightest splash of cologne.
He would check his briefcase. Take a long breath to draw in the scent of the leather. Would he take out all of his tools? Probably. He would run his hands along the lengths of rope. Thin, strong rope that would leave painful grooves in his victim’s flesh.
He loved the thought of their pain. Then the ball gag. He preferred the humiliation of that over cloth. The condoms, for his own safety and protection. The thin cigars and slim gold lighter. He enjoyed a good smoke nearly as much as burning those tiny circles into his victim’s skin and watching the agony scream in their eyes. The little antique bottle he’d filled with alcohol, to pour over the wounds for that extra panache.
A retractable bat, honed steel. Strong enough to break bones, shatter cartilage. And phallic enough to suit another purpose should he be in the mood.
Blades, of course. Smooth ones, jagged ones, in case he found the woman’s kitchen knives under par.
His music discs, the night-vision goggles, the hand blaster or the ministunner, his paper-thin clear gloves. He detested the texture and scent of Seal-It or any of its clones.
His own towel. White, Egyptian cotton, and his own fresh cake of unscented soap for washing up after the job was done.
And lastly, the security codes, cloned the day before during his visit to the loft. The jammer that would disengage the cameras so that he could stroll into the building without leaving a trace.
All neatly packed now, and locked into the elegant case.
One last look in the mirror, a full-length to show himself the entire effect. It had to be perfect. A flick of the finger over a lapel to remove a minute speck of lint.
Then he would stroll out the door, to begin his evening out.
“Where were you?” Roarke asked when her eyes changed, when her shoulders relaxed.
