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Maybe her caution was useless. Maybe someone was watching her check out, noting everything she’d bought. She had no way of knowing, and it made sense to her to make the extra effort anyway.
She did fleetingly wonder if the cashier thought her request was odd—especially paired with her purchases—but a closer look at the young woman made her realize the cashier wouldn’t have blinked if she’d bought a bow and arrow, a red bikini, and a miner’s headlamp. She probably saw all sorts of strange combinations every day.
But after she paid for her haul, Lizette blew out a weary sigh. She’d have to make one more stop on her way home: an ATM. She’d just blown almost every cent of cash she’d had with her. She really needed to start carrying more cash anyway, as a precaution. A machine would allow her to withdraw only two hundred dollars at a time, but she’d make a withdrawal tonight and tomorrow she’d go by the bank at lunch for a larger transaction.
They won’t like that, either.
Tough shit.
Dealing with invisible people was tiring. Still, even though she didn’t know what was going on, she didn’t think her problem was mental. If she ever sat down to make a foil hat, then she might concede that she was the problem. Until then she’d carry on.
On the way home, she didn’t zigzag in and out of traffic, and she didn’t speed … much. She’d already had her quota of excitement for the day, and though she’d liked it, she had to ease into this new/old persona. On familiar ground again, she went to her bank and through the drive-through ATM. She felt more secure with that cash in her handbag. She’d feel even better tomorrow after another trip to the bank.
She parked in the driveway, grabbed her bags from the backseat, and nodded to Maggie, who peeked through the side window of her house. Maggie waved her fingers, then let the curtain flutter closed. Keys in hand, Lizette headed for the front door. And again, the hairs on the back of her neck danced.
Don’t turn around. Don’t let them know you know.
She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. But she didn’t turn around.
The man sat back in the driver’s seat, a cup of cold coffee in the drink holder to his right, his cell in his left hand. This was a quiet neighborhood, too quiet. It was nearly dark, and only a few kids remained on the street. He couldn’t stay here much longer; one of the subject’s neighbors had already asked him if he needed help.
This was, bar none, the most boring assignment ever. Who the hell had he pissed off?
“Yes, I lost her for a while,” he explained again. “But I found her.” He glanced at the laptop on the passenger seat, looked at the beeping red light that indicated the subject’s vehicle. “She went shopping. At a strip mall in Virginia.”
No, he explained again, he didn’t know exactly where she’d gone shopping or why she’d chosen Virginia. Maybe there had been a big sale. She was a woman, after all. He’d driven through the parking lot and found her car in front of a bakery. Where she’d gone from there he had no idea, but there had been a bookstore, a shoe store, and a women’s clothing store off to the right.
After about an hour she’d returned to her car carrying several shopping bags. From where he’d parked, he hadn’t been able to identify her bags, but she’d been alone and she’d been shopping, so there wasn’t any big deal about it. Afterward she went to her bank’s ATM. After shopping, that made sense.
The last guy who had lost the subject had already been sent on some shit job in the Middle East. In their line of work, they either produced the goods or someone else was brought in to do the job. The boss didn’t reward employees who screwed up by sending them to Paris.
Her history told him the subject was in for the night. He didn’t know what went on inside the house, didn’t need to know. In an hour he’d be relieved. If he was lucky, he might make it home in time to see the last couple of innings of the Nationals’ game.
Then the subject’s front door opened, and his boredom fled. What the hell?
She stepped into her driveway and executed a couple of quick stretches. Gone was the staid office worker he’d been watching; he wouldn’t have recognized her if he hadn’t seen her walk out of that house.
Her hair was pulled back into a thick ponytail. Her face looked sharper this way, more … dangerous. She was dressed all in black, with the exception of her shoes, which were a dark gray. No baggy shorts and muscle shirts for this runner, not even in the notorious D.C. heat and humidity. Her shirt was short-sleeved and loose—loose enough to hide a weapon beneath, if necessary—and the pants were long and fitted.
This duty was new, but he had been briefed. Once the subject was in, she should have been in for the night. He’d seen pictures of her, walking in the neighborhood, iPod on, earbuds in, zoned out and dressed in shorts and a tank top that didn’t leave room for her to hide so much as a piece of gum. So, leaving the house was unusual but not unheard of. Still … this was an entirely different look for her.
She jogged toward the street, and he got ready to throw his jacket over the computer and start the engine if she headed his way. Instead she turned and ran in the opposite direction, and he relaxed again as he kept an eye on her: back straight, form good, she ran slowly past her neighbor’s house and then increased her speed. She didn’t keep her eyes straight ahead, but instead studied her surroundings, keeping good situational awareness. No iPod. People were stupid to run alone with their ears plugged so they couldn’t hear anyone coming up behind them. A lot of people got mugged that way.
The subject hadn’t looked straight at him as she’d hit the street, but he was sure she knew he was here.
Quickly he dialed a number on his cell phone. When the call was answered, he said, “I think something’s going on.”
There was a short silence, then an exasperated, “Like what, for fuck’s sake?”
“I may be wrong, but it looks as if she’s going into some physical training. Not a casual jog; the look’s all wrong, like she’s about to get into some serious running. No iPod, noticing everything around her. I’m pretty sure she spotted me.”
There was another curse, then: “Clear out. You don’t need to be there when she comes back home. I’ll get someone else on her.”
Chapter Thirteen
Three a.m. was prime time for any self-respecting burglar. Houses were dark; all the residents were—or should be—sleeping.
Felice definitely had active surveillance on Lizzy. Even if he hadn’t already been alerted, Xavier would have spotted the car right off. The car itself was as bland as a car could get, but he knew what vehicles belonged in the neighborhood, and this one didn’t. The guy inside was taking care to keep a low profile; he wasn’t smoking, but he was drinking coffee to stay awake, and Xavier didn’t need night-vision goggles to spot the movement of his hand as he lifted the thermos cup to his mouth.
