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I take it, careful not to touch the neck of the bottle. It’s bizarre to think that this small thing is what Lila took from Philip’s house. It’s even more bizarre to know it used to be a living person. “Nope,” I say. “My plan is even more secret than that.”
She rolls her eyes.
I pull my pizza delivery boy cap low and start the engine.
* * *
The plan is pretty simple. First we wait until Bethenny Thomas leaves the building without her dogs. This is the twitchiest part, because she might decide to spend her Saturday night at home, curled up in front of the television.
At ten, she gets into a cab, and we’re on.
I go into the building with three boxes of pizza. I’m wearing the cap—which was pretty easy to lift from the busy shop where we ordered the pizzas—and regular clothes. Keep my head down in front of the security cameras. I say I have a delivery for the Goldblatts. We picked them because, of all the people we were able to identify as living in the building—thanks to the white pages online—they were the first not to answer when we called.
The big guy behind the desk looks up at me and grunts. He lifts the phone, pressing a button. I try very hard to act like I am bored, instead of nearly jumping out of my skin with adrenaline.
Sam comes roaring out of the darkness, hitting the glass wall of the lobby like he barely notices it. He starts screaming, pointing at the bushes. “Stay away from me. Stay the hell away!”
The guard stands up, still holding the phone but no longer paying any attention to it.
“What the hell?” I say.
Lila runs up the path toward Sam. She slaps him so hard that all the way inside the lobby, I can hear the crack of leather glove against skin. I sincerely hope that he taught her some kind of stage trick, because otherwise that had to hurt.
“I saw you looking at her,” Lila shrieks. “I’m going to scratch out your eyes!”
If he was a different person, the front desk guy might just call the cops. But when I saw him toss that homeless guy off the property Friday night, I realized that he’s not the type to call anyone if he thinks he can handle it.
Now I just have to hope I read him right.
When he puts down the receiver, I let out a breath I shouldn’t have been holding. That’s no way to look casual.
“Wait a sec,” he says to me. “I got to get these kids out of here.”
“Man,” I groan, trying to sound as exasperated as possible. “I need to deliver these pizzas. There’s a fifteen-minute guarantee.”
He barely even looks at me as he heads for the door. “Whatever. Go on up.”
As I step into the elevator, I hear Lila yell about how the front desk guy better mind his own business. I grin as I hit the button.
* * *
The door to Bethenny’s apartment is identical to all the others. White doors in a white hallway. But when I slip my pick into the keyhole, I hear the dogs start barking.
The lock is easy, but there’s a dead bolt on top that takes longer. I can smell someone frying fish across the hallway and hear someone else playing classical music with the sound turned way up. No one comes out into the hallway. If they had, I would have asked them for a number that’s on a different floor and headed for the elevators. Lucky for me, I make it inside Bethenny’s apartment without a lot of detours.
The minute I’m inside, the dogs run toward me. I close the front door and sprint for the bedroom, slamming the door in their snouts. They scratch against the wood, whining, and all I can hope is that they aren’t scarring the door too deeply. I silently thank the building again for putting the layout of their apartments online.
Inside I dump the boxes onto the wood floor and open them up. The first has the remains of an actual pizza in it. The few slices we didn’t eat are covered in pepperoni and sausage—in a pinch that might effectively distract the dogs.
The second contains the gun, wrapped in paper towels; baggies to put over my feet; bleach-soaked wipes; and disposable gloves.
The third pizza box has my getting-out-of-the-building outfit. A suit jacket and pants, glasses, and a soft leather briefcase. I change clothes quickly and then gear up.
As I tie the plastic over my feet, I glance around the room. The walls are a sea blue, hung with framed photographs of Bethenny in various tropical settings. She smiles at me, cocktail in hand, from a hundred pictures, reflected a thousandfold in the mirrors on her closet doors. I can’t help seeing myself too, dirty hair hanging in my face. I look like I haven’t slept in weeks.
The dogs stop whining and start barking. Over and over, a chorus of sound.
Dresses are strewn around the opening of her closet in frothy, glittering profusion, and shoes are scattered all over the room. On top of a white dresser, a tangle of gold chains droops into a drawer overstuffed with satiny bras.
