All three?”
“Yea. Talk about dumb. These people, they put in all this high price security and they got guards full time ... ”
“And dogs that play chess ... ”
“Whatever. And then they code all the pads the same! So’s nobody’s got to remember three different codes!”
“And you’re sure you have the codes, or rather, the code, singular?”
“No sweat. Like, that keypad you don’t want to see — your parking ticket keypad — it’s closer to the house on this side of the fancy landscaping. That’s where we spend most of our time, by the way, workin’ on that part. They got more cedar than Yellowstone in there. Anyways, this pad controls the security around the house itself. More motion sensors, broken window detectors, that kinda stuff. Wireless like on the wall.”
“That’s not what I asked. Do you have the code?” “One number to go. Well, really, one number to be sure. It’s a five or a six. I just gotta watch the crew chief punch it one more time and like I said, it’s no sweat. I can almost stand right beside him now when he puts it in. Part of the ve ... vegetation.”
“The third keypad ... it must be at the main door. You sure it has the same code as the others?”
“Well ... yea, I see where you’re comin’ from. They don’t exactly invite us into the house for tea but I seen one of the inside staff use it just yesterday, and it’s the same.”
“It better be, or the whole operation stops at the door.”
“There’s, uh, one thing. Don’t mind me askin’ but they gotta have big time security inside. How’re you gonna ...?”
“Not your concern. Your job is to get us to the front door.”
“Count on it. I suppose you wanna wait for a warm night?”
“Naturally.”
Why do the jewel thieves want to wait for a warm night?
8. Leave No Trace
Moira Catesby put the Gucci tote bag by the front door and turned to go back through the apartment one more time. Finding a pair of her panty hose in the closet of the spare bedroom had given her a start and she was worried she might have missed something else.
The spare bedroom was her first stop on this second go round, particularly the closet, for that’s where she’d kept a few clothes for the occasional times she stayed over. This time she was confident that nothing was left behind. The same was true for the master bedroom. Even so she lay down on the floor one more time and, with a penlight, checked that nothing of hers had fallen under the bed over the past several months and been forgotten. The bathroom, kitchen and bar were next, but before covering them she took a last, critical look at Jacques Ste-Lowe lying in the bed, noting that even in death he looked organized and in control, as if this thing was all his idea.
Moira had shot Jacques behind the left ear as he got into bed and he’d folded quietly into a dignified shape with arms and legs together. Most victims shot that way would stiffen in shock or thrash about before spreading into a contorted form. Moira knew that better than most because she killed people for a living. But for Jacques there was no indignity and no uncontrolled reaction. She could almost imagine him setting out the appropriate suit for the funeral and making his precious lists: a list of mourners, a list of appropriate flowers, a list of dates and times and responsibilities for the funeral ceremony. For a brief second, Moira was tempted to ruffle his hair or do something to disrupt the apparent serenity. But only for a second. She owed him that much.
In the kitchen and at the living room bar she wiped every bottle and glass one more time. Even a partial fingerprint could be a threat. The bathroom got a rigorous second check. There was no way she was going to leave makeup or a toothbrush, much less some potential for DNA like a toothpaste spatter. That’s why she was even taking the kitchen garbage with her, although she was positive there was nothing in it that would lead to her. Still, she knew it always paid to be over-cautious. That was why she had put new sheets on Jacques’ bed before she’d shot him but had been careful not to get into the bed herself.
Moira returned to the front door and picked up the Gucci bag, then set it down and made one last check of the living room. It occurred to her she hadn’t looked behind the drapes in her first inspection. This time she was satisfied. She picked up the bag, peeked through the security hole in the door to be sure the hall was empty, and then walked out to the stairs. Nobody in the building ever used the stairs except the cleaning staff and, at 11 p.m., it was a safe bet there were none of them around. A doorman would be on duty in the lobby but Moira had always come in through the underground garage.
She reached her car without encountering anyone, popped the locks and got in. She put her key in the ignition but then changed her mind and sat back. Better to wait a second or two, she thought, and catch her breath, for the adrenaline was pumping hard. Not because she was frightened or physically stressed but because just for a moment — only a moment — she’d had a twinge of regret. Jacques had been, well ... Jacques had been an okay guy. Mind you, Jacques Ste-Lowe probably wasn’t his real name. Hers wasn’t Moira Catesby either; it was Beth Shlomo, but still ...
Actually the assignment had gone like clockwork. She’d worked herself into Jacques’ life over the past several months, but not too closely. Not moving in with him full time or anything like that, just tight enough to be important in his life without becoming part of it. That way she didn’t have to meet other people he knew and that was always an open door for the cops. No, the relationship had worked at just the right frequency: the odd dinner date like the one earlier tonight but never more than once every week or two. They went to an occasional show, just the two of them — both of them were big fans of musicals. And from time to time in nice weather they would walk in the park, but that was as far as she’d allowed things to develop.
Moira sighed and started the car and then looked into the Gucci bag, taking inventory almost subconsciously. The Smith & Wesson .22 with the silencer: that would go into the Don River when she crossed the Bloor viaduct. The makeup kit too. No good to use a dumpster these days the way the homeless crawled around in them. With sudden intensity, she reached into the bag — where were those confounded panty hose? — and then felt relief. They were there, along with the dress she’d worn last week, an extra skirt and sweater, a negligee, and — she counted them twice — the exact number of items of underwear. Everything was there except for — where was it? — ah, there: Jacques’ cell phone. She never called Jacques on his apartment line, only on his cell and only from her cell. These, too, would go into the Don with the gun and the makeup. It was important that she leave no trace of herself at all.
If Moira wishes to leave no trace of herself, there should be one more item in the tote bag. What is that?
