didn’t yield much information. That, in itself, told him something. She was no rookie. She hadn’t let much slip, other than her accent. Even then, she’d run through so many variations, he couldn’t begin to guess what might be normal for her. Lacking that small bit of information prevented his figuring out her background, which could lead to more clues.
The fact that she had his real name could prove problematic. His assignment necessitated a cover story and false identity to work. He’d have to make sure he didn’t come in contact with anyone connected to his investigation.
Assuming she wasn’t somehow connected already. With no clues to her employer’s identity, he wouldn’t rule out that possibility.
He swung his legs off the bed and stood. Waves of dizziness threatened to swamp him, and he hung onto the cool metal headboard, taking slow, deep breaths until his balance returned to normal.
Other than leaving him with a faint nausea, the drug seemed to have no lingering effect on his system. He stretched his arms and legs and did a couple of cautious squats. Everything seemed to be in working order, limited only by the very short leash of the handcuff around his wrist.
The door opened. His captor returned, and she was looking none too pleased. When she saw him standing, she pulled her gun from the back of her waistband. She didn’t point it at him, which seemed encouraging. She knew how to handle a gun and didn’t appear to be trigger happy, just cautious.
“Take your seat, please.”
Frank complied, sitting to face her, with both feet on the floor and his free hand on his thigh, palm up. His cuffed hand rested on the pillow, also palm up. He had no intention of doing anything that could be misinterpreted as a threatening gesture.
“What size pants do you wear?”
The question came from so far out in left field, he didn’t respond immediately. The information was hardly classified, and there seemed to be no reason not to share it. Then again, he couldn’t come up with a logical reason for her query.
“Mind if I ask why you want to know?”
“We’re going out of town for a few days, and I figure I better pick up some things to tide you over. You’re going to need clothes. No razor, but shampoo, toothbrush…” She continued, adding items to her list.
“Out of town” didn’t work for him. Not by a long shot. “It seems like a waste to buy new when we could just go over to my place and pack my own things.” If he could talk her into stopping at his place, he could get his hands on—
“Nice try, but neither one of us will be going anywhere near your room.”
Room, not apartment or house. She knew how he lived, if not where.
He nodded in understanding. She wasn’t going to risk being seen in the rooming house he’d called home for the past two months, with him or without him. “In that case, thirty-four waist, thirty-six inseam. If you’re getting jeans, Levi’s fit best. I prefer my shirts extra large, tall if you can get them. Otherwise, short-sleeved would be easiest.”
She stared at him, one eyebrow raised in disbelief.
“I prefer clothes that fit well.” He shrugged, not feeling particularly apologetic.
“I see. Anything else?”
“Yes.” A slow grin pulled up one side of his mouth. “Boxers.”
Soft color flooded up her neck, darkening her cheeks. Well, well. Now that was interesting.
“It’s going to take me a little while to gather everything together.” She crossed to the dresser, where a bottle of water and several plastic cups shared space with a battered television with rabbit-ear antennae. She turned on the TV, tuning it to the least static-filled station, and turned the volume to a reasonable level—loud enough to hear, not so loud that any possible neighbors would object.
“My assistant isn’t available to keep an eye on you while I’m gone. I can’t take any chances right now, so you’re going to have to take another sedative.”
“I don’t think so.”
“You really don’t have the option of whether or not to take it.” She pulled a small dopp kit from the top dresser drawer and opened it. “You can choose how. Either take it orally or I can give you a shot. My recommendation is go for the drink. I’ve never been very good with needles.”
“In that case, line ’em up, barkeep.” Orally also held the advantage of being able to regurgitate the sedative once she left.
She emptied two capsules into one of the glasses and filled it with water. So much for plan A. She handed the glass to him then stepped back and waited.
He eyed the mixture, sizing up the quantity of liquid. He could still do this—pretend to swallow, and once she left, spit it out. His system would probably absorb some of the sedative, but not enough to incapacitate him for long. He raised the glass in a mock salute and drained the contents.
“Mistah Cabrini, suh?” She was back to the southern accent. “You may as well go ahead and swallow for real. I won’t be leaving until the drug has taken effect.”
Ah, hell. He was beginning to hate that southern-belle act. He swallowed.
“Thank you. Now, why don’t you rest your weary head on that pillow and get comfortable. It won’t take but a few minutes for you to drift off.”
He stretched out on the mattress, tempted to fight the lethargy already beginning to weigh down his limbs, but knowing it would be futile. He folded both hands beneath his head, crossed his ankles and glared at her until he faded into oblivion.
Chapter 2
Angel tossed the bull’s-eye-spotted bags in the trunk of her car, glad to have that portion of her list out of the way. The credit gods had been merciful—most of the items she needed were on sale. Better still, these particular charges wouldn’t come due until well after she’d received payment for this job.
The car rattled as she slammed the trunk shut, and she gave the dented fender an affectionate pat as she rounded to the driver’s door. Old Rusty’s body had seen better days, but it served its purpose. Few would guess the dilapidated red shell hid a chassis-and-engine combo that could outrun just about anything on the road. The engine purred to life, and she pulled out of the parking lot.
It didn’t take long to reach her last stop, even with a detour through the drive-up ATM. The modest rambler, shaded by several old oak trees, sat back from the quiet street. Traffic cruising past Cedar Lake seldom came down these twisting streets, providing the illusion of seclusion in the middle of Minneapolis.
“Grampa Fred,” head of the Neighborhood Watch and honorary grandfather to every kid in a four-block radius, waved as she drove by his corner house. He provided the illusion of continuity and security.
The garage door opened with the touch of a button, and she backed into her space with practiced ease. She slipped through the connecting door into the kitchen and down the stairs to her basement office.
Shedding the wig and contact lenses, she transformed to her “normal” blue-eyed, sorta blond self before heading back
