Dead Certain by Mariah Stewart Page B

no such softness apparent in the brother, who was constantly scanning the faces, looking for the odd man, the one who didn’t seem to belong, committing as many of those faces to memory as he could, much as was Mercer himself, silently questioning whether this face, or that, might be the face of a killer.
    Mercer’s eyes drifted back to Amanda Crosby once more. In spite of all the evidence, in spite of all he’d said, he found himself hoping that, in the end, that face wouldn’t prove to be hers.

CHAPTER
FIVE
    Whistling, Vince Giordano unpacked the bags from the local market and put away his purchases. He was filled with a sense of self-satisfaction. Here he was, in the first living space he had ever had all to himself—his prison cell aside, of course. Sure, it was small, but he didn’t need much beyond the few pieces of furniture that had come with the room. All he’d really wanted was a bedroom with a bath. The tiny kitchenette was a bonus. Besides, it wasn’t like this was going to be his permanent home. All he needed right now was a place to hang his hat for a while. Just till he’d done what he had to do. Then he’d be free to go wherever the road took him.
    There were things he’d have to take care of before he could complete his assignment, as he liked to think of it. For one thing, he’d have to get rid of his red hair. People always remembered a redhead. So he’d driven all the way out on Route 413 to an out-of-the-way drugstore to pick up some brown hair coloring. Right now, first thing before he did anything else, he’d color his hair. He rolled up his shirtsleeves and studied the hair on his arms. Should he do them, too? Was it possible to do that and not get the dye all over his skin?
    Fuck it. He’d do the hair on his head and that was it. Besides, if anyone saw his arms, they’d be more likely to remember all the freckles than what color the hair was. He’d just have to stick with long sleeves for now and pray that the month of September would be cooler than August.
    He slid two six-packs of beer into the empty refrigerator, then added the hoagie he’d picked up at a deli on his way into Carleton that afternoon. A small blue-collar community, Carleton would serve his needs quite nicely. For one thing, it was only nine miles southwest of Broeder. Close enough for him to keep an eye on his quarry, far enough away from his old life in Lyndon that he wasn’t likely to be recognized. The red hair, though, still had to go.
    Right at one end of the block he now lived on was a food market, and at the other, a bar that laid claim to the best burgers in town. The bar looked like every neighborhood tavern he’d ever been in, and that was just fine with him. He could blend in there with no trouble at all. He knew the routine. By the end of the week, he’d be a regular.
    As for his keep, well, he had enough money in his secret stash to last him for a long, long time, though he didn’t plan on being around Carleton for more than a few weeks. Once his assignment was done, he’d retrieve the rest of his money and head for someplace warm. Arizona, or maybe New Mexico. He’d heard there was a housing boom out there. He could start up a new construction company with the money he’d stolen from the last one and start life all over again. The irony just about killed him.
    He debated whether to eat first, then decided against it. He’d take care of the hair first, just like he’d planned, then maybe he’d eat. Pausing to glance out the window at the street below, he noticed several women walking into the bar. It had been a while since he’d had any female companionship. Well, perhaps tonight might be the night.
    Whistling again, he tossed the box of hair coloring up and down in his right hand and headed off to the bathroom. Tonight could be the night, indeed.
    Less than two hours later, Vince Giordano sauntered into the Dew Drop Inn and slid onto a stool just three down from where a couple of ladies