briefcase,” he said almost cordially, “I’ll take it now.”
Whuthers’ droopy scowl didn’t change. Scott brandished the gun, then reaching out with the opposite hand, grabbed Whuthers’
neck. There was a tightening in his gut as he realized he didn’t feel a pulse.
In an instant, he knew he didn’t have time to puzzle over a dead man—there was no way he was going to explain his presence
at the crime scene to the Miami police department. He would restart the elevator and get out of the building as quickly as
he could. And there was only one way to be sure, absolutely sure, that he got out of the building without being detained:
Ride the elevator to the first floor and go out through the front entrance as if nothing had happened—because nothing had
happened until someone else discovered it, then it was like Schrödinger’s Cat.
Without hesitation, Scott pried the briefcase from Whuthers’ hand, propped him back against the side wall, then started the
elevator. The first time the doors opened on the thirty-second floor and someone stepped into the elevator, he braced himself
for discovery, but nothing happened. No one screamed. No one even seemed to notice poor Mr. Whuthers. They were all too busy—probably
looking forward to the end of a hectic week and the holiday. People got on and off the elevator at a number of floors, all
the way down to the first floor where Scott got off and never looked back.
He walked at a leisurely pace to the parking garage, got into the rental car and drove off.
Hours later, he scratched at his right temple, rubbed sleep from his eyes with the heels of his hands. He peered out through
stained curtains, momentary disbelief showing on his face at the arrival of a misty dawn.
Too many hours ago, he had checked in with Glen. He used the pay phone down the street and while he mostly used codes, he
was still very careful about what he said. Glen’s office phone was subject to monitoring at any time, and Glen could only
ensure that outside parties weren’t listening in.
Glen was careful too, his, “Are you off to Orlando tomorrow?” wasn’t even in the book, but Scott understood what Glen meant
just the same—what’s the next move? Scott’s next move was Jessica Wellmen. He wanted to drive out to Boca Raton right then,
but Glen told him to check hotel registers first.
The registers had been a waste of time.
For hours since, Scott walked in circles around the cramped motel room. Telling himself there was no way the attaché case
had been empty when Whuthers entered the financial center. No way.
There had to have been a switch, a switch in the elevator, a switch he hadn’t seen. So many people coming and going, and he
hadn’t watched the case. Stupidity, there was no other explanation, not lost youth, not the booze—he quit the booze—plain
and pure stupidity, nothing else.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the flashing neon sign of the liquor store down the street. Any other time he would have
wondered if it was still open, but not now, now he thought of Cynthia and her stupid sticky notes. Cynthia and the baby, who
he must forget if he was ever going to get his head screwed on straight and think only about what he was supposed to be thinking
about. He knew what he had to do. He took her picture out of his wallet and set it on the nightstand, intent on leaving it
there.
He wanted to call her, and before he knew it, the dial tone was in his ear. But even his subconscious knew better than to
place the call. He stuffed the picture into the trash, got out the Rand McNally road map of the state of Florida, and memorized
the main streets of Boca Raton. The way he figured it, he could catch a catnap, check out, and be in Boca Raton before 10
a.m.
What a grand way to spend New Year’s Day.
Chapter 5
Boca Raton, Florida Sunday,
2 January
The wind shifted. The tiny sign over the door creaked. Scott turned up the collar
Whuthers’ droopy scowl didn’t change. Scott brandished the gun, then reaching out with the opposite hand, grabbed Whuthers’
neck. There was a tightening in his gut as he realized he didn’t feel a pulse.
In an instant, he knew he didn’t have time to puzzle over a dead man—there was no way he was going to explain his presence
at the crime scene to the Miami police department. He would restart the elevator and get out of the building as quickly as
he could. And there was only one way to be sure, absolutely sure, that he got out of the building without being detained:
Ride the elevator to the first floor and go out through the front entrance as if nothing had happened—because nothing had
happened until someone else discovered it, then it was like Schrödinger’s Cat.
Without hesitation, Scott pried the briefcase from Whuthers’ hand, propped him back against the side wall, then started the
elevator. The first time the doors opened on the thirty-second floor and someone stepped into the elevator, he braced himself
for discovery, but nothing happened. No one screamed. No one even seemed to notice poor Mr. Whuthers. They were all too busy—probably
looking forward to the end of a hectic week and the holiday. People got on and off the elevator at a number of floors, all
the way down to the first floor where Scott got off and never looked back.
He walked at a leisurely pace to the parking garage, got into the rental car and drove off.
Hours later, he scratched at his right temple, rubbed sleep from his eyes with the heels of his hands. He peered out through
stained curtains, momentary disbelief showing on his face at the arrival of a misty dawn.
Too many hours ago, he had checked in with Glen. He used the pay phone down the street and while he mostly used codes, he
was still very careful about what he said. Glen’s office phone was subject to monitoring at any time, and Glen could only
ensure that outside parties weren’t listening in.
Glen was careful too, his, “Are you off to Orlando tomorrow?” wasn’t even in the book, but Scott understood what Glen meant
just the same—what’s the next move? Scott’s next move was Jessica Wellmen. He wanted to drive out to Boca Raton right then,
but Glen told him to check hotel registers first.
The registers had been a waste of time.
For hours since, Scott walked in circles around the cramped motel room. Telling himself there was no way the attaché case
had been empty when Whuthers entered the financial center. No way.
There had to have been a switch, a switch in the elevator, a switch he hadn’t seen. So many people coming and going, and he
hadn’t watched the case. Stupidity, there was no other explanation, not lost youth, not the booze—he quit the booze—plain
and pure stupidity, nothing else.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the flashing neon sign of the liquor store down the street. Any other time he would have
wondered if it was still open, but not now, now he thought of Cynthia and her stupid sticky notes. Cynthia and the baby, who
he must forget if he was ever going to get his head screwed on straight and think only about what he was supposed to be thinking
about. He knew what he had to do. He took her picture out of his wallet and set it on the nightstand, intent on leaving it
there.
He wanted to call her, and before he knew it, the dial tone was in his ear. But even his subconscious knew better than to
place the call. He stuffed the picture into the trash, got out the Rand McNally road map of the state of Florida, and memorized
the main streets of Boca Raton. The way he figured it, he could catch a catnap, check out, and be in Boca Raton before 10
a.m.
What a grand way to spend New Year’s Day.
Chapter 5
Boca Raton, Florida Sunday,
2 January
The wind shifted. The tiny sign over the door creaked. Scott turned up the collar
Similar Books
