RICHARD Truitt stared in the mirror in his hotel room on Avenida de Almeida Ribeiro, then adjusted his tie. Reaching into his shaving kit, he removed a round container and opened it up. Touching his fingertip to the colored contact lens, he placed it over an eye and blinked it into place. After placing the second lens, he stood back and examined the result.
Truitt was pleased and he smiled.
Then he reached into another bag and removed a dental appliance and slid it over his top row of teeth. Now he had a slightly bucktoothed look. Removing a pair of tortoiseshell glasses from the bag, he placed them over his ears and adjusted them on the bridge of his nose. If it was geek he was seeking, he’d hit the mother lode. All that remained was to grease down his hair and sprinkle a little false dandruff on the collar of his tweed jacket. Perfect.
Walking into the living room of the suite, he removed a document from the out tray in his printer and gave it an examination. It was ornate and pompous in true British fashion. By royal appointment to the queen, said one line. Since 1834, said another. Truitt folded the document and slipped it into the inside pocket of his jacket. Then he turned off the computer and printer and packed it into its case. His bags were already packed and sitting by the door. He returned to the bathroom to gather up his things there, then walked back into the living room and slid them into a side pocket of one of the bags. Then he walked over to the telephone and dialed a number.
“On my way,” he said quietly.
“Good luck,” Cabrillo replied.
Now he just needed to make his way out of the room without being seen.
FOR the most part, Linda Ross was a good-natured and positive person.
That’s what made playing Iselda so much fun. Most people have a bitchy side—they just keep it suppressed. Since the report on Iselda claimed she suppressed the best and not the worst, Ross was playing the opportunity to the hilt. Riding down the elevator to the parking garage, she stepped over to the attendant’s window and frowned. The man raced from the enclosure to bring her car. As Ross waited, she tried to decide what Iselda would tip and decided it was probably nothing.
The attendant pulled up in a dirty Peugeot and opened the door. Ross slid into the driver’s seat and muttered “I’ll get you next time” to the attendant and slammed the door. The inside of the car smelled like a Wisconsin roadhouse at closing time. The carpet was littered with ashes and the ashtray was overflowing. The inside of the windows were covered with a film of nicotine.
“Here we go,” she whispered as she reached into the glove box and removed a pack of cigarettes and lit one up. Then she placed the Peugeot into drive and rolled out to the street. Ten minutes later she pulled in front of the mansion and passed her first test.
“Open the gate,” she shouted at the guard, who stared inside and, seeing it was her, pushed a button. “I’m late.”
Parking over to one side of the driveway, she climbed from the car and lit another cigarette.
“Dump my ashtray when you get a chance,” she said to a gardener who walked past.
The man ignored her and continued on. Walking to the front door, she rang the bell, then waited until the butler opened the door.
“Out of my way,” she said as she swept past and headed for where she remembered the kitchen to be from the blueprints she’d memorized. Bursting into the kitchen, she stared at the stove, then turned to one of the chefs Iselda had hired.
“Is that the bisque?” she asked.
“Yes, ma’am,” the Chinese chef answered.
Strutting over to the stove, she removed the lid and smelled. “Spoon, please.”
The chef handed her a spoon and she tasted the soup.
“Seems light on the lobster,” she said.
“I’ll add more,” the chef said.
“Good, good,” Ross said. “If Mr. Ho needs me, I’ll be out back. Let me know when you bake the first shrimp puffs—I want to sample them.”
“Very good,” the chef said as Ross headed through the rear door leading to the grounds.
As soon as she was spotted leaving the house, the caterer in charge of the libations walked toward her. He paused and stared.
“You look particularly lovely today, Miss Iselda,” he said.
“Flattery will get you zilch,” Ross said. “Do you have everything ready?”
“Except for that one thing we spoke about yesterday,” the caterer said.
Damn, Ross thought.
“What thing?” Ross said. “I can’t be expected to remember everything.”