“Wiser to spend some of that running-around-the-city time getting a new ID, a fake one.”
“You need to know how. And yeah, he could’ve found out how. Run it,” she told him.
Roarke sat on the opposite arm of the sofa, watching with her.
Less than twenty minutes after check-in, they spotted him again. Roarke slowed the feed.
“Same outfit as check-in. Just the briefcase. Bank time, get the cash before the bodies are discovered. He pulled that off,” she muttered.
She watched him come back through the lobby, a fat, smug smile on his face—time stamp 9:38.
“He hit the luck again,” she said. “Just frigging breezed through the banking, and now the briefcase is full of money and cashier’s checks.”
He all but strutted into the elevator, and was back again, strolling out—one suitcase—eleven minutes later.
“Just one suitcase. Gotta get rid of everything he can, maybe not the big tickets. He didn’t have a suitcase when he went into Ursa’s, but the smaller ones. Cash those checks before the bodies are discovered and his face and name hit the media. He’s still ahead of the game, by just enough. Speed it up again.”
He came back without the suitcase, but wearing a suit, and carrying a garment bag.
“Mission accomplished, and a little shopping, too. Can you—”
“I am,” Roarke said and anticipating her zoomed and magnified.
“On The Rack, for men,” she read on the side of the bag. “Do you know it?”
“No, but give us a moment and I will.”
“He’s moving fast,” Eve noted, “and look at his body language, his expression. He’s digging on the suit, likes how he feels in it.
“They have a location a block from the hotel, good location for the business crowd who needs a change quickly. Alterations done on site, and within the hour for an additional fee. They run from suits to casual wear, shoes, accessories, and so on.”
“We’ll pay them a visit.”
She watched, waited for the next appearance. “There. Timing wise, he must be heading out with the watches. Suit and briefcase, and Ursa looks and thinks, ‘A nice young man.’ Busy, busy. We’ll check with the day man on the door. Probably got a cab. Why not? He’s pretty damn flush.”
She got up to pace, eyes on the screen as Roarke ran it forward. “There again, out nearly three and a half hours this time. Lots to do. What are those bags?”
“Village Paint and Hardware, In Style, Running Man—that’s one of mine. Specializes in athletic shoes, clothing, accessories, for men again. The duffel might have come from there.”
“It fits. He’s a man now, he likes shopping in male-specific stores. Hardware. He could’ve bought the cord and tape there. We’ll check it out. What’s In Style?”
“Trendy clothing and accessories.”
“Okay.”
She sat again. He went out again, with the second suitcase. On his return, eighteen minutes later, he carried the duffel and wore the stylish new sunshades he had when exiting the cab near Nuccio’s.
“Got rid of the other suitcase. And I’m betting the bat’s in the new duffel. That and anything else he thought of on this trip. Productive day. And there,” she said when Roarke paused a final time. “Leaving with the duffel, done with the place. Catch a cab out front and it’s off to kill.”
She rose again and paced. “He had an agenda in place, a schedule, a to-do list. Maybe he varied it some—impulse buys, or he might’ve had to try a couple places before selling off the goods, but he stuck close to it. He had all that time with his dead parents and when he stayed at The Manor to work it out. Day hole, banks, cash checks, sell, shop, sell, shop—grab lunch somewhere maybe, sell, shop, pack up his new stuff. He stays with the suit for the kill. Wants her to see him all duded up. The suit makes him feel important, successful, rich. All the things he didn’t feel when she kicked him out.”
She pressed her fingers to her eyes again. “Hung out, had some fancy coffee, saw his chance, and took it. But where did he go after the kill? He had to have another hole dug. Did he buy hair and face crap to try to make himself look more like Golde in the expired ID? Is he going to chance using that again?”
“It would be foolish,” Roarke speculated. “He has enough money to make an ID, or, for now, to pay cash for lodging.”
“Yeah. Used the Golde idea at the second hotel because, most likely, he blew through the cash he’d dug up at his parents’. But he’s got plenty more now. Still … we’ll add Golde’s name to the alert, and EDD will check out the unit in the hotel, see if he used it after Nuccio. You need equipment, specific material to make an ID, and some skill to wiggle fake data into the system so it passes. Unless he got it on that last trip and stuffed it in the duffel, there’s no sign he has anything like that.”
“He has a schedule, an agenda,” Roarke repeated. “And he had the time to plan it. Any plan should include the ID. He could obtain a reasonably good one with the money he has, but a good one would cut into that considerably.”