The soundtrack of a television show had covered his footsteps as he’d climbed the curved staircase. The second floor had bedrooms along both sides of a long hallway, but Diego soon discovered the one that belonged to the master of the house. The gray pinstripe suit that Wallace had worn to the bank that day had been slung over the back of an easy chair. His dress shoes were in the center of the floor, his necktie lying on the foot of his giant bed.
Diego had made himself at home inside the walk-in closet. A long hour and a half had elapsed before Wallace came upstairs.
From inside the closet Diego had heard the chirps of the security system as Wallace punched in the code numbers to set it for the night. Which posed a problem, of course. It meant that Diego couldn’t get out of the house without tripping the alarm. But he’d decided not to worry about that until the time came. First he’d had to figure out how to overpower a man who was twice his size.
Wallace had obliged him. As soon as he’d entered the bedroom, he’d headed for the adjacent bathroom and unzipped. He’d used both hands to aim.
Diego had come up behind him, placed one hand on his forehead and jerked it back at the same time he pressed his razor to the banker’s exposed throat. Wallace had cried out, not so much in fear as from shock. Reflexively he’d reached behind him with both hands and tried to twist around to ward off his attacker. Pee had sprayed the wall behind the commode.
Diego had sliced the back of his hand to show him he meant business. “You fight me, I’ll slit your throat.”
Wallace stopped struggling. Breathing heavily, he asked, “Who are you? What do you want? Money? Credit cards? Take them. I haven’t seen you. I can’t identify you. So just take what you want and get out.”
“I want your bitch.”
“What?”
“Your bitch. Tori. Where is she?”
Wallace had been taken aback by that. Diego could practically feel the thoughts racing through the banker’s head as he’d held it secure against his chest.
“Sh… she’s not here.”
“I know that, jerk face. Why do you think I’ve got a razor to your throat? I want to know where she is.”
“Why?”
Diego’s hand had moved like lightning and cut an inch-long slice into Wallace’s cheek.
“Jesus!”
“Oh, I’m sorry. Did that hurt?” He’d thrust his knee into the back of Wallace’s, causing it to buckle, but it didn’t completely give way. The man was heavy and it was getting harder to hold him. “Get down on your knees.”
“Why? I’m cooperating here. I’m not fighting you.”
“Down on your knees,” Diego had said, straining the words through his teeth.
Wallace had complied. Diego liked this angle better. It afforded him more flexibility and options. It was also the position of a beggar, which worked to Diego’s advantage.
“Tell me where Tori is.”
“I don’t know. I haven’t seen or heard from her today.”
Diego flicked the razor and the bottom half of Wallace’s earlobe dropped onto his shoulder. Again, he’d cried out.
“It’s the whole ear next time. And then Tori won’t want you no more, you fat turd. Or any other snatch for that matter, because you’ll look like a freak. Where is Tori?”
The ear trick usually worked. Typically that was the last thing to go before they told Diego what he needed to know, and then he would end it with one deep cut across their throat. He’d had one man hold out until both ears and his nose were gone, but he’d been exceptionally ballsy.
Diego hoped the banker wouldn’t take that long. He didn’t like being inside this house. It occurred to him that Wallace might have activated a silent alarm, some kind of panic button that alerted police to an intruder and duress. He didn’t think so, but he hadn’t lived this long by being careless.
So now, after five minutes of this song and dance, he was ready to be done with Wallace and to say adios to The Bookkeeper forever. “One more time. That’s all I’m giving you, just because I’m a nice guy. Where is Tori?”
“I swear to you that I don’t know,” Wallace said. “I had one short text from her early this morning, saying she had to leave town on short notice.”
“Going where?”
“She didn’t say.”