Fool Me Twice (Riley Wolfe 2)

More important at the moment was the job itself. It was much riskier this way, being notified by phone. It could even mean that somebody was setting her up, sending her to the PO box so they could tail her, and either get a warrant for the contents or catch her with something incriminating planted in the box. It was a large risk to attempt a pickup after an unsecured call. Would it be worth it?

She thought about this client. He paid well and promptly. Beyond that, he had a vast network of connections in the world that her clients came from. If she made him mad, he could poison her name with all those people. More, if he was angry enough, he could easily have her killed—especially since he had shown her that he knew how to find her.

The smart thing was to pick up the “letter.” At least that. Once she knew what the job was, she could make a decision.

That settled, Betty headed for her PO box. She always assumed she was under surveillance—this time even more so. She worked the shady side of the street, and there were plenty of organizations and individuals who would be very interested in what she did. It wasn’t important if it was someone from law enforcement or from the darker side. She knew too much, and that made her a target. If anybody broke her cover, it didn’t matter if they wore a white hat or a black hat, she was out of business—and possibly dead.

Betty had to assume the call had been monitored and that somebody would be watching to see what she did. When she left her apartment she behaved as if surveillance was a certainty. She walked across town to East 68th and went down the stairs to the subway platform. It wasn’t very busy at this time of day, and nobody seemed interested in one doughy middle-aged woman wearing cheap clothing and sensible shoes. She took the train downtown and changed to another. She repeated this several times, changing trains and watching without seeming to do so.

A few hours later, Betty finally came up at Grand Central Terminal. She went to the dining concourse, sat on a bench, and looked “casually” all around. She meant it to look fake, like somebody who wanted to be sure they were not observed without looking suspicious. Then she reached under the bench and pulled out a manila envelope taped to the underside. If she was watched, they might grab her now and open the manila envelope. They would find three brochures for the Hard Rock Cafe, nothing else.

But nobody approached her. Betty stuffed the envelope into her purse and hurried out of the station.

Betty took a bus downtown, got out at Washington Square Park. She went through the arch and sat on a bench. For fifteen minutes she just sat, watching the fountain, the children, the tourists. Then, acting “casually” again, she carefully eased the manila envelope out of her purse and slid it behind her, through the slatted seat back, and onto the ground. She glanced at her wristwatch, got to her feet, and walked back through the arch and away.

This was part of the act, too. What Betty had just performed was a perfect reproduction of a classic intelligence operation: the drop, a maneuver to pass information, undetected, to the next link in the chain. Anyone watching her would recognize the pattern. They would be distracted by the bench at Grand Central, the envelope, and the apparent drop. They would have to check out all those leads. If it was a team of watchers, she had just split them several ways. One to Grand Central, one or two to watch the envelope, see who picked it up. That would leave fewer to follow her, which was important.

Especially because now Betty dropped all the acts. First, she went down to the subway and flipped the switch on a small box in her purse. This turned on an electronic field that would surround her, out to a distance of fifty feet, and blank out electronic surveillance—even if someone had somehow planted a tracking chip on her purse or her person. Then she went back up to the street and slipped into a boutique. A minute later she was out the back door and into the alley.

For the next forty-five minutes, Betty went into stores and out the back, onto subway cars and off again, into large crowds, through the Metropolitan Museum of Art—she used all the tradecraft she had until she was quite certain she had lost any possible surveillance, human or electronic. Only then did she take a train across the river to Newark.

Betty spent another hour in Newark being elusive, just to be safe. When she finally went to her PO box, she was as certain as she could be that no one had eyes on her. With her electronic suppressor still on, even any cameras the post office had would show only a distorted image, a cloud of fuzz. Betty quickly opened her box, retrieved the single letter-size envelope waiting there, and left.

It was late afternoon by the time Betty got back to her apartment. She sat in her easy chair and took off her shoes, wiggling her toes with relief. She’d done a lot of walking today and her feet hurt, even with her sensible shoes. She closed her eyes, breathing deeply and clearing her mind. Then she got up and poured a glass of Chardonnay from the box in the refrigerator. She took a gulp, sat back down, and opened the envelope she’d retrieved in Newark.

There was a single sheet of folded paper. Betty opened it up. There was nothing but a name, an address, and the words “standard plus portrait.” Under that was written, “24 hr return. Triple rates.”

Frowning, Betty shredded the note and burned the shreds. Two things stood out as unusual: “portrait” and “triple rates.” Not that it would be a problem. But no one ever wanted a photograph that might be used as a portrait. So it was odd—but the reasons were not any of her concern. If the client wanted a portrait, Betty would take a portrait. Difficult to do covertly, but she’d manage.

“Triple rates” was much more interesting. This was a good and steady client who paid well, and this job was extra important to the client. And Betty was going to need a little extra cash when this job was done. Because as soon as she finished, “Betty Dougherty” would vanish, the cell phone would go in the river, and the PO box in Newark would expire when the rent stopped coming.

If anyone knew this much about her, even a steady client like this one, Betty Dougherty would have to “die.” If she was fast enough, and smart, she could finish the job, disappear, and revive herself in one of the new identities she had prepared for a day like this one.

In the meantime, there was work to do. With a heartfelt sigh, Betty finished her wine and struggled back into her shoes.

* * *

—

Monique wasn’t really worried. It was true that Riley had said he’d be back in a week, and two and a half weeks had now passed with no sign of him. But when Riley was working, there were a million things that might happen to delay him. It was even possible that he had been caught. It wasn’t likely, and Monique didn’t really believe it had happened. It was far more likely that he had just hit some snag and needed more time. Maybe, she thought, he’d run into some woman worth spending a little time with. That seemed almost as unlikely, but the thought came to her, and Monique was not at all sure how she felt about that.

Either way, she told herself it didn’t really concern her. He was just a client, and maybe, sometimes, some weird kind of friend. Nothing more, no matter what he wanted to think, and no matter what the little voice in the back of her head whispered to her from time to time. It was business, pure and simple, and every now and then a few moments of friendship; casual talk, a few drinks, some laughs, just like you would have with any business acquaintance. Just that simple.

But of course it wasn’t simple at all. Monique had a long history with Riley. Most of it actually was business. But there had been one night when they were celebrating a spectacular success, and things had gone way beyond business—all the way into bed. It had been surprisingly good—for both of them, she was sure. And still, it had been a mistake. Even if it was a wonderful, memorable mistake that still made her shiver when she remembered.

But it was impossible, out of the question, ridiculous, even to think about repeating it. Riley was the most arrogant, conceited, self-centered man she’d ever met. She had to admit that some of the arrogance was justified. He really was the best in the world at what he did. Even so; if he ran into more than he could handle, it would probably be because he thought he was so freaking good nobody could touch him. And when they did—well, in a way it served him right.

But Monique wasn’t worried. Not really. Riley was the proverbial bad penny. He’d always come back. If he was late? No big deal.

Still, a small and nagging worry stayed with her. And the longer it nagged, the more irritating it was. Finally, Monique did what any sane Manhattan woman with money to burn would do under the circumstances. She went shopping.

For several hours, Monique drifted from one high-end boutique to another. Money was certainly not a problem. She had plenty—partly thanks to Riley and the work he’d brought her. More so because she was probably the best art forger in the world. Riley certainly thought so. He’d backed up that belief, too, getting some of her best work and paying her exorbitantly for it. A big chunk of the money in her offshore account came from him, and she knew she should be grateful. The problem was, Riley seemed to think so, too. And he had very definite ideas about how she ought to express her gratitude.

When that popped into her head, she found herself grinding her teeth in frustration. And as a result, she found herself buying a pair of handmade glove-leather boots that cost nearly as much as a new car.

Of course, the thoughts of Riley stayed with her, part worry and part something else Monique would rather not define. So she was very much lost in her own thoughts as she hurried along the crowded sidewalk carrying the new boots. So much so that she didn’t notice the woman who began carefully tailing her as she left Marina Rinaldi. The follower was very skillful, but it wouldn’t have mattered if she was a rank novice. Monique was from an upper-middle-class background. And art forgers don’t generally do a lot of fieldwork. Street skills were not in her armory.

Even if she had been more savvy, she still might not have noticed. The woman following her looked so ordinary, no New Yorker would see her even if they were looking right at her. And even if Monique had noticed her tracker, she would not have seen the camera the woman used. It was well hidden in a Louis Vuitton handbag, and at the end of the day, Monique still had no idea that she’d been followed and photographed during her entire shopping trip.