I close the grating to the elevator just as a flash of lightning illuminates my cold loft.
I hold my breath on the way down.
2
Target
McKenna
Colony Park Cafe is central in downtown Seattle. Situated up the hill from Pike Place, it’s far enough away from the tourist flurry of the marketplace, but located in a prominent enough area that I imagine most of the city walks by at least once a week.
That’s why I chose it as my base.
I come here every morning and every evening. Twice a day—twice as many chances to spot him.
I don’t actually drink this much coffee, despite what most think about locals. This afternoon I’ve traded in my regular for a green tea. I sip it slowly as I watch the after work crowd scurry along the street on their way home.
How many times has he passed me?
Every man above six feet tall sends my heart racing. The sight of a black hoodie strangles my lungs. I get that flutter in my chest…it’s him…and then disappointment coats my stomach like oily film when I search the eyes.
There are at least five men in this city who I’ve stopped in the street that think I’m bat-shit crazy.
The constant surge of adrenaline is exhausting. I imagine it helps me sleep at night, though. Without the nervous system crash, I would never rest. I’d only ever see his piercing blue eyes through the storm.
I look down at my hand, flex it to stop the tremor. The weight of my gun in my shoulder harness bears down on me, a morbid taunt.
I had one chance to pull the trigger…and I froze.
Pulling a quick breath in to fill my aching lungs, I roll my shoulders and ease back against the metal chair. The air is abuzz with the pending rainstorm. I can taste it in the atmosphere, the charge. With every hovering rain-swollen cloud comes the memory of that night.
I’m close.
I’ll find him.
Admittedly, as a detective, staking out a coffee shop isn’t the best way to search for a suspect. But I’ve beat to death all other resources. While I was still a detective, that is. Those resources run a little dry outside of the precinct. I maintain a number of connections, but when those people think you’re cracked…
Yeah. So this is what I have. My one-woman PI firm, and a base that I obsessively state out twice a day, waiting for him to walk by.
But now I have Milton Myer’s wife as a client. That changes the game. I have a piece of the puzzle. It’s the first glimmer of hope I’ve had in a very long time, and I cling to it.
At closing, I toss my cup in the trash and head across the street toward my car, my boots clomping through rain puddles. I have a job to do. According to Jennifer, Milton might want to see his mistress—but I know better.
I unlock my car and settle behind the wheel, inhale a steadying breath. I take the long way toward Milton’s office building, adrenaline coursing my veins.
Let’s see what my target is up to tonight.
Most cheaters have at least one thing in common. They’re unoriginal. Honestly, even with the abundance of information online on how to evade being caught, they typically make the same mistakes. It’s human nature to believe you’re of above intelligence, especially for a self-made business man like Myer.
At around 11:00 p.m., I’m parked across the street from Myer Keystone Enterprise, Nikon camera lens trained on the floor-to-ceiling windows of Myer’s office on the fourth floor.
Men are lazy when it comes to cheating. They work within their immediate environment. Most settle on the hot young secretary. It’s a cliché for
a reason; it’s convenient.
Milton Myer isn’t alone in his office, but he’s not entertaining his secretary, either. I zoom in the lens, trying to get a clear view through the tinted office window. Another man around Myer’s age stands adjacent to him, hands balled into fists at his side. His countenance appears hostile.
I capture a picture.