She washed her hair before the hot water ran out, never knowing when she might have the chance again, using the laurel conditioner Jericho said he liked. She turned off the shower and stood dripping in the tub for a long moment, thinking about Jericho and wondering how he was. Wrapping a towel around her head like a turban, she spread another towel along the edge of the tub and sat on it, still soaking wet. She took her time shaving her legs — another task she might normally put off for a week or more since Jericho was out of town — and hummed “Drume Negrita” — “Sleep My Little Black Baby” — a Cuban song her mother used to sing to her at bedtime.
The handprint on the mirror didn’t catch Ronnie’s eye until she was standing at the sink brushing her teeth. Spitting, she glanced up, thinking at first that she had to be imagining things. Out of instinct, she forced herself not to stare directly at the thing, instead scrubbing her teeth as if she wanted to start a fire by friction.
High in the right corner of her bathroom mirror, not far from the ceiling, the perfect imprint of a man’s palm stood out clearly against the condensation from her hot shower. Jericho had sometimes left little notes for her with his fingertip on the glass so the words would show up in the steam — but as far as she knew, he’d never climbed up on her counter. Whoever had left this handprint had likely caught himself while accessing the air vent above the medicine cabinet on the wall adjacent to the vanity.
Fighting the urge to throw on a robe — which would broadcast the fact that she knew she was being watched — Ronnie replaced her toothbrush in the holder beside the sink and reached for a tube of face cream from the cabinet. Piles of laundry and dirty dishes testified to the fact that she was a horrible housekeeper, but even that didn’t explain the tiny chips of paint on the counter. They had to have been knocked loose when someone had reattached the vent to the ceiling.
In general, Garcia was not a prudish sort of girl. She was perfectly content with her body and had never been uncomfortable on a clothing-optional beach. CIA operatives had to go through several iterations of training designed to snuff out as much of the natural embarrassment reflex as possible. Long surveillances often called for the use of a soda cup urinal while another agent sat just a few feet away. There was nothing quite as embarrassing as strip-searching a fellow classmate to look for contraband, and ordering them to lift and separate the various folds and crevices of the human body. But all that said, the thought of some sleazebag peering at her through a hidden camera in her own bathroom added a whole new level to the term “creepy.”
She did her best to ignore the air vent, taking the towel off her head and wrapping it around her torso, tucking it under her armpit. Agent Walter had likely sent in a black bag team while she was away on her run. They wouldn’t know that her normal routine was to walk around naked until she was completely dry, so covering herself now with the towel wouldn’t raise any alarms. Ronnie seethed inside at the thought that these pervs had actually put a camera in her bathroom. There was not a lot of useful intelligence to be gained from watching someone shave her legs and pee.
It took just a moment for the shock of finding the camera to wear off and Ronnie’s sense of self-preservation to kick in. Fighting the urge to flip the bird at the vent, she decided to use the camera to her advantage. She let the towel fall to the floor, thinking, “Get a load of them apples, you sick bastards.”
She spent the next five minutes standing in front of the mirror and putting on makeup as if to go out for a night on the town. She went so far as to hike up one foot at a time, resting it on the vanity counter so she could touch up the paint on her toenails. That would give them the show they were looking for. The more radical hormones they had flowing through their brains, the less likely they would be thinking straight when she did what she planned to do next.
Chapter 28
A block away from Ronnie Garcia’s house, backed into the driveway of a vacant house, IDTF agent Gene Lindale hit the button on the driver’s seat of his forest green Ford Expedition to lay it back as far as it would go. He shot a glance at his partner, a bruiser named Kevin Maloney.
“This ain’t bad duty,” Lindale said, peering at the open laptop computer on the console between them.
“This is dope!” Maloney grinned. “I hope we get to arrest her ass before this is over.”
“Yeah,” Lindale said. “I could give that a thorough pat down…”
Before being tapped for work in the Internal Defense Task Force, both men had been agents for Homeland Security. Both their files had noted severe Giglio issues. That is, they were both known to be liars. In Giglio v. the United States, the Supreme Court had decided that defense counsels and juries in any trial where such liars testified had to be made aware of that fact. Such a record made it virtually impossible for a federal law enforcement agent to do his or her job. When they’d come aboard, the supervising agent, a guy named Walter, had told them not to worry about it. He didn’t expect them to spend much time on a witness stand.
“Looks like she’s going out for a drink or something,” Lindale said, rubbing his eyes. The dim light from the computer screen gave the men’s faces an eerie, otherworldly glow in the darkness of the vehicle. Dark tint on the side windows made them invisible to nosey neighbors.
“Look at that,” Maloney said, leaning forward so he could get a better look. “She carries that little pistol in a holster that hangs from her bra. I’ve heard about those.”
“I’ll make a note of that,” Lindale chuckled. “Don’t want to get my fingers shot…” His voice trailed off. “What the hell is she doing?”
The men watched as Ronnie Garcia walked to her kitchen wearing only jeans, a black sports bra, and a pistol. She knelt in front of her oven, screwdriver in hand, and opened the oven door to remove both metal racks so she could lean inside.
“You think she’s going to gas herself?” Lindale mused.
“It’s an electric oven, dipshit,” Maloney said. “So I’m thinking no.”
A moment later, Garcia backed out of the oven and set a metal plate on the linoleum beside her. She went in again and, after a moment wrestling with something at the back of the oven, brought out a desert tan duffel bag.
“You need to put the panel back on, sweetheart,” Lindale said to the computer screen.
“You just want to see her bend over one more time.” Maloney rubbed his eyes again. “How do you suppose that bag keeps from burning up in there?”
Lindale scoffed. “Does this bitch really look like a Suzy Homemaker to you? Even if that plate isn’t some sort of heat shield, I’m betting she doesn’t do a hell of a lot of baking—”
“I’ve lost her,” Maloney said a few moments later. He moved the computer mouse so he could click through a screen menu. “Did we put cameras in the garage?”
The garage door rumbled open in answer to his question, throwing a shaft of light onto her driveway. Garcia’s black Impala backed out a moment later. She turned west, thankfully moving away from the green Ford.
Maloney punched a speed dial number in his cell phone. “Mr. Walters… Sorry, I mean Walter,” he said when the other end picked up. “You wanted us to tell you if she moved.”
Chapter 29
Ronnie took a meandering route through the neighborhood to make the guys following her earn their money. If they knew her at all, they’d know it was a normal habit for her to throw in an alternate route or two when she went anywhere. If she didn’t, they might smell a trap. She headed south on I-270 meandering back and forth across all six lanes, again making the guys in the green SUV behind her work for their pay. Slowing at every exit, she kept them guessing as she scanned the businesses along the service roads, looking for the specifics she would need for her plan to work.