"Nothing else," George said.
"You sure?"
George cleared his throat. Dr. Bruce Grey had made the job painfully easy. His checking into a high-rise hotel had been a blessing for George; it gave him the license to use whatever means he wished to illicit pain and solicit the suicide note. Any physical trauma inflicted on Dr. Grey would be hidden in the splattered mess on the pavement.
"I'm sure," George said.
"And in the future, don't make me repeat myself. It's a waste of time."
"I'm sorry." "You said something about another job?"
"Yes," the voice said.
"I want you to eliminate another... person."
"I'm listening."
"Is someone else with you?"
"No."
"I hear voices." "It's the television," George explained.
"Newsflash is about to go on. Sara Lowell's debut."
The voice on the phone sounded startled.
"Why... why did you say that?" A strange reaction, George thought.
"You asked about the voices," he replied.
"Oh, right." The voice tried to steady itself, but the strain was unmistakable.
"I want you to eliminate someone else."
"When?"
"Tonight."
"This is very short notice. It will cost you."
"Don't worry about that."
"Tine," George said.
"Where?"
"At Dr. John Lowell's house. He's having a large charity formal tonight."
George almost laughed out loud. His eyes swerved back toward the television. Dr. Lowell. Former surgeon general. Sara Lowell's father. That explained the bizarre reaction. He wondered if Sara would be at the party.
"The same method as the first two?" George asked.
"Yes."
George took his stiletto out of his pocket, snapped it open, and examined the long, sleek blade. It would be messy, no question about that. He considered his wardrobe and settled on the green Ralph Lauren polo shirt he had picked up in Chicago.
It was a little too tight around the shoulders anyway.
2.
Don't be nervous. Don't be nervous. Don't be nervous... "Five seconds."
The announcement tightened Sara's stomach. For a fleeting moment she almost started singing again. She forced her mouth to close, adjusted her spectacles, and waited.
I'm going to do fine. I'm going to kick some ass. I'm going to...
"Four, three, two..." The hand pointed toward the two people sitting at the desk.
"Good evening, I'm Donald Parker."
Please don't sing..."And I'm Sara Lowell. Welcome to News Flash
Dr. John Lowell's estate in the Hamptons was enormous. The Tudor mansion sat majestically atop ten handsomely landscaped acres. There was a grass tennis court as well as an indoor and outdoor swimming pool, three Jacuzzis, two hot tubs, a spacious cabana, a helicopter landing pad, and more rooms than Lowell knew what to do with. The house had been his grandfather's, a capitalist who had, according to liberal textbooks, raped and pillaged the land and its people for profits. John's father, however, chose to bypass the family business and become a surgeon. John had followed suit. He made a good living, though practicing medicine was not nearly as profitable as raping and pillaging.
In a few hours, the east wing would be packed to capacity with some of the wealthiest people in the world, all of whom had donated thousands to the Erin Lowell Cancer Center for the right to attend. John would have to smile a lot and be solicitous.
He hated doing that. During his controversial tenure as surgeon general in the early eighties, John Lowell had never learned much about diplomacy or political subtlety. He crusaded zealously to crush cancer, bulldozing whatever and whomever stood in his way. He declared war on cigarette smokers, claiming in an angry remark on national television, "Cigarettes are murder weapons, plain and simple. I feel no pity for smokers who give themselves lung cancer.
They don't care if they make other people sick with secondhand smoke or even if they give their own children a deadly disease. It boggles the mind how we put up with people who are so selfish and destructive."
The remark sent shock waves throughout the country. The tobacco industry lobbied to have John Lowell removed from office.
They failed, but not from lack of trying. Battle lines had been drawn on that day, and even though John was no longer surgeon general, he continued to fight.
"Hi, Dad."
John Lowell spun toward his elder daughter, Cassandra. She was wearing a bathrobe and sandals.
"Cassandra, where are you going?"
"Just taking a quick dip in the pool," she replied.
"But your sister is going to be on in a few minutes. All the house guests are coming inside to watch."
Cassandra's eyes clouded over, but John did not appear to notice.
"I'll only be a moment."
"You should come in with the rest of us and watch Sara."
Once again he failed to acknowledge the defiant glare in his daughter's eyes.
"You're going to tape the show, right?" she asked.
"Right."
"So I'll be able to watch my sister over an dover again. Lucky me."
"Cassandra..."
She ignored her father and strode away. Sara. Ibr Cassandra's whole life her younger sister's name surrounded her like thousands of tiny birds.
"Sara is sick."
"We have to take Sara to the hospital."
"Don't play so rough with Sara." To her father, Cassandra was never as pretty, never as kind, never as ambitious, never as smart as Sara.
Her mother had been different. Erin Lowell had loved Cassandra just as much as prettier, kinder, more ambitious, more hard-working, smarter Sara. God, how she missed her mom. It had been more than a decade now, but still the pain was fresh, constant, and occasionally all-consuming.
The heat was stifling again today and many of the guests had escaped the humidity with a dip in the pool. Most were beginning to head into the house to watch wonderful Sara's debut on News Flash But seeing Cassandra striding toward the pool, several of the men froze.
Cassandra was tall and wild-eyed, with wavy dark hair and olive skin.
She differed so from Sara that no one would ever suspect that they were sisters. To put it simply, Cassandra was hot. Burning hot.
Dangerously hot. Where Sara's eyes could best be described as gentle ponds, Cassandra's smoldered like coals.
Cassandra arrived at the pool and kicked off her sandals. With a slight smile she slipped her robe down off her shoulders. It fell to the floor, revealing a sleek one-piece bathing suit that struggled to contain her voluptuous curves. She stepped onto the diving board, knowing that all eyes were following her, and sauntered to the front.
Then, stretching her arms over her head, Cassandra dove in, the cool water tingling her skin all over. She began to swim the length of the pool, her long torso reaching forward with each stroke, her well-toned legs kicking ever so slightly. Her body sliced through the water effortlessly, leaving barely a ripple.
"It's almost eight o'clock," a voice from the house called.
News Flash is about to start."
Once again the women began to move toward the house, but the men could not free themselves so easily from Cassandra's spell. Oh, they strove to look casual, silently sucking in their paunches or putting shirts over all-too-obvious flaws. They walked by her slowly, trying desperately to sneak one last peek.
Cassandra stepped out of the pool and slowly made her way toward a chaise lounge. She did not bother to dry herself.
Reaching into the pocket of her robe, she withdrew a pair of sunglasses, put them on, and lay back, crossing her legs.
Cassandra appeared to be resting quietly, but behind her sunglasses her eyes were very much on the move.
She spotted chubby Stephen Jenkins, the sixty-two-year-old former senator from Arkansas. Stephen Uncle Stevie, she and Sara called him was an old family friend. He and John Lowell had gone to Amherst together, their wives had hosted parties together, their children had gone to summer camp together. It was all very sweet and nice. And let's be frank here having sex with the conservative minority leader of the United States Senate had been something of a challenge for thirty-something Cassandra. A sexual thrill, however, it was not.