The old guy had made it five yards when the door to the house opened again.
“Otto!” The woman looked about seventy. She was wearing a pink robe, and her long white hair was loose and disheveled. “You were leaving without saying goodbye?”
“You’re awake?” The guy dropped his bag and hurried back up the path. “My love, I was trying not to disturb you! How’s your head? Are you feeling better?”
The old couple embraced. Praying they’d take their time, I scuttled back to the pool. Found the pipe. Ran my fingers along its ridged surface until I found the connector. Poked and squeezed and wrestled until it came loose. Then I grabbed the vacuum—a cutesy thing that looked like a whale, about eighteen inches across. I crawled to the opposite corner. And flung the machine as hard as I could.
“Help!” I yelled, a second after it hit the surface of the water. “My daughter! She’s fallen in the pond! She can’t swim! Neither can I! Please! Somebody! Help!”
The old man didn’t hesitate. He ran forward, and his wife followed. I went the opposite way, keeping the pool between us for as long as I could, then making a break for the end of the fence.
I picked up the guy’s bag and ran down the path, shrugging off my jacket and turning it inside out as I went. Bloodstains are too easy to recognize. But that thought prompted another. What if the guy had a regular driver, who knew what he looked like? Or what if it was a friend of his, coming to collect him?
Either way, I’d be finished.
Wednesday. Evening.
THE CHAUFFEUR’S FACE REGISTERED SURPRISE AS I STEPPED THROUGH the gate. But he headed for the Town Car’s trunk, nonetheless.
“Don’t worry about that.” I went straight to the rear door. “I’ll keep the bag with me.”
“Sure, sir.” He opened the door for me, but didn’t close it after I was settled.
“What are we waiting for?”
“The job sheet said two people, Mr. Schmidt. You and your wife. Going to the Grand Hyatt. Above Grand Central Station. Is that not right?”
“Oh. Well, it was. But my wife? She’s sick. She had to drop out. It’s a last-minute thing. And I’m actually in kind of a hurry now. There’s a couple of people I want to catch up with before they spend too long at the hotel bar, so the sooner you get me there, the happier I’ll be.”
“Understood, sir.”
THE LINCOLN WASN’T THE KIND of car you’d pick to race around those narrow, curving lanes, but the chauffeur still seemed excessively cautious.
“You heard me when I said I was in a hurry, right?”
“Sorry, sir. Can’t risk it. Too many police around here tonight.”
“Police? Why?”
“They’re looking for someone. Homeland Security’s involved, apparently …”
“How do you know?”
“I got stopped on the way here. They only let me through because I was picking up two people, and the job was booked a fortnight ago.”
“Where—”
The blue and red pulsing light that appeared around the next bend answered the question for him. I was heading straight into a trap, but I couldn’t tell the chauffeur to turn around. It would be like screaming, I’m the one they want. And we were only seconds away from the roadblock. There wasn’t much time to think.
I pushed my incriminating jacket down onto the floor, then unzipped the suit carrier. There was a tuxedo in the main compartment, along with a fancy shirt and a paisley bow tie. A pair of patent leather shoes was in the outer pocket. And a pair of silk pajamas in a narrow, central section. But there was no ID. No formal invitation. Not much to work with. And without my phone—I cursed Peever for confiscating it—I couldn’t Google to see what events were being held at the Grand Hyatt that week.
The officer stepped away from his car when we were still twenty feet away. He signaled with his flashlight and the chauffeur touched the brake, winding down his window as we coasted to a halt.
“You told me two people.” The officer flashed his flashlight at me, alone on the backseat.
“I was booked for two.” The chauffeur’s shoulders rose a little in a muted shrug, but his hands stayed prudently on the wheel. “His wife’s sick, he said.”
The officer reached back and pulled open my door.
“Step out of the car, please, sir.”
I complied, willing my legs not to shake.
“Your name?”
“Otto Schmidt.”
“And where’s your wife, Mr. Schmidt? Why isn’t she with you?”
“She has a migraine.” First I had to account for the absence of my real wife. Now, for someone else’s I was pretending to be mine. The irony was killing me. “She stayed home.”
“Let me see your ID.”
“You know, Officer, I don’t have my wallet. I’m not driving, so I didn’t think I’d need my license. Everything’s pre-paid at the hotel. Except for the silent auction. It’s for charity, and I’ve learned from experience, the only way to avoid leaving a few thousand dollars lighter is not to bring any money with you.”
“Really?” The officer didn’t join in my forced laugh. “What’s your home address, Mr. Schmidt?”
“This is my street.” I gestured to my left. “Mine’s the first house you come to, that way.”
“And your phone number? Let’s call your wife. See if she confirms your story.”
“I’d rather not disturb her, actually, Officer. Her migraine was wicked bad. Why not call the car service, if you have any doubts? My secretary made the booking, what, a couple of weeks ago.”
“Sir, please turn around and place your hands on the car.”
“Officer, please. Is that really—”
“Hands on the car. Now.”
I turned and leaned, and the officer jabbed my ankles with his foot to force my legs farther apart. He didn’t say a word as he patted me down, starting low and working his way up to the collar of my shirt. Then I heard something metallic jangle behind me.
The officer took hold of my right wrist and pulled it down behind my back. This was it. My escape had failed. I felt numb. Then his radio squawked. He stepped away to talk, but after a minute moved back and tapped me between the shoulder blades.
“Sorry, sir. You can put your hands down now. Your wife is at home, like you said. She just called 911 and reported an intruder in your yard. You’re welcome to follow me over there, but stay in the car until I give you the green light to get out, OK?”
I sank back into my seat, and the chauffeur started to turn the unwieldy Town Car around.
“What are you doing?”
“Going back to your house. Like the officer said. To make sure your wife’s all right.”
“Forget about it. You know the boy who cried wolf? It should have been the wife who called the police. This is the fourth time since Memorial Day. We’ll probably get billed for it. Seriously, don’t worry. Just keep going.”
WITH THE POLICE BEHIND US, the chauffeur’s right foot became a little heavier. I pictured the cop, racing in the opposite direction. Reaching the Schmidt home. Finding the old woman’s husband still there. And then what? Jumping back in his patrol car, and trying to catch us? Radioing ahead, to have more cops lying in wait at the Grand Hyatt? Or would they intercept us on the way to the city? And what about the car company? Could they contact the chauffeur, and have him divert somewhere to hand me over?
I wriggled forward in my seat and surveyed the front of the Town Car. It wasn’t like a cab—there wasn’t a radio or a screen to indicate the next pickup—but the chauffeur must have had a phone. Where would he keep it? Not in his pocket, please! I moved a little farther, and breathed a silent sigh when I spotted it lying facedown on the passenger seat.