Danny flopped back on a kitchen chair and wiped sweat from his forehead. Goddamn, if Travis hadn’t popped in he’d have packed a bag, tossed it in the truck and headed out to drive day and night cross-country. Scratch that.
He tried to remember. Stories he’d done about the airlines. He recalled they were stingy with their flight information. He’d have to present a driver’s license to board a plane.
But his name in a Northwest computer would not be shared with the U.S. government short of a subpoena being issued.
He pulled the atlas out again. He wasn’t sure how far his
“danger zone” extended in a radius around the Twin Cities.
But then he slammed the manual shut. Screw it. Take risks.
Fly right in under their noses. To Minneapolis-St. Paul. Cab to Ida’s. Take her car up north. Yeah.
The Money.
Traveling on the airlines was out. A constant stream of drug couriers moved through airports. Airports used random luggage checks by dogs trained to sniff out cash. They’d spot it going through the X-ray machine.
Danny paced the kitchen, ducked under a loop of electrical conduit.
Mail it.
Why not. Again. Right under their noses. Another old story came to mind. Postal inspectors reacted to problems; they dealt with too much volume to scrutinize every package.
Better yet, send it commercial carrier. As long as it didn’t look overtly suspicious, it would go straight through.
Overnight express, from Duluth. Bundle it up good enough to disguise it. Take it to a Wrap and Ship. Let them do a professional box job. Tell them it’s books.
These things decided, Danny leafed through the local phone book for airline numbers. He’d have to pay for the ticket in cash, couldn’t use the marshals’ VISA card. And Travis’s procedure probably called for auditing the checking account.
Time to take some high-stake risks.
61
Danny, on approach to Minneapolis-St. Paul International, heard the pilot put the ground temperature at thirty-one degrees, with softly blowing snow. He deplaned, moved through the familiar airport, went to the men’s room, used the toilet, then washed his hands, dried them with a paper towel and studied his appearance in the full-length mirror on the wall. Unafraid of winter, he wore a new, reddish leather bomber jacket and a black T-shirt. Hair combed back.
Shoulders squared. Could be Colin Firth stalking out of the movie theater in Apartment Zero. New short haircut, contacts, his tan and, modestly, his new muscles-he could probably walk through the St. Paul newsroom and no one would recognize him.
Not walk. Stalk, baby, stalk.
He turned sideways and thumped his gut.
Abs still needed work.
Soon he wouldn’t have to suck it in. Soon it would be like a washboard. More crunches.
“Let’s go get paid, Danny,” he said, grinning at the mirror.
His light carry-on bag contained a change of underwear, a sweater, a toothbrush, toothpaste and a pair of latex gloves he’d bought at a sporting goods store in San Jose.
He had a little under twenty-four hours until the return flight to San Francisco tomorrow at 4:15.
Off the concourse, he stopped at a store fussed up with Minnesota bric-a-brac and bought a black wool ski mask, a pair of warm gloves and a pair of Snow Pac boots. Too cold in those woods for his California tennis shoes.
He inspected a stout canvas carry bag. Loon decal. Hefted it, felt inside. Should be big enough to hold the stuff. He bought two.
Local time was 4:30 P.M. On a Tuesday. She’d be home at six. Came home after work during the week like clockwork.
Catch her in the shower, like Psycho.
Outside. Now for a cab. He gave the cabbie a street intersection for a destination. Cleveland and St. Clair. Close.
Walking distance. He settled back in the seat. His main worry was that her car could be in the shop.
Nah, she scrupulously kept up the maintenance on the Accord.
The main problem was-and he’d wrestled with this the whole flight from California-just what was he going to do with her. His thoughts yelled back and forth like the cohosts on Crossfire.
In one scenario he became her protector and patron, generously forgiving her betrayals, flying her off to a new life, and a lot of expensive cosmetic surgery, in northern California. That pact got sealed with great sex.
The other method was less charitable. The pistol came out of the drawer of her bed table and Bang. End of story.
But the gun would make noise. He needed another way of dealing with her.
His mind still balked at the word kill. At intrusive techniques that broke the skin and let stuff leak out.
Overpower her. Use a garbage bag and duct tape. Wrap her head. No mess to get on him. Wear the rubber gloves.
The hard part would be talking to her. And not touching her. No sex, he told himself. NO SEX. Christ, that was a hardship after almost two months. But it couldn’t happen.
Fluids, fibers, body hair. Too risky.
Get the draft of the story in her desk.
Never take the gloves off.
Could propose to her.
Or kill her.
The Rainbow Cab lunged through the snowy night as Danny gave Ida her life, took it back, gave it over again.
Either way, around midnight, he had to be on the road to Lutsen. It would take four hours to get to the money pit.
Another hours to dig it up. Get back to Duluth in the morning. Pack the money, then take it to a Wrap and Ship, have them repack it. If they asked, say it’s books. They wouldn’t ask.
Here he paused.
Four, five in the morning, when he came out of the woods.
Broker would only be a few miles up the road. Sleeping.
No. He had to be absolutely disciplined on this point. But God, it would be nice to be rid of the man. And his brat.
Back to his schedule. The other reason not to dally up on the North Shore was because there was only one road in and out. Highway 61.
He leaned back and fantasized about her fragrant hair, slightly sweaty, tickling, spread on his bare thighs…
No. No. Think about the money. This was about the money. She had to go. Bury the money in his small oak woods-except for a few packets that he’d take to Reno-to celebrate.
This time next week he’d be taking a break from sanding the floors, having a cool Coors and looking forward to his first trip to Las Vegas.
So. Stick to the schedule. No detours. And drive the speed limit. A routine traffic stop would sink him.
His eyes had become accustomed to foggy nuances of green growing things. And rain. The snow-swept outskirts of the Twin Cities looked foreign. Unfriendly. A billboard whisked by. “AT LEAST YOU CAN STILL SMOKE IN YOUR CAR.”
WINSTONS. Danny laughed.
He felt like a visiting ghost. Thought of Ruby, the neighbor, her gifts of bread, wine and salt. Uh-uh. None of that shit.
Focus on Ida. She would clean her desk, put on her coat and take the elevator down to the second floor, where she would get off, enter the skyway system and walk a short few hundred yards to the drafty, creepy Victory Ramp where she parked.
When she entered the dark ramp she would slip her right hand in her purse and clutch the can of mace in her coat pocket. Unless she was packing “Roscoe.” In her other hand she would hold her keys so the longest one protruded between her knuckles, as she’d learned in a self-defense class.
She would approach her car from the rear and check the backseat. Then she would check the surrounding area, the shadows, the contours of the other cars. Only when she was satisfied there was no threat would she release the Mace and open the car door.