The Widow File (12 page)

Booker got Dani’s lock open in less than a minute. From the other apartments in the hallway he heard the sounds of televisions and stereos but, as expected, Dani’s apartment was silent. He shut the door carefully.

“Knock-knock. Anyone home?”

Nobody answered as he moved down the narrow hallway. He loved empty apartments. Even if he wasn’t tracking someone, he loved to riffle through a stranger’s life. It felt so intimate without any of the sticky realities of human interaction. The old woman had been disappointingly short on information about this Danielle Kathleen Britton of Flat Road, Oklahoma. Twenty-eight, single, short, quiet. What kind of bio was that? He’d figure little Dani out by himself.

Not too tidy, he thought, as he strolled into her kitchen. He liked that. Extreme tidiness bespoke a cheapness of character. He wouldn’t have been delighted to find piles of dog poop or a sink full of stinking dishes, but the trails of toast crumbs glued to the counter by intersecting coffee cup rings charmed him a little. He tried to picture Dani standing in the sunny room before work, hair mussed, coffee steaming as she buttered her toast. He peered into the sink. He grabbed the knife he knew he’d find there and gave the greasy end a kitten lick. Yep, butter. Real butter. He wondered if Dani was a morning person or if she stood there grumpy and thick with sleep. He imagined she would be cute grumpy.

The refrigerator yielded no surprises. Takeout containers, wilted celery, a half-finished bottle of wine and two beers. A glance into the cabinets
made him laugh. SpaghettiOs. Lots of them. He couldn’t resist. He grabbed a can, pulled off the pop top, and opened a drawer he knew would have spoons. He didn’t even need to look; they were right where his fingers landed. He shoveled a spoonful of the salty-sweet pasta into his mouth just like he used to when he was a boy. They tasted better now, better in Dani’s apartment, better off of her spoon.

He stood in the middle of the living room. Cheap furniture, the temporary stuff that gets passed to college students and kids leaving home, getting gradually more broken down and more threadbare until it finds its graveyard in floorless trailers and abandoned houses for whores and meth addicts and pedophiles to find their ease. He dropped with an
oof
onto the last cushion. Dani. This is where Dani sits, he thought, taking up more room than she would but fitting all the same. A blue and white—well, almost white—afghan covered part of the back of the couch, as if flung off. He took another mouthful of the canned pasta, dropped the spoon into the can, and surveyed the room. The TV sat on a crooked pressed-wood table in the corner. He felt around with his right hand, under the afghan, toward the seam of the couch. There it was—the remote. He clicked the power button once, twice. Nothing happened. He slid off the plastic panel on the rear of the remote and smiled. No batteries. Dani Britton wasn’t much of a TV watcher.

She didn’t sit here too much either, he decided. The light wasn’t good and there were no real objects of focus on the shelves or the walls he could see. No, he suspected his girl sat here when she had company. Maybe a boyfriend? A girlfriend? God forbid, a roommate? No, the knife in the sink and the neat array of spoons told Booker that Dani lived alone. He couldn’t have explained how he knew it. He just did.

He pulled himself up from the couch, careful not to spill SpaghettiOs anywhere, and wandered around the room. He could feel his pants tenting just a bit as the thrill of his invasion reached him on a visceral level. Booker didn’t have any illusions about himself. He wasn’t a sadist or sexual psychopath or some mentally enfeebled predator. He was a professional. He learned early in life that he had the capacity to take human life and, more important, the capacity to live with that knowledge. He wasn’t haunted by his victims any more than he was sexually aroused by the act.
He didn’t take pleasure in torture, though he didn’t flinch from it when necessary. Booker was a professional. He was efficient and reliable and he made a remarkable amount of money from it for the simple fact that he was willing and able to do well what most people couldn’t do at all. And which a surprising number of people wanted done. Rich people.

But the money wasn’t enough. The money, the weapons, the travel—it had all seemed a lot more glamorous fifteen years ago. But even then, high on his reputation, Booker had come to terms with the fact that the lifestyle lent itself to solitude. And he was okay with that too. Booker was nothing if not a realist. He accepted situations at hand as they were, not as he wanted them to be. So he adjusted what he could adjust and what he couldn’t adjust he learned to live with.

This was one of those things. The lifestyle had taken its toll on his sex life, hell, on his sexuality as a whole. He wasn’t so inhuman that he could shoot a person between the eyes, wash his hands, and then jump into bed with some hot body. Maybe in the movies hit men did that. Maybe they did in real life too. He didn’t know. It wasn’t like they had union hall meetings to discuss the perils of the occupation. If a long enough gap popped up between jobs, he could occasionally manage a hookup here or there but they rarely scratched more than the most superficial itch. Booker had come to terms with the choices he had made. The fact was, in his life, moments like this—alone in a target’s home, driven by curiosity and the need to discover—had taken the place of first dates and sweaty-palmed kisses.

Would he find what he needed? Did she have some kinky fetish or hideous habits that would shape his opinion of her? He wanted her. He wanted to find Dani. He had to find Dani. That’s what he was getting paid for, but Booker knew firsthand the mind and the body found ways to encourage each other that had nothing to do with outside compensation. Sublimation—he knew it by name. Because of the demands of his job and the isolation it required, he sublimated his sexual urges into his professional prowess until picking a lock took on the same allure as unhooking a bra. Sliding his hands into an underwear drawer produced the same shiver of desire as sliding his hands between a woman’s legs.

He wasn’t a sicko. He wasn’t going to yank it out and jack it off right here in the middle of a job, and all sexual tension dissipated at the moment
the target was acquired, but Booker was a realist. He took his pleasure when and where it came. He adjusted himself in his trousers, taking just a moment to enjoy but not lose himself in the shimmer of heat that rose when his fingertips pressed against his increasing hardness, and headed into Dani’s bedroom.

This was Dani’s space. This was where she did her thinking, where she dreamed her dreams. He knew it as soon as he stepped on the soft blue rag rug that covered most of the floor. A queen-size bed with a white iron frame was covered with a yellow duvet, from which mismatched sheets, rumpled and comfy looking, peeked out. Books and magazines spilled out from beneath both nightstands and Booker caught the winking eye of Dani’s laptop resting beneath a crooked lamp. He came around the bed to the side where Dani slept, the pillows bunched up in a cozy semicircle like a flannel nest. He argued with himself over the urge to climb into that little sleeping spot and compromised, letting his fingers trace the pressed wrinkles where Dani’s head had lain.

He kept his gloves on. Laptops tended to be filthy devices, covered in spit and food and fingerprints from a thousand people. Using just his fingertips, he lifted the screen, tapping the machine to life. No password—that surprised him a little. Like the flimsy lock on the door. The lack of security created an interesting contrast with the nature of her job as a security analyst. Booker felt something warm inside him growing even warmer as he opened the Internet connection.

She’d set Weather.com as her homepage. Booker laughed. Everyone wanted to know the weather. He checked her history: cleared. He grinned as he crouched down to type in every social media outlet he could think of. Each page opened at an empty login screen. A quick scroll through the alphabet showed that no cookies were stored on any login page. No passwords had been stored on the hard drive. A few more clicks and he saw the computer had no documents, no pictures, no music or videos stored anywhere. He clicked a cloud storage icon on the toolbar and wasn’t surprised when it contained no stored login information either. Too bad. Booker had been looking forward to seeing more of Dani than just her Rasmund ID.

A knock on the front door made him jump. Wrapping his fingers around the gun in his waistband, Booker slid to the bedroom doorway. He
listened and the rapping came again, this time harder. Walking silently down the hall and keeping to the hinge side of the door, Booker pressed his eye to the higher of two peepholes. He had to peer down to see the red tassel of a knit hat. He saw the broad face of a young Asian man as he leaned in to knock again, his body moving to a rhythm only he could hear through the earbuds peeking out underneath the cap.

Tucking his shirt up to keep the gun accessible, Booker cracked open the door and the boy smiled and held out a plastic bag of takeout food.

“What is this?”

“Thirty-three,” the boy said too loudly and through a wide smile as he continued to keep the beat of his music.

“What is this?” Booker asked again, peering around the boy for any surprise guests.

“Yes, thirty-three for Miss Dani.” The boy spoke with a thick accent and it took Booker a moment to catch the words.

“Who ordered this?”

The boy smiled, nodding again. “Yes, thirty-three for Miss Dani. Saturday night.”

Booker narrowed his eyes as the young man pulled out his phone, careful not to jar the headphones, and flipped through the screen. He looked up at Booker, making a little gesture of impatience. “When did she order this?” The kid didn’t seem to understand the question and Booker felt a prickle of cold nerves on his neck. He considered shooting the kid to flush out who had called him. Instead he grabbed the shorter man’s arm in a tight grip. “Dani ordered this?”

“Yes, yes,” the kid jerked away with a huff. “Saturday. Every Saturday, thirty-three for Miss Dani. She no cancel, you pay for food. She no cancel. I no pay for food.”

Booker reached behind him, his fingers playing over the gun, reaching instead for his wallet. “Every Saturday, huh? Same thing?”

The kid scowled at him, ready for a fight. “Yes. Saturday. All Saturdays. You pay. No check. Only cash.” He watched Booker pull out two twenties.

“Keep the change.”

The young man smiled at that, tucking the money into his pocket and sliding his phone in after it. “Okay. Okay. Good night, Miss Dani.”

“Good night, Miss Dani,” Booker said and watched the kid dance his way down the hall toward the stairs. Sensing nobody lurking in the hallway, he shut the door and put his nose to the bag. Thai food. He smelled curry and ginger. Dani ate this every Saturday. Holding the bag up against him, he could feel the warmth of the food against his lower belly. This was too delicious an opportunity. He peeled off his gloves and decided to eat in Dani’s bed.

Dani stomped her feet against the cold as she and Choo-Choo waited on the corner across from Big Wong’s. The bicycle cruised past them before the rider spotted her and spun around.

“Miss Dani!” The red tassel of his hat bobbed as he pulled the headphones from his ears. “There you are! You no home tonight? You no get thirty-three!”

“Knock it off, Joey,” Dani said, checking around them to see if anyone watched.

Joey laughed. “Hey c’mon, it’s great for tips.” His accent had vanished, replaced by a soft southern drawl. “Plus it gives customers the complete Big Wong Thai experience. So what’s the deal, Miss Dani? You stepping out on Ben? And you didn’t call me first?”

“Not exactly.” Dani led Joey toward Choo-Choo, who remained in the shadows. “Was Ben there? Did someone answer?”

“Yeah someone answered, just like you thought. Some tense little dude, like Ben, only tenser.” He stuffed his hands in his pockets against the cold. “Tipped okay though.”

She had to lean against the brick wall to steady herself. Someone was already in her apartment. They’d found her. They could be planting anything—bugs, evidence, anything. They could be laying a trap for her or for Ben.

“What did he look like?”

Joey shrugged. “He looked like a tense white guy. He looked like every tense white guy in D.C. Short brown hair, pissy little mouth. You know, like Ben. Like every guy that comes in the restaurant.” He winked at her. “You can do better. Give me another chance.”

“This is important. Please.” She didn’t have time to play Joey’s flirtatious game even though she knew from experience that pad Thai wasn’t the most delicious item available at Big Wong’s. “Can you tell me anything about him? Was he alone? Did he look like a cop?”

“Definitely not a cop,” Joey said. “And I didn’t get past the door. He was real jumpy. Kept looking past me, checking the hallway. Are you okay? Are you in trouble?”

“God, Joey, it’s such a long story. Anything you can tell me about him. Anything.”

He looked from Dani to Choo-Choo. “He’s taller than you, shorter than him. Paler than you, darker than him. Short brown hair. Looked like an accountant.”