Death Angel

Mrs. Pearson sighed. "I’m very sorry, but we can’t even order this much cash until we’ve verified your identity."

Drea struggled for patience, but she’d been on the receiving end of rudeness too many times for her to start snapping at someone who was just doing her job and had to follow bank policy. She couldn’t, however, hold back her own sigh. "I understand. As I said, I’ll be there tomorrow afternoon. That’s too late to get the money, isn’t it?"

"Actually, it’s too early. We’re a small bank, and we order our cash supply from the Federal Reserve just once a week. The head cashier places the order on Wednesday, so our order just went in yesterday. She won’t order again until next Wednesday."

Drea wanted to beat her head against the steering wheel. "She can’t make a special order, as this is such a large sum?"

"She’d have to have special authorization, I’m sure."

Rapidly she assessed the situation. "How long after she places the order does it take for you to receive the cash? The next day?"

Mrs. Pearson hesitated again. "I’d be glad to discuss this with you in person, but I really don’t like to give out that information over the phone."

Again, she couldn’t fault the woman, who didn’t know her from Adam’s house cat; for all she knew, Drea was planning to rob the place and was trying to find out when they’d have the most cash available.

Things were not working out the way she’d planned. Instead of getting the cash and disappearing, it looked as if she’d have to hang around Grissom for at least a week. Grissom was a small town, and from what she remembered had only one tiny motel, which would make finding her incredibly easy.

She could limit her vulnerability, though, by staying, say, within a hundred miles but moving around and never staying more than one night in each place. This was turning out to be a pain in the ass, but if she wanted to break the paper trail she had to do it somewhere, and she’d prefer sooner rather than later.

"I understand," she said. "I know this is a problem. I’ll be there sometime tomorrow afternoon."

"I hope we can work something out," said Mrs. Pearson, which Drea thought was probably bank-talk for I hope you come to your senses.

She made it to the bank the next day about twenty minutes before closing; she had miscalculated how long the drive would take her so she’d had to get up at four that morning and drive hard all day long. She was tired, a little punch-drunk from three days of driving, and definitely frazzled. Her hair was a curly mess because she hadn’t had time that morning to use the blow-dryer to straighten out the permed-in curls, but at least with curls she more resembled the photo on her driver’s license. She couldn’t imagine what a mess it would be if the bank didn’t believe she was who she said she was. How could she prove her identity? Get a letter or something from Rafael? Yeah, right.

As it happened, her bedraggled appearance worked in her favor. Mrs. Pearson turned out to look like a fugitive from the old Dynasty television show, but her eyes were kind and her big-shouldered power suit was buttoned over a motherly heart. By that time Drea had worked up a sob story to use, involving an abusive ex-husband who had been stalking her, but the story was useless. The bank manager’s mother had died overnight; he had left for Oregon and wouldn’t be back until after the funeral. No one wanted to bother him, and likewise no one at the bank would take responsibility for placing such a huge order for cash outside their normal routine.

God in heaven, Drea thought despairingly, why couldn’t she have gotten an account at a large national bank that probably got cash every day, or several times a day, rather than this podunk bank in a podunk town of not-quite three thousand residents?

She could drive to a larger town, maybe Kansas City, set up another account, and wire the money there, but larger cities meant more drug money came into play, and that gave Rafael more influence. She would be able to get her money faster, but she’d be in more danger while she did it.

As this was now late on Friday afternoon, the earliest she could set up an account would be the following Monday. Even if she then transferred the funds immediately, they wouldn’t be posted, probably, until late that day. So it would be Tuesday before she could request cash, and the bank might or might not be able to get in that much the same day. On the safe side, she had to figure the following Wednesday would be the earliest she could get the money from another bank, whereas it would take her two days longer, the next Friday, to get the money here.

Two days longer, weighed against the greater danger. Neither choice looked great, but they were the only two choices she had. The only better possibility was if the bank manager’s mother was buried this weekend and he came back to work on Monday, which she doubted would happen.

"I suppose I’ll be staying for a few days," she said with a thin, exhausted smile. "Can you recommend the motel, or should I go to the next town?"

SHE WOULD NEED three things, Simon thought: cash, a car, and a cell phone. As smart as she was, she probably had a secret bank account somewhere nearby, so he’d assume she had the cash. A car, though; where would she get a car? Not in New York; she had last been seen in a taxi entering the Holland Tunnel, crossing into New Jersey. A different state made more sense, so he’d look in New Jersey. And somewhere nearby; she wouldn’t waste money taking a taxi any great distance.

Not a new-car dealership, either; she’d try to fly under the radar, which meant a used car, fairly good condition but nothing spectacular.

He hacked into the DMV to get a copy of her New York driver’s license. A native of the city might not have a license, might not even know how to drive considering how available public transportation was, but in his experience people who moved to the city tended to keep their licenses up-to-date. Once he had the photo, he played with the image, using his computer to cut her hair and darken it. Then he printed out the result, because now was the time for some legwork, and he had to have a picture to show.