Death Angel

Instead she concentrated on taking care of business. She did call Mrs. Pearson, who expressed heartfelt relief. She’d been worried when no action had been taken on the account since she’d last seen Andie, and her e-mails had gone unanswered; she was afraid something had happened. Something had happened, but Andie didn’t go into it. Instead she reassured Mrs. Pearson that everything was fine. They chatted for a while, and at one point Andie thought Mrs. Pearson had mentioned that she had a granddaughter who would be born in a few months. When she said, "Congratulations on that granddaughter," though, Mrs. Pearson gasped.

"How did you know there’s a baby on the way?"

"You told me," said Andie, a little uncertainly. "Didn’t you?"

"No, I haven’t mentioned it. We won’t find out if it’s a boy or girl until next month."

"Oh. I would have sworn-" She broke off, and hastily covered her slip, because the explanation wasn’t something she wanted to go into. "No, I remember now who mentioned having a granddaughter. I’m sorry, I’m a little scatterbrained this morning. I must need more coffee."

After she got off the phone she made the electronic transfer, then periodically checked her account until the transaction showed up. Once the certified check was on its way, by FedEx, to the children’s hospital, she felt as if an immense weight had been lifted from her shoulders. That money had been a pain in the ass from the moment she took it, which she supposed was only fitting.

Mingled with relief, though, was a sense of regret. Too bad she couldn’t have kept it, because a part of her really would have liked being rich, even with stolen money-dirty stolen money. Maybe she’d get extra points for getting rid of it, because that so went against the grain. Being virtuous was as big a pain in the ass as having the money had been.

But the money was gone now, taken care of, and she could move on to the next item on her list. She didn’t have a lot of cash, and she needed some, so it was time to use the jewelry Rafael had given her.

She got the phone book and started looking for a diamond broker. She could hock the jewelry but she would realize only a fraction of its worth, and the pawn shop would make a killing because she wasn’t interested in redeeming any of the pieces. She had to sell the jewelry, and she didn’t want to take the time to auction it off on eBay.

She’d settled on a course of action and she felt driven to complete it, to get to New York and set the plan into motion. It was time.

A week later, with money in her bank account-though not as much money as she’d hoped-and a newly issued bank credit card, she booked a flight to New York for the following day and set about putting the duplex in order, in case she never made it back.

She cleaned out the refrigerator, getting rid of all the perishable food in the house. If she didn’t come back, she didn’t want the landlord, in a month or so, opening the door to the overpowering stench of rotted food. She swept and mopped and neatened, and tried not to cry. The shabby secondhand furniture she’d bought to furnish the duplex wasn’t much to look at, and she didn’t own the place anyway, but the duplex was still her first real home. It was hers; she’d picked out everything in it, from the cheap cookware to the chenille bedspread. She’d bought the lamp in the living room at a yard sale, for five bucks, and the soft throw draped across the arm of the couch for a dollar at yet another yard sale. The scent of the air freshener was the scent she preferred, the soap was the soap she liked.

She packed all her clothes. She didn’t have much; every stitch she owned fit into two suitcases, and that included what makeup she’d bought, which wasn’t much. She had delighted in not wearing much makeup, in not having to care if anyone saw her less than perfectly dolled up and tricked out. The last remnants of permed curl had long since grown out of her hair, which she had let remain dark. She didn’t want to be blond again; Drea was blond; Andie had no-nonsense brown hair.

When the apartment was clean and her suitcases packed, she had two more errands to run. The first was to a large mall, where a wig shop was located. She would have to be Drea again, to get Rafael’s attention, but she wanted to be able to whip off a wig and quickly become someone he might walk past without recognizing.

There weren’t any wigs in the shop that matched the way she’d worn her hair then. She chose one that was close enough: a little longer, a little straighter, and the shade was more platinum than golden, but it would do.

Her final errand was more subterfuge, but of a different kind. Just in case Simon was still watching her, she went to the grocery store where she usually shopped, and stocked up on some nonperishable stuff. Buying food would reassure him that she intended to stay where she was. Also, if she actually got to return to the duplex, having food there would be a good thing.

The next morning, she drove to the airport, parked the Explorer in the long-term parking lot, and began her return to New York. Her seat, booked at the last minute as it had been, was a middle seat in the very last row. She sat crammed between a largish gentleman and his equally largish wife, who had evidently chosen their seats hoping no one would get the seat between them and they’d be able to spread out more comfortably. They were out of luck, and so was she.

After spending a little over three hours waiting for a connecting flight, it was mid-afternoon by the time she finally landed at La Guardia. She collected her luggage, rolled the cases out to the ground transportation area, and stood at the curb waiting for the hotel shuttle to arrive. The spring day was cold, about fifty degrees, and with the breeze the windchill was probably forty-five.

When the shuttle arrived, four more people got on it with her, but none of them seemed to be traveling together, so they all rode in silence toward the skyscrapers of Manhattan.