Page 107 of Kill For Me Kill For You
He hung up, said, ‘My guy says give him three hours. I asked him to hurry, but that’s the best he can do.’
Amanda checked the time on her phone. It was almost four in the afternoon. Billy looked around, pointed to a pizza parlor across the street.
‘I’m going to show you some mercy tonight. Let’s go get some pie while we wait. We’ll take a rain check on the meatloaf.’
59
Ruth
She raged around the apartment, swearing, kicking over tables and panting.
Ruth had fucked up.
She’d left behind Gary’s cell phone. It would have the text messages on it, and her phone-call records. She would need to ditch this ID, permanently. And she’d only just set it up. There was no way she could linger. She would have to go to George Towers tonight. And then get the hell out of the city until things cooled down.
That meant there was little time to plan.
She could go into the lobby of the building and bluff her way upstairs. There were any number of ways to do it. A gourmet fruit-and-cheese basket would be easiest. She’d picked one up from an artisanal store a half hour ago. It was a wicker basket, with a large hoop for a handle, piled high with exotic fruit and cheese wrapped in muslin. The whole basket was covered in cellophane and a thick silk ribbon, red, tied in a bow, finished off the presentation. A delivery of high-class goods that had to be signed for – in person. Rich people are lazy, and instead of coming down to the lobby to sign for it and hump a heavy package into the elevator, they would let her come up, deliver it and sign for it. The fact that she was a small, skinny female with an expensive gift basket would put the concierge at ease. If she was six feet tall and male, the concierge might think twice about letting her go up to the tenth floor on her own.
Once she was on the tenth-floor, things would be easier. She could shoot Granger as he stood in the doorway, then the wife. The kids last.
Back down in the elevator, and then take care of the concierge on her way out.
It was possible. It was messy, but it was the best she could think of in the time.
She picked out some dark clothing. Put it on, checked her watch.
Almost eight. She would need to leave soon.
Before she went anywhere, she knew she had to check the gun. Ruth sat at the small dining table in her apartment and placed the pistol flat in front of her. She turned the weapon over in her hands, examining it. There was a small button on one side, just above the grip. She pressed it, and the magazine popped out of the receiver. There were slots cut into the magazine to allow the load to be checked visually. The mag was almost full. She reloaded the gun, racked a round into the chamber.
Guns were not complicated.
Ruth stood, put the gun in her coat pocket and looked around for her car keys.
It was then that she felt the pressure in her head. Going through the motions of planning a kill – one that she would have to carry out this time – had been a great distraction. The feeling of nervous exhilaration had quieted the old chest, and all the voices it constrained.
She suddenly felt a little foolish that in all this time she’d never thought about doing this herself. In person. Watching the light die in those blue eyes. There was an electricity in her veins. She felt more alive now than she had done in years. And, more than that, she didn’t feel afraid. She felt powerful.
This felt right.
Ruth saw her car keys on the kitchen counter, swept them up and went to the front door. She unlocked it, stepped out into the hallway with the gift basket and slammed the door closed.
60
Amanda
It was almost seven thirty.
They’d finished the pizza, had coffee, some ice cream and Billy had distracted her with his near encyclopedic knowledge of Dolly Parton.
‘I’ve got a confession to make,’ said Billy.
‘What? You don’t like meatloaf?’ said Amanda.
He smiled, and then it faded quickly as he spoke. ‘No, it’s Dolly. I was never a fan. Not in the beginning. I was an Eagles man. It was Luce, my Lucille that is, she was the Dolly fan. Had her records playing in the house almost constantly. After she was murdered, the place was so quiet. I put on Luce’s records. I never liked them before, not really. But now I can’t be without them. It reminds me of her, standing at the sink, washing dishes, singing “Your Cheatin’ Heart”.’
He laughed then, and it was genuine and warm.
