I carry the shoes and the costume through the ground floor of the house to the front closet, near the front-entrance garage where Simon parks. I open the closet and look down. A pair of old loafers Simon hasn’t worn for a while. A backup pair of running shoes.
And yes, another pair of Paul Roy Peak Explorer boots.
Same model, same color as the ones for Christian.
I head upstairs, into the master bedroom, and open Simon’s closet. In the back of the closet hangs a Grim Reaper costume Simon bought for himself last year but never wore.
Also a perfect match for the one I bought Christian, like the boots.
Matching costumes, matching boots.
Simon isn’t the only one who holds a grudge.
62
Christian
“I got it,” Vicky tells me when she gets upstairs into my condo.
She hands me the bag with the Grim Reaper costume.
“You paid cash for it?” I ask. “Avoided cameras?”
“Yes.”
I remove the costume from the bag and pull it over my head with Vicky’s help.
“How do I look?”
“I’ll tell you how you look,” she says. “You look like something out of a Stephen King movie. But more importantly? You look totally anonymous.”
We head into the bathroom so I can look in the mirror.
“It’s formless,” says Vicky. “And your face is too far inside that long hood to see.”
“Yeah, it works.”
“You’re totally anonymous. Anyone who saw you in that, they wouldn’t know if it was you or some scrawny teenager. They wouldn’t know if it was you or some dumpy, middle-aged parent.”
“They wouldn’t know if it was me or your husband, Simon?”
“Exactly,” she says.
“I like it. Perfect. Good job. You have the boots, too?”
“Yes,” she says. “Simon has the same pair.”
“What size are they? Size thirteen, I hope?”
“Size thirteen,” she says. “And yes, I also bought these in cash, and I wore glasses and a hat and dressed differently than when I bought the costume.”
Good, this is good. We head back into the main room.
“We have to cut off all contact with each other,” I tell Vicky. “There can’t be any trace of our connection.”
“Absolutely.”
“What evidence do you have of a connection to me?” I ask. “Did Simon know you met with me?”
“Simon doesn’t know you exist,” she says. “I didn’t tell him I was interviewing financial advisers. I’d never want him to know that.”
“You have some materials, brochures, that kind of thing, from my office?”
“I think I still do.”
“Find them and shred them or burn them.”
“Okay,” she says.
“You ever write my name down? Look me up on your computer?”
She thinks about that. “I looked you up on my computer when I was researching financial advisers.”
“Then dump the computer.”
“I can wipe the computer—”
“No, no, wiping the computer isn’t enough. Cops can recover all that stuff. Break it into pieces and dump it in a river. I’m not kidding, Vicky. This is important.”
“Okay, I will.”
“That’s what I did to my laptop,” I tell her. “I smashed it, broke it in half, dismantled all the parts. I’ve scrubbed all evidence of you from this apartment.”
“Do you have a copy of Simon’s trust?” she asks.
I did, past tense. I shredded it this morning, then I burned the shreds in my fireplace.
“The cops could search this entire place,” I tell her. “They would find no evidence of you, Vicky. No computer. No documents. Nothing.”
“What about evidence of . . . y’know . . . me?”
“You mean DNA?” I say. “No. I got rid of my bedsheets. I washed them just to be sure, then threw them in the dumpster in the alley. They’ll be long gone by the time this happens.”
I sit down next to her.
“Now about your phone,” I say. “You’ve called me and texted me.”
She blushes. “It’s a burner,” she says.
“Your—your phone is a burner?”
“The one I use to call you is, yes. A prepaid phone. Are you surprised? You think I want Simon looking at the phone bill and wonder what number I keep calling?”
Ah, yes, that makes sense. Phew. That makes things easier. I’ve been using a burner with her all along, for a different reason, for when I made my escape with her money, but I’ve never told her that.