I start snooping around her house because, at this point, I wouldn’t put it past Mr. Smith to have someone peeping through the windows to make sure I do. The house is as immaculate as her car. There is no technology here. There is a landline phone but no cell, computer, or tablet of any kind. And no chargers that would indicate the tech exists but is just not present. There is one television, but the only channels it receives come from the antenna attached to the top. I check all the usual hiding spots, but it is as if nothing past 1980 has ever entered this house.
I even search for notebooks or notes or scratches of paper in case she went the old-school route. Nothing.
I sit in a chair and watch her sleep for a little longer before finally calling it a night and letting myself out of her house.
* * *
Amy relocated to a hotel in downtown Atlanta the day after I searched her house. That was four days ago. I’m in my car watching her stumble out of a corner bar the way she does when she’s had at least four martinis.
I’m getting new instructions almost daily, since Amy’s behavior is changing just as rapidly. The latest tells me Mr. Smith has lost all patience.
Amy is out of control. Bring her in immediately. Non-negotiable.
Bring her in immediately. This is new for me. And bring her in where? Do I grab her and wait for someone to approach me? Stuff her in my trunk? Mr. Smith is acting as erratically as she is. He is freaking out, and I have to wonder how much pressure he’s getting from Victor Connolly to resolve this matter.
Hopping out of the car, I cross the street, maintaining a reasonable distance behind her.
Amy steps into the street as soon as the crosswalk turns green. Her bright-red coat billows behind her as she knocks into people not getting out of her way fast enough. She nearly trips on the curb when she gets to the other side.
She’s making a complete spectacle of herself.
Ignoring the group of sightseers ahead of her, she barrels her way across the sidewalk in front of her hotel.
Amy pauses there, and I veer to the right so I’m off the street but not standing too close to her.
She’s planted herself right in the way of foot traffic, and she’s jostled by the pedestrians trying to move past her, spinning in a circle until she comes to a stop facing me. Her eyes lock on mine.
The recognition on her face is clear.
She raises her hand, pointing a finger at me. “You. What are you doing here? I thought I told you to go away.”
I shrink back a few feet, edging toward the corner, but before I can slip away, she moves a little closer and yells, “You can go back and tell that cocksucker Smith to go fuck himself. He’s not as clever as he thinks he is. He’s been screwing over people for years and I’ve got all the details! I’ve got so much shit on him. More than he even knows!” A scowl stretches across her face, and then she flips me the bird before turning around and waltzing into the lobby of the hotel as if she didn’t just lose it out on the street.
The shock of what she just said about Mr. Smith washes over my face, then I school my expression into the blank slate I’ve spent years perfecting, because I know I’m being watched right now. I scan the street, looking for the older guy Mr. Smith has planted here. This will be the first he hears that sensitive information she stole wasn’t just from a client. He will, no doubt, be furious to learn this. He barely trusts me to see what she took on Victor Connolly, so there is no way he would have sent me on this job if he thought there was a possibility I would be retrieving information on him. The last thing he would want would be for me to recover something that could be used against him. Something I could use against him.
For years, I’ve been looking for information on him. Anything at all that will clue me in to who he really is. He’s right to worry about what I would do if info about him came into my possession.
You do whatever you have to do to save yourself and the job. That piece of advice Mr. Smith gave me early on has stuck with me. It’s the advice I let guide me on every job.
This job is far from over.
I follow her inside, sticking with the plan I’d made. It takes a few minutes to get to the door that leads to housekeeping. I find a bag in one of the supply closets that has a hotel maid’s uniform stuffed inside. I change quickly, then pull my dark hair up in a tight bun. Digging through the bag, I find the mic and earpiece at the bottom. Once I have the mic clipped to the inside of the collar of my uniform and the earpiece pushed inside my ear, I’m ready to go.
Devon is usually against this type of tech since it’s easy to pick up the frequency if you’re close by, but there was no way to get around it. “I’m ready.”