Cherry Bomb

“That’s brilliant,” I interrupted, “but we really have to hit the road.”

“How about lunch? We can grab some lunch together. Sis?”

“Not hungry,” I said. “Might never be hungry again.”

“Phin?”

“No thanks.”

“Please don’t leave me alone with Slappy,” Harry said.

“Maybe a beer will calm him down.”

“You think?”

“Can’t hurt.”

“How about whiskey? Think a shot of whiskey is too strong?”

“I’d give him a different kind of shot,” Phin said. “One in the head, then a quick funeral wrapped in newspaper.”

Harry stared at Slappy, as if considering it.

“Harry, you can’t kill your monkey.”

That was how my day was going, cautioning people against murder.

“Maybe Al will trade him for the amputee one,” Phin suggested.

“How can a no-legged monkey fetch me beer? Roll it to me?”

“You can tie a little cord to his neck, and he can tug it behind him.” Phin mimed a one-armed primate dragging itself across the floor.

McGlade winced. “That’s not fun. That’s depressing. I wanted a fun pet.”

“You’re right. A pet that throws shit at you is a lot more fun.”

“Maybe a glass cage? Then he couldn’t throw anything.”

“He still could,” Phin said. “It would just cling to the inside walls. You’d have a big brown box.”

“How about some sort of restraining device. Do they make little macaque-size handcuffs?”

Monkey bondage was our cue to leave.

“We gotta go, Harry. I’ll call you later.”

I herded Phin past the monkey cage, giving Slappy a wide berth. He was sitting down, looking vaguely superior, like a king on a throne.

We got out of there before the king threw anything else at us.

“Where to?” Phin asked after we climbed into the truck.

“The woods. Someplace secluded.”

“Got something in mind?” He gri

“In fact I do. But it’s not what you’re thinking.”

“Want to clue me in?”

I closed my eyes, thought it through, then said, “Just drive to a place where no one will be bothered by gunfire.”

CHAPTER 36

THE COP UNIFORM has gone from asset to liability. Showing off at the department store was a mistake, though an amusing one. Alex needs to ditch the Hyundai and the uniform, and find suitable replacements for both. She was pla

Clothing is the easier of the two. She finds a local mall, hits Neiman Marcus, and buys a Joan Vass striped tunic with matching beige boot-cut pants. The Ferragamo loafers are overpriced but cute, and that purchase leaves her with thirty dollars in cash. Not enough to even pay the taxes on a handbag, and they have a Marc Jacobs satchel that would go perfectly with the outfit.

Alex changes clothes in the mall restroom. The gun, holster, and accessory belt gets put into one of the Neiman Marcus bags. The pants from the police uniform get stuffed into the garbage. The shirt gets a nice long soak in the sink and then placed into the other Neiman bag-it’s plastic, so it won’t drip.

Then it’s time to do a different kind of shopping.

Alex leaves the mall and hangs out next to the exit doors, sca

It’s a nice neighborhood, with a nice mall, and it doesn’t take long for a chunky yuppie type with a four-hundred-dollar haircut and a Prada bag to stroll outside, one hand clutching some merchandise from Saks, the other fussing with the touch screen of her iPhone. Alex falls into step behind her.

Following her requires zero stealth-the woman is oblivious to everything but her electronic gadget. The parking lot is full. She stops twice to get her bearings, then eventually finds her car a row over from where she thought it was. Alex had been hoping for something sporty, maybe a BMW or a Lexus. Instead, the woman drives a white Prius.

Alex checks the parking lot, but there’s no one nearby, and she reaches inside her shopping bag for the wet shirt. She wraps it around the gun, covering her entire hand. The chubby woman keeps playing with her iPhone up until the moment Alex jams the barrel into the back of her neck and fires.

The gun is loud, but the shirt muffles it somewhat. Alex doesn’t stop to check if anyone is watching. She kneels down next to the body and opens up her new Prada bag.

Except it isn’t Prada. It’s a knockoff.

“Hell,” Alex says.

All that work for a Prius and fake Prada.

She finds the car keys, hits the unlock button on the remote, and horses the dead body into the cramped backseat, keeping low and out of sight of the cars circling the lot looking for spaces. On a whim, she checks the Saks bags. Vera Wang pajamas. They’re nice, but Alex doesn’t wear pajamas, and she certainly doesn’t wear a size fourteen. She arranges the pajamas and assorted bags over the body to cover it up, and locks the doors.

Another 360 check for witnesses. No one is paying attention to her.

Then Alex marches back into Neiman Marcus and buys the Marc Jacobs satchel. The cashier, a young blonde who probably went to a local community college and majored in giggles, asks Alex for an ID to match the dead woman’s credit card.

Alex leans in close.

“It burned in the crash, along with half my face. I haven’t gotten a new one yet, because I’m afraid to drive again. Would you like me to speak to your manager?”

Blondie declines. The fifteen-hundred-dollar charge goes through, and Alex heads back to the Prius. Once in the driver’s seat she transfers the contents of the fake purse to the real purse, and tosses the fake one onto the corpse.

“You died too young. Should have treated yourself and bought the real thing.”

Happily, there’s more than two hundred bucks in the woman’s wallet, along with half a pack of gum and a canister of pepper spray, which the woman should have been holding instead of her iPhone. Alex pops a stick of spearmint into her mouth and pulls out of the parking space. She heads back to the Hyundai, loads her previous purchases into the Prius, and drives until she finds a gas station.

She fills the five-gallon plastic canister she bought at the department store and retraces her steps.

Her previous stolen car blew up, and it’s unlikely they’ll link it to her. Plastic explosives do wonders for removing fingerprints.

Multiple witnesses saw her shoot the gangbanger, including the gangbanger, but it could take a few days before her name gets pulled into it. If ever. She left no evidence; the brass belonged to the cop and Alex wiped off the cart handle. There were security cameras, but Alex always keeps her head down in public places, a habit from before the disfigurement.

The Feds are no doubt looking for her. As is Jack, and all of Jack’s department. But they have no reason yet to think she’s in Iowa.

Unless they get lucky. Alex can’t discount that. Luck is how she got caught. Luck is how Jack got away last time. Which means it’s time to get the hell out of Dodge.

If the authorities haven’t gotten lucky yet, there’s no reason to make it any easier for them.

Alex drives back to the Hyundai and double-parks behind it. All five gallons of gas get splashed around the interior. She considers tossing the body in there as well, but a homicide will get more attention than a vandalized car, so she lets her be for the moment.

The license plates are attached with nuts and bolts, and Alex removes them with the socket set she bought. She tosses the plates onto the body-something else to dispose of later-and lights up the car with a road flare. Then she climbs into the Prius and heads back to the Holiday I

No squad cars in front. No men suspiciously lingering outside. Alex parks. The police band radio is attached to the cop’s utility belt, in one of the bags. Alex switches it on, finds the local dispatch frequency, listens to chatter. It’s all in code, which Alex doesn’t know, but she does hear some talk about the car bombing at the mall.