Chapter twenty-four
Toni stared down at the sleeping fuck, the dim glow from the bathroom night-light casting his face into shades of darkness. It would be so easy to take care of Juan’s problem right now. No one would know; she wouldn’t leave a trace. She never left a trace. Not unless she wanted to.
He snorted and rolled onto his back. A thin stream of light fell across his forehead.
Objectively, Anthony Ely was a good-looking man.
Nothing outstanding, but more than passable.
In his sleep. With the personality of a dumpster and the morals of Samuel Little, he wouldn’t improve on waking.
He hid his proclivities well, but he wouldn’t have fooled her.
For good or for bad, she had an innate, almost preternatural ability to spot the bad apples.
Her grandmother called it a touch of the sight.
Her mother swore she was able to sense, if not see, auras.
Her? Well, she just thought she had an exceptional bullshit meter.
Reaching into her pocket, she pulled out a single Red Hot.
She’d decided this was a six Red Hot job, and six of the small balls of fiery sugar were tucked into one of the pockets of her leggings.
In the other was a little surprise for Sleeping Fuckface.
Her sweatshirt and utility belt held all her goodies.
Pulling out the tiny vial from the pocket opposite her precious Red Hots, she carefully uncapped it.
Sweeping her gaze over his exposed skin, she picked a spot, then tipped the vial over.
One, two, three, four drops of the liquid it contained fell onto the soft skin on the inside of his arm.
Carefully spaced, she watched as the drops spread, leaving a short trail down the curve of his body, absorbing through the pores before any liquid reached the material of the sheets.
She counted his breaths. At nine, they shifted. At thirteen, they slowed. At seventeen, his mouth fell open, and his body all but melted into the bed.
She’d considered doing this job without her little sleep aid.
But once she entered the massive house, she decided the benefits of a leisurely look around outweighed the delicious adrenaline rush she’d get wondering if he’d wake while she searched.
Besides, this was important to Juan. To all those guys.
She wouldn’t call them friends. She didn’t really have friends.
But she respected them, what they’d done both while in the army and after.
And men who beat their wives and didn’t blink at leaving their baby to die deserved a slow end. They deserved to know what was coming for them. If she could find something to help make that happen, that would be satisfying. Very satisfying.
She could always come back and finish the job if the shit hit the fan and the fucker managed to get off. In fact, she would, she decided. If she didn’t, Juan and some of his brothers might, and she couldn’t have that. They had a good life now and deserved every minute of it.
Secure in the knowledge that the treacherous, lecherous, kinless villain would know nothing but oblivion for the next six hours, she turned away and started with his closet.
Her gloved fingers ran over every seam, opened every drawer, felt every pocket before she placed a tiny listening device under the bottom edge of the door and moved on.
She hit the bathroom next, followed by all the other rooms on the second floor, which included four more bedrooms, each en suite, a media room, and a laundry room.
She wasn’t surprised to find nothing. Men like the canker blossom that was Anthony Ely were creatures of habit.
He’d spend 90 percent of his time in his room, his office, and the downstairs TV room she’d spied on her way in.
The other 10 percent would be in the kitchen and bathroom.
Pausing at the top of the stairs to eat a Red Hot, a small concealed door at the end of the hall caught her attention.
She smiled. She hadn’t seen an attic door like that since she was a kid traipsing around her grandmother’s old Victorian.
She noted the oddity of having the same feature in a thoroughly modern build but doubted the tedious nuthook sleeping in the primary suite ever set foot in the attic.
She’d check it out, but she’d save it for last.
Swiftly moving through most of the downstairs rooms, she let the glasses she wore video the scene, turning them off briefly when she placed a listening device or tiny camera in a strategic spot.
No need to catch that on any reel that might live forever in some data center.
That it was her own data center receiving and storing the information didn’t matter.
That shit could be hacked. Not easily, but she’d calculated there was a .
00001 percent chance. Enough for her to take a few extra precautions when it came to her identity being anywhere in those files.
Finding nothing of note, she made her way to the room she’d been anticipating since slipping past the milk-livered miscreant’s security system—his office.
Men, and she hesitated to refer to the foul-smelling dung cannon upstairs as one, were not only creatures of habit but also exceedingly arrogant. Both traits served her well.
Pausing in the doorway, she assessed the setup.
The large room, perhaps six hundred square feet, boasted the requisite carved wood walls and shelves, coffered ceiling, and massive walnut desk.
The parquet floor was covered with a beige, rust, and ivory area rug with an Asian design.
Azeri if she had to guess. A good imitation to be sure, but she’d eat the electronic devices in her pocket if it was the legit hand-knotted antique that the feeble-spirited scullion wanted everyone to believe it was.
Slowly, she took in the room, letting her glasses pick up all the nuances as she sucked another candy.
She’d find nothing incriminating on the surface, but Juan’s lady love might notice something out of place, something that didn’t belong.
It might lead to nothing if she did, but after the placement of a pencil helped a friend catch a killer, Toni didn’t take anything for granted.
Once she had a good overview, she stepped inside and made a point of getting close-ups of the desk and the bookshelves that sat on opposite sides of the room. After that, she flipped the camera off and got to work.
Not surprisingly, the shelves contained more knick-knacks than books.
Still, she picked up each one, examined it, leafed through the pages of the leather-bound volumes, and got close-up stills of the few pictures.
She recognized a few of the folks in the smattering of framed images—mostly politicians who’d passed their heyday.
Ones who’d been elected, could say they held the title, but wouldn’t be remembered beyond the term or two they held.
Some wouldn’t even be remembered during their term.
Pressing on the paneling and running her fingers along the shelves, she checked for any hidden switches or latches. Finding none, she placed a listening device on a rather exquisite Lladró horse and one on a less impressive bronze replica of Antinous Standing.
After running her hands over the walls running perpendicular to the shelves, she removed the three pictures and examined the backs.
They looked untouched, as if they’d never been removed from the walls once hung.
But not one to leave a job half done, she pulled out a handy tool from her pocket, gently loosened the glue holding the protective paper to the back, and had a little look-see.
Under two, she found nothing but the business card of the company that either sold the framed image or did the framing.
She took a picture of the details, resealed the piece she’d prized loose, and rehung them.
The third held more promise, the only original work of art among the three, and something rattled when she lifted it to examine it more closely.
Something weightier than a business card.
Resting the painting, image-side down, on the desk, she went through the same process of gently removing the protective backing. When the bottom left corner lifted enough for her to see, she tipped the piece and listened as whatever was inside tumbled toward the opening.
A thumb drive.
Grinning, she extracted the small device, made sure nothing else hid inside, then rounded the desk and took a seat.
Pulling another small piece of equipment from her handy pocket, she plugged in the thumb drive, scanned her prints, and started the process of copying everything on the drive to her personal data center.
As it did its job, she searched the twatwaffle’s drawers, looking for hidden compartments or secret cubbies.
He seemed the sort to have at least one.
And since she hadn’t found any in the walls, it stood to reason she’d find one in the desk.
Sure enough, eight minutes and one drawer short by four inches later, she found it.
Setting the drawer on the floor, she knelt and examined the sealed cubby.
A hole in the upper right corner suggested she needed a key or a tool of some sort, but she had something even better.
Reaching into the slim utility belt strapped around her waist, she pulled out another handy little device.
Part electronic, part old-school, she held it against the hole.
Through some magic she didn’t care enough to know the details of, the little box would image the hole, identify what kind of “key” could be used to pick it, then proceed to do so.
She generally preferred to do her own picking, since she found the device louder than she liked.
But with the rank swine sleeping the sleep of the dead upstairs, the noise didn’t concern her.
Twenty-two seconds later, the panel popped open. Zipping the device back into her pack, she wiggled the piece of wood out of position, then shone her pencil light into the cavity. A bundle of papers. Interesting. What was Mr. Lopsided Saggy Nutbag hiding?
Pulling the packet out, she noted it weighed more than a few sheets of paper.
Unfolding the trifold, a passport fell out, along with a phone.
Picking up the passport, she flipped it open and grinned.
Looks like toe-jam twat was planning to make a run for it.
Under the name John Smith. How appropriately unoriginal.
Setting it on the desk, she took a picture of the identification page, then set it aside before plugging the phone into the device still downloading from the thumb drive. Her encryption software at home would address access issues. Not something she needed to think about right now.
Straightening out the papers, she spread them across the desk.
Before taking the time to examine them, she took photos of each, front and back, that she’d add to the files she’d send to Juan.
Once done, she checked her equipment. Seeing the download of the thumb drive complete, she removed it, then plugged her device into the laptop sitting on the desk.
After returning the thumb drive to the painting, resealing the back, and rehanging it, she sat down in the heavy oak-and-leather chair, booted up the computer, and stared at the password screen.
She’d have access to the files once home, but checking out his browser history while she waited would pass the time.
Her gaze drifted to the shelves. Antinous stared back at her. So did a bust of Julius Caesar, an eight-inch version of the Column of Marcus Aurelius, and the head of Nero. She considered the personality of the man sleeping on the floor above her, then leaned forward.
Her fingers flew over the keyboard as she typed “HaveINeitherFriendNorFoe.”
It didn’t surprise her when the red text appeared denying her access. Deciding what the hell, she didn’t have any other ideas, she typed in another Nero quote: “Isthismyfidelity?”
Another red set of text.
Assuming he had standard security, the computer would lock after one more try. Rather than take a different tack, she doubled down and typed in “Hiddentalentcountsfornothing.”
She chuckled as the screen came to life.
Leaving her device to do its job, she opened a browser, navigated to the history, then to the secret history, and scanned the list of websites the odiferous bag of rot upstairs visited.
Randomly clicking on a few, they were exactly what they purported to be: antique auctions, mediocre porn, and a couple of gambling sites.
Closing out of the browsers, she ran a search and found another browser hidden in the application files.
Opening that, she went through the same process.
Only this time, the results were much more interesting.
Leaning forward, she scanned the web-based accounting software she’d been able to open.
Her attention snagged on four entries. This was almost too easy.
The sleeping log of excrement had saved his password.
Big mistake when grifting Mario DeLuca. Even she’d hesitate to tangle with the DeLuca crime family.
Well, not “hesitate,” but she’d take extra care planning.
She scanned through eight more files and the picture got worse and worse—for Anthony, anyway.
She grinned, not feeling the need to expend any more energy on creative names.
His time on this planet was limited. If the Falcons and HICC didn’t take care of him, the DeLuca family would.
And she doubted Anthony had any clue exactly what kind of fire he played with when it came to Mario. She smiled at the thought.
They say karma is only a bitch if you are. And she’d put even odds on karma making an appearance in Anthony’s life in the next few weeks. Karma or Mario.
She couldn’t wait.