waiting.”
She sighed. “If there's any chance of getting caught, get your ass back over here.”
“Don't worry.” Gary tapped the monitor. “You can watch it all on TV.”
Dylan stepped into the hospital stairwell and pulled off the itchy fake beard. Surely, in the thousands of years since Sophocles'time, someone could have come up with a stage beard that didn't make him want to scratch his goddamned face off. Time for another disguise.
Dylan reached for the black plastic garbage bag he'd wedged under the metal stairs. He took out a pair of spectacles, a blond toupee, and a brown blazer, then shoved the beard and scrub shirt into the bag and stowed it. He donned the new disguise. He didn't need a mirror to know how it looked; he'd used it a few times before. He pulled open the door and walked down the corridor, adopting a stooped posture. Jesus, how much longer would he have to spin his wheels here?
He passed a curly-haired young man with a thick beard. Was the kid staring at him? The kid looked away. Okay, maybe not.
Dylan walked by Monica Gaines's room, glancing at her through the glass windows that faced the corridor. She was unconscious now, alone in the dimroom. A private security guard was standing watch outside, shifting uncomfortably in his cheap polyester suit. The guy was probably a local hire accustomed to watching bowling alley parking lots. If Monica Gaines's people were concerned about her well-being, they'd do well to get a real bodyguard, he thought. Not that anyone could stop him if he decided that Monica was a liability.
The curly-haired kid quickly walked past and paused at the end of the corridor. He turned and held up a sheet of paper as if he were studying it intently.
Curly wasn't looking at that paper, Dylan realized. Curly was looking at him.
Dylan walked past Curly again, quickly scanning him for any clues that would reveal who the hell he was. Ragged tennis shoes, no handgun bulge, generic ID badge, and—
Oh, shit. The badge. It was one of those $799 hidden cameras sold at big-city “spy shops” and mailorder stores, aimed at corporate executives who fancied themselves the next James Bond. This idiot hadn't even bothered to change the stock ID card and logo that surrounded the tiny black lens.
Who the hell was he? Curly was obviously more interested in him than in Monica Gaines or anyone else on the floor. Dylan glanced up at the large circular mirror mounted high in the corner of the corridor, put there to keep orderlies from ramming gurney carts into one another. Curly, still holding the paper, was following him.
“What the hell is Gary doing in there?” Hadden-field stared at the black-and-white monitor image.
Donna shook her head.”We told him not to go. He wants to get a better look at this guy who's been hanging around there. He's also going to try to plant his little camera someplace that will give us a better look at Monica Gaines.”
Haddenfield squinted at the screen. “
What
guy hanging around?”
“We'll see him in a second,” Paul said.”Gary insists he's been there on and off all day, wearing different disguises.”
“Disguises?”
Paul nodded. “That's what he thinks. You might consider replacing Gary. He's losing it.” Paul pointed to the screen.”There's the guy.”
Haddenfield gasped. It was Dylan. He coughed in an attempt to hide his involuntary reaction.
Donna didn't take her eyes from the monitor. “Maybe this guy is a private security officer, or a reporter.”
“We have to get Gary out of there now,” Haddenfield said.
Paul studied him.”Why? Do you know this guy?”
Haddenfield shook his head. “It's not that. It's just—a security risk. Is Gary carrying his cell phone?”
Donna shrugged. “Probably.”
Haddenfield quickly picked up his phone and punched Gary's number. He listened to the ring tones.”Come on, you prick. Pick up.”
Donna pointed to the monitor. “No reaction here. He's still on the other guy's
She sighed. “If there's any chance of getting caught, get your ass back over here.”
“Don't worry.” Gary tapped the monitor. “You can watch it all on TV.”
Dylan stepped into the hospital stairwell and pulled off the itchy fake beard. Surely, in the thousands of years since Sophocles'time, someone could have come up with a stage beard that didn't make him want to scratch his goddamned face off. Time for another disguise.
Dylan reached for the black plastic garbage bag he'd wedged under the metal stairs. He took out a pair of spectacles, a blond toupee, and a brown blazer, then shoved the beard and scrub shirt into the bag and stowed it. He donned the new disguise. He didn't need a mirror to know how it looked; he'd used it a few times before. He pulled open the door and walked down the corridor, adopting a stooped posture. Jesus, how much longer would he have to spin his wheels here?
He passed a curly-haired young man with a thick beard. Was the kid staring at him? The kid looked away. Okay, maybe not.
Dylan walked by Monica Gaines's room, glancing at her through the glass windows that faced the corridor. She was unconscious now, alone in the dimroom. A private security guard was standing watch outside, shifting uncomfortably in his cheap polyester suit. The guy was probably a local hire accustomed to watching bowling alley parking lots. If Monica Gaines's people were concerned about her well-being, they'd do well to get a real bodyguard, he thought. Not that anyone could stop him if he decided that Monica was a liability.
The curly-haired kid quickly walked past and paused at the end of the corridor. He turned and held up a sheet of paper as if he were studying it intently.
Curly wasn't looking at that paper, Dylan realized. Curly was looking at him.
Dylan walked past Curly again, quickly scanning him for any clues that would reveal who the hell he was. Ragged tennis shoes, no handgun bulge, generic ID badge, and—
Oh, shit. The badge. It was one of those $799 hidden cameras sold at big-city “spy shops” and mailorder stores, aimed at corporate executives who fancied themselves the next James Bond. This idiot hadn't even bothered to change the stock ID card and logo that surrounded the tiny black lens.
Who the hell was he? Curly was obviously more interested in him than in Monica Gaines or anyone else on the floor. Dylan glanced up at the large circular mirror mounted high in the corner of the corridor, put there to keep orderlies from ramming gurney carts into one another. Curly, still holding the paper, was following him.
“What the hell is Gary doing in there?” Hadden-field stared at the black-and-white monitor image.
Donna shook her head.”We told him not to go. He wants to get a better look at this guy who's been hanging around there. He's also going to try to plant his little camera someplace that will give us a better look at Monica Gaines.”
Haddenfield squinted at the screen. “
What
guy hanging around?”
“We'll see him in a second,” Paul said.”Gary insists he's been there on and off all day, wearing different disguises.”
“Disguises?”
Paul nodded. “That's what he thinks. You might consider replacing Gary. He's losing it.” Paul pointed to the screen.”There's the guy.”
Haddenfield gasped. It was Dylan. He coughed in an attempt to hide his involuntary reaction.
Donna didn't take her eyes from the monitor. “Maybe this guy is a private security officer, or a reporter.”
“We have to get Gary out of there now,” Haddenfield said.
Paul studied him.”Why? Do you know this guy?”
Haddenfield shook his head. “It's not that. It's just—a security risk. Is Gary carrying his cell phone?”
Donna shrugged. “Probably.”
Haddenfield quickly picked up his phone and punched Gary's number. He listened to the ring tones.”Come on, you prick. Pick up.”
Donna pointed to the monitor. “No reaction here. He's still on the other guy's
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