their time sitting in the Motel 6 lobby, Dee had found herself trusting him, in spite of her initial suspicions.
Dee shrugged, turned back to the laptop, and let her eyes linger for a moment on the horrid Smiling Jack photos. Blade. Blood. Ghastly smile.
Work thoughts, Deanna. Think work thoughts.
She’d already dusted the camera, inside and out, and sent digital renderings of the prints to the Bureau for matching. She’d just begun to upload the photos from the camera’s memory and clicked over to see the status bar. Taking longer than usual for a handful of pictures, she thought.
She watched the status bar and listened absently to the muted ramblings from CNN on her room’s TV: something about conservative Senator Karch Ridgeway’s bid for the Presidency and for the upcoming Supreme Court decision on abortion. But CNN scarcely registered in her conscious mind.
There was something else about Ghost, something that wouldn’t let Dee put aside her doubt completely. Maybe it’s my imagination, Dee thought. Something about the way he walked…or maybe the intensity in his green-eyed gaze, just shy of ferocity. He seemed coiled like a spring, or like a sleek panther ready to pounce. Dee had no doubt that this man could be dangerous. She had no doubt that he could kill if he had to. And she felt certain that he had killed before. Was this Ghost the killer they called Smiling Jack? She’d thought so before they’d met. He’d altered her opinion somewhat, but she wasn’t foolish enough to dismiss the possibility.
She blinked, brought back to focus by movement on her screen. The PhotoScan icon bounced in the sidebar dock. Rez clicked it to stop its bouncing. The photos had all uploaded. Rez scanned down the list of files…and then froze.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
I had a lot to think about on the bus. I had underestimated G. He was good. Good enough to fool most people. Just not good enough to fool me. When he typed in the correct registration number for the yacht I’d seen, his smile lost a little of its charm. For just a moment, there was a subtle change in the tension in the corners of his mouth. There was a peculiar stillness in his eyes also. It reminded me eerily of the change in someone’s eyes when they die.
But G had recovered swiftly, and his next move was genius. The flourish of his right hand almost distracted me enough to miss him turning his monitor with his left hand. It was like a cruise ship magician holding up a gold coin for the audience to see while slipping something from his coat pocket. I almost missed it. Someone had purchased that Sun Odyssey 42DS from Spinnaker Sales. But whoever it was, G didn’t want me to see his name.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
“I don’t know,” said G into his cell phone. “He said his name was John Spector. But he asked about the boat.”
G listened for a moment and then replied. “He’s staying at the friggin’ Motel 6 in Destin. I should have known he wasn’t buying. He didn’t look like the sailing type. White as a ghost, definitely a snowbird, but I couldn’t place his accent. Big guy too, looked like a bouncer.”
Shouts erupted from the phone. G held it away from his ear until the yelling died down. “No, no way. I didn’t give him anything. He doesn’t know Jack! He’s not a local cop, that’s for sure. White as white—you should’a seen him. I don’t think he was FBI either. Didn’t try to scare me with a shield or anything. One weird thing, he had this silver case. Looked like something from the movies: a sniper case or nuclear detonator, some crap like that.”
More shouts from the phone. G endured them and said, “He had the registration number, said he’d seen the 42 on the Gulf. Now that’s legit. He knew about the custom windows. He didn’t say any more. Uh, huh, Destin Motel 6. As far as I know, he’s alone. Hey, listen, you’re not angry at me, are you? You know I
Dee shrugged, turned back to the laptop, and let her eyes linger for a moment on the horrid Smiling Jack photos. Blade. Blood. Ghastly smile.
Work thoughts, Deanna. Think work thoughts.
She’d already dusted the camera, inside and out, and sent digital renderings of the prints to the Bureau for matching. She’d just begun to upload the photos from the camera’s memory and clicked over to see the status bar. Taking longer than usual for a handful of pictures, she thought.
She watched the status bar and listened absently to the muted ramblings from CNN on her room’s TV: something about conservative Senator Karch Ridgeway’s bid for the Presidency and for the upcoming Supreme Court decision on abortion. But CNN scarcely registered in her conscious mind.
There was something else about Ghost, something that wouldn’t let Dee put aside her doubt completely. Maybe it’s my imagination, Dee thought. Something about the way he walked…or maybe the intensity in his green-eyed gaze, just shy of ferocity. He seemed coiled like a spring, or like a sleek panther ready to pounce. Dee had no doubt that this man could be dangerous. She had no doubt that he could kill if he had to. And she felt certain that he had killed before. Was this Ghost the killer they called Smiling Jack? She’d thought so before they’d met. He’d altered her opinion somewhat, but she wasn’t foolish enough to dismiss the possibility.
She blinked, brought back to focus by movement on her screen. The PhotoScan icon bounced in the sidebar dock. Rez clicked it to stop its bouncing. The photos had all uploaded. Rez scanned down the list of files…and then froze.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
I had a lot to think about on the bus. I had underestimated G. He was good. Good enough to fool most people. Just not good enough to fool me. When he typed in the correct registration number for the yacht I’d seen, his smile lost a little of its charm. For just a moment, there was a subtle change in the tension in the corners of his mouth. There was a peculiar stillness in his eyes also. It reminded me eerily of the change in someone’s eyes when they die.
But G had recovered swiftly, and his next move was genius. The flourish of his right hand almost distracted me enough to miss him turning his monitor with his left hand. It was like a cruise ship magician holding up a gold coin for the audience to see while slipping something from his coat pocket. I almost missed it. Someone had purchased that Sun Odyssey 42DS from Spinnaker Sales. But whoever it was, G didn’t want me to see his name.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
“I don’t know,” said G into his cell phone. “He said his name was John Spector. But he asked about the boat.”
G listened for a moment and then replied. “He’s staying at the friggin’ Motel 6 in Destin. I should have known he wasn’t buying. He didn’t look like the sailing type. White as a ghost, definitely a snowbird, but I couldn’t place his accent. Big guy too, looked like a bouncer.”
Shouts erupted from the phone. G held it away from his ear until the yelling died down. “No, no way. I didn’t give him anything. He doesn’t know Jack! He’s not a local cop, that’s for sure. White as white—you should’a seen him. I don’t think he was FBI either. Didn’t try to scare me with a shield or anything. One weird thing, he had this silver case. Looked like something from the movies: a sniper case or nuclear detonator, some crap like that.”
More shouts from the phone. G endured them and said, “He had the registration number, said he’d seen the 42 on the Gulf. Now that’s legit. He knew about the custom windows. He didn’t say any more. Uh, huh, Destin Motel 6. As far as I know, he’s alone. Hey, listen, you’re not angry at me, are you? You know I
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