leather wallet from her purse and slid the tip of her pen along a slim, credit card size sleeve inside. A fine Velcro closure yielded, and from the narrow opening she grasped her new ID with a pair of tweezers and slipped Miriam Hayes’s license back in its place. In less than eight minutes, she had become Michelle Danaher from Cincinnati, here for the party.
Archer left the stall, paused for a second at the mirror to take in her new look, smiled myseriously, and moved out to the parking lot to find her Ford Taurus.
* * *
The afternoon traffic on the interstate was moderate. Archer stayed to the right and never exceeded the speed limit. Her ID was in order, but no need to put it to the test. She had reviewed the maps repeatedly on her first visit to scope out the job. She knew her highway exit, the neighborhood, and her street of interest as well as she knew her own hometown.
At Exit 33, she turned off the highway and drove to the Daisy Inn, a modest motel with no security cameras and a preference for payment in cash. She parked away from the front entrance. Registration at the Daisy Inn was still done manually, and the recordkeeping was slipshod at best. The motel was two blocks from her target’s home. She had made no reservation.
Archer sauntered in, chomping a piece of gum. The clerk, a young South Asian Muslim woman, looked up from the television with little interest. She shoved a form toward Archer, who filled it out using her fictitious Cincinnati address and a fake Ohio car license number. No need to put down the rental car tag. The more the trail was muddied, and the more dead ends inserted into the mix, the better her chances if worse came to worst. She chided herself for thinking of worse coming to worst. That had already happened.
Archer paid for one night in cash, all small bills. Nothing to draw attention to herself. If anyone remembered the girl from Cincinnati, all that could be said was, she had brown hair, was cute, and wore tight jeans. No relationship to the dowdy grandma from the airport, and certainly no relationship to Archer Loh of Lenox, Massachusetts.
As the desk clerk turned to get a key, Archer leaned forward. “Listen,” she said, “do you mind giving me a room away from the main street? I’ll be out late and I’ll want to sleep late, so something away from the noise would be wonderful.” She smiled conspiratorially. No need to be in front, where one’s comings and goings were more noticeable.
For the first time, the desk clerk showed signs of life—she understood. She nodded and smiled, then moved her hand along the board to another row of keys.
“ Here you go. You won’t hear a thing in this room.”
“ Thanks. You’re a doll,” Michelle said, turning her three-hundred-watt smile on the desk clerk.
At her room, she unlocked the door, pushed it open, and looked around. Tacky, with a dreadful harbor scene print over the headboard— screwed to the wall, as if someone might actually be tempted to steal such a thing. But the place was clean enough, and private. With a relieved sigh, she pulled off the short brown wig and the skullcap and, opening her suitcase, tucked both next to the Miriam hairdo, and shook out her own reddish-brown shoulder-length hair. Then she took off the earrings, removed the eye makeup, slipped into white cotton shorts and a white T-shirt, and lay down on the bed for a half-hour nap. That left plenty of time to get to the post office before closing and pick up the package she’d mailed to herself a week ago.
* * *
Two hours later, having run her errands, she was back in her room. With a big pair of scissors from a local drugstore, she cut through the thick packing tape on a package addressed to Michelle Danaher—nineteen inches by five by five, weighing a little over three and a half pounds. She had packed it well and addressed it in large print in black indelible marker, with fake return name and address in the upper left corner, before taking
Archer left the stall, paused for a second at the mirror to take in her new look, smiled myseriously, and moved out to the parking lot to find her Ford Taurus.
* * *
The afternoon traffic on the interstate was moderate. Archer stayed to the right and never exceeded the speed limit. Her ID was in order, but no need to put it to the test. She had reviewed the maps repeatedly on her first visit to scope out the job. She knew her highway exit, the neighborhood, and her street of interest as well as she knew her own hometown.
At Exit 33, she turned off the highway and drove to the Daisy Inn, a modest motel with no security cameras and a preference for payment in cash. She parked away from the front entrance. Registration at the Daisy Inn was still done manually, and the recordkeeping was slipshod at best. The motel was two blocks from her target’s home. She had made no reservation.
Archer sauntered in, chomping a piece of gum. The clerk, a young South Asian Muslim woman, looked up from the television with little interest. She shoved a form toward Archer, who filled it out using her fictitious Cincinnati address and a fake Ohio car license number. No need to put down the rental car tag. The more the trail was muddied, and the more dead ends inserted into the mix, the better her chances if worse came to worst. She chided herself for thinking of worse coming to worst. That had already happened.
Archer paid for one night in cash, all small bills. Nothing to draw attention to herself. If anyone remembered the girl from Cincinnati, all that could be said was, she had brown hair, was cute, and wore tight jeans. No relationship to the dowdy grandma from the airport, and certainly no relationship to Archer Loh of Lenox, Massachusetts.
As the desk clerk turned to get a key, Archer leaned forward. “Listen,” she said, “do you mind giving me a room away from the main street? I’ll be out late and I’ll want to sleep late, so something away from the noise would be wonderful.” She smiled conspiratorially. No need to be in front, where one’s comings and goings were more noticeable.
For the first time, the desk clerk showed signs of life—she understood. She nodded and smiled, then moved her hand along the board to another row of keys.
“ Here you go. You won’t hear a thing in this room.”
“ Thanks. You’re a doll,” Michelle said, turning her three-hundred-watt smile on the desk clerk.
At her room, she unlocked the door, pushed it open, and looked around. Tacky, with a dreadful harbor scene print over the headboard— screwed to the wall, as if someone might actually be tempted to steal such a thing. But the place was clean enough, and private. With a relieved sigh, she pulled off the short brown wig and the skullcap and, opening her suitcase, tucked both next to the Miriam hairdo, and shook out her own reddish-brown shoulder-length hair. Then she took off the earrings, removed the eye makeup, slipped into white cotton shorts and a white T-shirt, and lay down on the bed for a half-hour nap. That left plenty of time to get to the post office before closing and pick up the package she’d mailed to herself a week ago.
* * *
Two hours later, having run her errands, she was back in her room. With a big pair of scissors from a local drugstore, she cut through the thick packing tape on a package addressed to Michelle Danaher—nineteen inches by five by five, weighing a little over three and a half pounds. She had packed it well and addressed it in large print in black indelible marker, with fake return name and address in the upper left corner, before taking
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