Exposed - A Thriller Novella (Chandler Series) by J.A. Konrath & Ann Voss Peterson
themoften. Sometimes the best place to hide was in a crowd. Even so,negotiating the revolving door and stepping out into summer’s hotchaos on the flashing neon streets of New York overloaded mysenses. The smell of hot dogs on the street corner and falafel downthe block warred with exhaust and teeming humanity. The jangle ofcar horns and voices and the thump of a bass guitar assaulted mefrom various angles. The late morning was warmer, stickier, thanthe hotel lobby, a bit of autumn cool threatening to make anappearance but chickening out.I paused and forced myself to focus,cataloging each noise and smell and sight, becoming grounded in thenow. At the same time, I shut off part of myself—the part thatworried about applying makeup and got an ego boost from a gooddress and sexy shoes—and I let the other part take over.
The part that had been trained to kill peoplefor the government.
Dismissing the white noise and glitz and bigcity smells, I ignored what belonged there and singled out whatdidn’t.
Someone was watching me.
I glanced north to 46th Street.
A man stared at me, standing with his handsat his sides, on the curb next to a black Lincoln Town Car. He wasin his mid-thirties, handsome in that GQ kind of way, dressed in adark suit and sunglasses. It wasn’t his appearance or the car thatraised my notice—in midtown Manhattan, the only type of vehiclemore common than a black Town Car was a yellow taxi cab, and manyof the chauffeurs dressed as if they were auditioning for a role inthe Men In Black sequel. No, it was his air of calmness, ofstillness, of total focus, that was strong enough to raise the hairon my arms.
And in that split-second assessment, I judgedhim to be a dangerous man.
My contact, no doubt.
I made a quick visual sweep of the street tobe certain he was alone, and then I walked to the car. As Iapproached, he climbed out, circled to the curb, and reached forthe back door handle with his left hand.
“Miss Thomas?”
I nodded. “Hello, Eddie.”
“Going to the ballet?”
“How about the park?”
“Yes. They have ducks.”
I suppressed a smile, amused that the onlynoun beginning with the letter D he could manage on the flywas ducks. His danger vibe went down a notch.
He opened the door and I settled into theleather seat, then he circled back to his spot behind the wheel,and soon we joined the flow of cabs, limos, and deliverytrucks.
Traffic moved well, and it took less timethan I’d estimated for us to get through midtown, take the QueensMidtown Tunnel under the East River, and hit the Long IslandExpressway. Industrial landscapes gave way to shopping malls andcarefully managed green space, then on to nature preserves,beaches, and country clubs. I inched the window open. The scents ofsalt water and fresh cut grass tinged the air and the screech ofgulls rose over the whistling wind. The expressway dwindled towinding roads and the housing seemed to range from vacationmansions to vacation palaces.
“These aren’t nice men, you know.” The firstwords he’d said since I’d climbed in the car.
His face tilted up to the rearview mirror,and I met his stare.
“I’m not nice, either.”
I watched his lips turn up in the barest hintof a smile. “I know we’re strangers, but can we get on a code-namebasis?”
“Call me Chandler.”
“Call me Morrissey.”
I wished I could see his eyes, but they werehidden by his sunglasses. “Thanks for the tip, Morrissey.”
He swung the car into a long drive that woundthrough a copse of salt-stunted trees.
“They aren’t going to let you take her. Notwithout a fight. And they’re armed. You’re not.”
“How do you know I’m not?”
“Your purse doesn’t have anything heavierthan a cell phone in it. I can tell by how it hangs. And that dress… you couldn’t conceal anything in that dress.”
“Just make sure you’re ready to pick us upwhen you’re called.”
“I’ll be ready for more than that.”
The car emerged from foliage, and I caught myfirst glimpse of the house. All contemporary angles, glass andsprawl, it looked cold and hard and expensive. The blue of thewater beyond held the unreal look of a movie set.
I scooped in a breath of salt air. My bigbreak. Photos on the beach. My name is Claire Thomas, and TheBradford and Sims Modeling Agency is going to make me astar.
“Remember,” Morrissey said out of the cornerof his mouth, “she can’t be harmed.”
That again.
I was going to ask him what the deal was withthat when the front door opened, and a man wearing a blue poloshirt and gray trousers stepped out. Shoulders as wide as alinebacker’s, he squinted blue eyes into the sun, his scalp pinkunder blond stubble. He stood at the top of the staircase, a Tec-9submachine gun hanging under his arm on a strap.
What kind of modeling agency required thatmuch fire power?
“Follow my lead.” Morrissey gave me a finallook and stepped out of the car. He circled the Lincoln and openedmy door. Like a good chauffeur, he offered his hand to help me fromthe car.
I took it. His skin felt rough, a man used todoing more than driving for a living. Jacob hadn’t told me anythingabout him, but most likely his work was similar to mine. Though Ididn’t let on, I liked that he noticed my dress. After all this,maybe we’d have an opportunity to get together. There was no roomin my life for a real relationship, but that didn’t mean I had noneeds. Someone like him might be just the ticket. No strings, nocomplications.
He hauled me out into the sun and released myhand. I allowed myself to look him over as I followed him up thesteps. The stillness I’d noticed earlier left his body, and hisstride took on the swagger of a man who fancied himself a player.He tossed a look over his shoulder, pride with a hint of ownershipin his gaze, as if he’d just won a hand of blackjack in Vegas and Iwas his prize.
I had to wonder if I changed that drasticallywhen settling into character. Probably. It was hard to know whoanother person really was, but in this line of work it was