Beyond the Consequences
Page 51
The two men sat across the table from one another as Phil searched his tablet, typing furiously. “Stupid bitch.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “She couldn’t let it go.”
Eric nodded toward the tablet. “Can you verify her location?”
After a moment, Phil nodded. “The last time I checked, her virtual presence was still in London. Her login information was active from her place of employment and her home.” He continued to type. “I see here where she applied for a new credit card.” The blood drained from his face as his heartbeat intensified. “Shit. You’re right. She hasn’t logged in from work in the four days. The new credit card isn’t under the same name we gave her, but it’s here. She was dumb enough to use her work computer to complete the application.” The two men sat in silence as Phil read his screen. “Shit. Here’s an airplane ticket. She probably thought that if she bought it at the airport using the new credit card we wouldn’t know.”
Eric’s head moved slowly from side to side as he watched Phil.
When Phil looked up, his hazel eyes narrowed. “She’s fuck’n stupid. By tracing the card I can even see the hotel where she’s staying.”
Eric leaned forward. “In the States?”
“In Cedar Rapids.”
The air in the room dissipated as the sound of their breathing echoed. Finally, Eric asked, “Can you tell the room number?”
Phil swallowed as their eyes met. “Yes.”
“We gave her a chance—two really.”
Ignoring the exorbitant pressure, Phil clenched his teeth harder. “That was two too many. Don’t say a word to anyone—anyone. I’ll be back by morning.”
“I’m going with you,” Eric declared.
“No, you’re not. You’re staying here.” Phil didn’t wait for Eric’s response. He was in order mode. “Watch the gate, watch the monitors. There’s no guarantee she’s sitting in that hotel room. Fuck!” Phil’s voice rose. “She’s been here for three days. What if she’d—?”
“Like you said, she’s stupid. She doesn’t know we’re on to her.”
“She’s arrogant. She thought by using a new name on the airline and hotel reservations we wouldn’t be able to find her.” Phil leaned over his tablet and typed again. Only the sound of the clicking keys filled the air until he stood and said, “She has two tickets for her return flight to London, the day after tomorrow.”
“Two?”
“Yes, the second ticket is for a child.”
Eric nodded. “I’ll go to the security office right now and watch. If you need me, call. I’ll be there.”
“If anything happens, you don’t know a damned thing about this.”
“Are you kidding me? Nothing’s going to happen. I’ve done my homework too. You’ve got this.”
“I do,” Phil confirmed.
THE SKY WAS still dark as Phil drove back to the estate. Though perhaps he should feel remorse, he didn’t. Patricia planned to take Nichol back to Europe. He saw the evidence in her hotel room: the drugs to subdue her and the hair bleach to change her appearance. When it came down to his family or Patricia, the subject wasn’t open for discussion. This time he didn’t give her a chance to explain.
As soon as Phil found the airplane reservations he knew Patricia’s plans. Not only had she used a new alias for her trip, she also had an alias for Nichol. He found their fake passports when he cleaned out the hotel room. In his opinion, Patricia’s plan was confirmation of her ingenuity as well as her stupidity. The identification she had would lead the police to no one because Charlotte Peterson didn’t exist. Besides, it was winter in Iowa. The fields were frozen and covered with snow. Digging even a shallow grave was like digging through rock, but Phil did it. Unless her body was eaten by animals, which was a possibility, the insects would begin to feast in the spring. Soon after, the farmers would be out tilling their fields. Spring and autumn were the times of year when bodies were often discovered in rural America: planting and harvest season. After all, long desolate stretches of highway with nothing more than corn and soybean fields for miles and miles made the perfect dumping grounds. It happened all the time. In an attempt to further thwart police efforts at identification, Phil was kind enough to leave her identification—or her false ID. Without it, DNA tests would be done. Phil’s plan was that with the identification, evidence would be taken at face value: a woman named Charlotte Peterson was robbed, killed, and dumped. With a number of similar cases happening all the time, it was unlikely any further research would be performed. The case would be closed and another unclaimed body would be disposed of by the state.
At a little after 5:00 AM Phil quietly made his way to his apartment. The cooks would be up and moving about soon, and he hoped to avoid their prying eyes. It wasn’t until he closed his apartment door and turned around that he saw Taylor. She was sitting up from where she’d fallen asleep on his sofa.
“What the hell are you doing in here?”
Her blue eyes scanned him up and down, obviously taking in the caked mud on his boots and jeans. When she didn’t answer, he silently walked past her into his bedroom. Looking in the mirror he tried to imagine what she saw. Not only were his jeans and boots dirty, so was his jacket. Taking it off, he looked at his shirt beneath. The wrinkled cotton stuck to his skin, wet with perspiration. Thankfully there wasn’t any blood. Pulling his shirt over his head, he threw it toward a pile of laundry. As he did, he saw Taylor leaning against the doorjamb.
Eric nodded toward the tablet. “Can you verify her location?”
After a moment, Phil nodded. “The last time I checked, her virtual presence was still in London. Her login information was active from her place of employment and her home.” He continued to type. “I see here where she applied for a new credit card.” The blood drained from his face as his heartbeat intensified. “Shit. You’re right. She hasn’t logged in from work in the four days. The new credit card isn’t under the same name we gave her, but it’s here. She was dumb enough to use her work computer to complete the application.” The two men sat in silence as Phil read his screen. “Shit. Here’s an airplane ticket. She probably thought that if she bought it at the airport using the new credit card we wouldn’t know.”
Eric’s head moved slowly from side to side as he watched Phil.
When Phil looked up, his hazel eyes narrowed. “She’s fuck’n stupid. By tracing the card I can even see the hotel where she’s staying.”
Eric leaned forward. “In the States?”
“In Cedar Rapids.”
The air in the room dissipated as the sound of their breathing echoed. Finally, Eric asked, “Can you tell the room number?”
Phil swallowed as their eyes met. “Yes.”
“We gave her a chance—two really.”
Ignoring the exorbitant pressure, Phil clenched his teeth harder. “That was two too many. Don’t say a word to anyone—anyone. I’ll be back by morning.”
“I’m going with you,” Eric declared.
“No, you’re not. You’re staying here.” Phil didn’t wait for Eric’s response. He was in order mode. “Watch the gate, watch the monitors. There’s no guarantee she’s sitting in that hotel room. Fuck!” Phil’s voice rose. “She’s been here for three days. What if she’d—?”
“Like you said, she’s stupid. She doesn’t know we’re on to her.”
“She’s arrogant. She thought by using a new name on the airline and hotel reservations we wouldn’t be able to find her.” Phil leaned over his tablet and typed again. Only the sound of the clicking keys filled the air until he stood and said, “She has two tickets for her return flight to London, the day after tomorrow.”
“Two?”
“Yes, the second ticket is for a child.”
Eric nodded. “I’ll go to the security office right now and watch. If you need me, call. I’ll be there.”
“If anything happens, you don’t know a damned thing about this.”
“Are you kidding me? Nothing’s going to happen. I’ve done my homework too. You’ve got this.”
“I do,” Phil confirmed.
THE SKY WAS still dark as Phil drove back to the estate. Though perhaps he should feel remorse, he didn’t. Patricia planned to take Nichol back to Europe. He saw the evidence in her hotel room: the drugs to subdue her and the hair bleach to change her appearance. When it came down to his family or Patricia, the subject wasn’t open for discussion. This time he didn’t give her a chance to explain.
As soon as Phil found the airplane reservations he knew Patricia’s plans. Not only had she used a new alias for her trip, she also had an alias for Nichol. He found their fake passports when he cleaned out the hotel room. In his opinion, Patricia’s plan was confirmation of her ingenuity as well as her stupidity. The identification she had would lead the police to no one because Charlotte Peterson didn’t exist. Besides, it was winter in Iowa. The fields were frozen and covered with snow. Digging even a shallow grave was like digging through rock, but Phil did it. Unless her body was eaten by animals, which was a possibility, the insects would begin to feast in the spring. Soon after, the farmers would be out tilling their fields. Spring and autumn were the times of year when bodies were often discovered in rural America: planting and harvest season. After all, long desolate stretches of highway with nothing more than corn and soybean fields for miles and miles made the perfect dumping grounds. It happened all the time. In an attempt to further thwart police efforts at identification, Phil was kind enough to leave her identification—or her false ID. Without it, DNA tests would be done. Phil’s plan was that with the identification, evidence would be taken at face value: a woman named Charlotte Peterson was robbed, killed, and dumped. With a number of similar cases happening all the time, it was unlikely any further research would be performed. The case would be closed and another unclaimed body would be disposed of by the state.
At a little after 5:00 AM Phil quietly made his way to his apartment. The cooks would be up and moving about soon, and he hoped to avoid their prying eyes. It wasn’t until he closed his apartment door and turned around that he saw Taylor. She was sitting up from where she’d fallen asleep on his sofa.
“What the hell are you doing in here?”
Her blue eyes scanned him up and down, obviously taking in the caked mud on his boots and jeans. When she didn’t answer, he silently walked past her into his bedroom. Looking in the mirror he tried to imagine what she saw. Not only were his jeans and boots dirty, so was his jacket. Taking it off, he looked at his shirt beneath. The wrinkled cotton stuck to his skin, wet with perspiration. Thankfully there wasn’t any blood. Pulling his shirt over his head, he threw it toward a pile of laundry. As he did, he saw Taylor leaning against the doorjamb.
