TWENTY-SIX

Vitoria made the trip back from Ricardo’s West Point house to Caldwell in under twenty-five minutes. Then again, at this late night hour of ten o’clock, there was little traffic to speak of, and she was already refining her route and discovering shortcuts. As she drove along in her rental car, she hummed to the Latino station she had found on the radio, her manicured forefinger tapping on the top of the wheel.

She was not returning to the gallery, however.

No, no. Instead of getting off at the second exit for downtown, she stayed on the highway. A few miles farther north, she removed herself from the interstate and entered a part of the city that was technically suburban, but in terms of architecture, more akin to the financial district with its modernist houses made from concrete, steel, and great panes of glass.

This made so much sense, she thought as her old-fashioned map’s directions took her deeper into the land of people who preferred to spend their wealth on ugly things to fill cold, barren spaces.

It was absolutely perfect.

After some manner of recalculation, the house she had come in search of was located through the maze of streets—and its location on the very edge of the community’s homogeny was logical as well.

Vitoria drove past the address once…made a fat circle by taking a series of left-hand turns…and then passed it again.

The abode was two-storied, with an open room to one side that was all glass, and some manner of wings out to the back. Compared to the others, it was much smaller and on a lot that wasn’t quite as well planted or illuminated, an almost-there as opposed to an I-have-arrived.

If it were a plant, one would hope to water and repot it over time so that it could grow into fruition to match the others around it.

But that was not the way real estate worked. And once again, it was as she had expected.

Finding an appropriate place to park was something worth considering seriously, and she settled on a small park a quarter of a mile away. Before exiting the rental, she put the hood up on the black parka she had donned and slipped her burner phone into a pocket with a zipper.

As she got out, she looked around without moving her head. The night was so cold, casual pedestrians were staying indoors, and the few-and-far-betweens who were out with their dogs were tucked into their bodies and glaring at their four-legged friends.

Vitoria strode off, backtracking to the house.

She entered onto the property via the road behind it, slipping through a stand of evergreen bushes that had been clipped into a horizontal wave pattern.

No dog fence, but she could have guessed no pets.

As she halted and surveyed the house, she thought…oh, how she loved all that glass. So much to visualize before she broke in, so much helpful information.

And there it was…there was what she had come for: Yes, the homeowner was on the premises. And drinking a glass of white wine in a black silk robe.

Vitoria stayed where she was, watching, waiting. When no one else appeared, she closed in, crossing over the lawn in the shadows because the house was lit from within, not without.

The garage had an exterior door on its far side, and in another stroke of luck, she did not have to pick a lock. The thing gave way like a good host, allowing her access into a two-car space, which had only one vehicle—a four- or five-year-old white Mercedes—parked directly in the center.

This was just getting easier.

There were three bare wooden steps to the steel door leading to the home’s interior, and as Vitoria went up them, first, second…third, she curled up a fist in the black leather gloves she’d put on.

Knock, knock, knock.

Then she stepped back down onto the poured concrete floor and waited, making sure she was off to one side a little.

The door swung open, the figure in the black robe with the glass of pale wine backlit by the lights of the hall behind.

“Hello?” came the impatient demand as the homeowner patted the wall beside them for the light switch. “Jonathan? Did you forget your key—”

Vitoria pulled the trigger on the gun in her hand, discharging three bullets that were silenced beautifully by the suppressor she had screwed onto the muzzle’s tip.

Miss Margot Fortescue’s arms jerked up, that wine thrown over her shoulder in a splash, her feet tripping over themselves as she fell backward.

Vitoria leapt onto the top step and caught the door, holding it wide.

Miss Fortescue was gasping like a fish, her perfectly pale skin going paler as her blood pressure began to fail, her hands clawing at the gray tile she was on. The slippery robe had fallen open and there were three spots of blood on the white silk nightgown beneath.

Vitoria angled the gun and pulled the trigger three more times, drilling more slugs into that chest, even though she was certain she had accomplished her goal with the first trio.

No more movement after that. No gasping, either.

The door was weighted to close on its own, but as she didn’t want any noise, she guided it into place silently.

Then she left as she had come in, rounding the Mercedes and exiting back into the yard. Jogging over to the wavy hedge, she stepped through the bushes—

Stopping short, she did not move.

One of those dog owners and his animal were walking down the street on the other side, the pair moving fast, the owner because he was cold, the standard poodle because he was energized, perhaps by a recent defecation.

Vitoria got her gun back out of its holster. She would much prefer not to use the weapon again, as killing potential witnesses could become an exponential thing, with bodies piling up like cordwood. She would do what she must, however.

If the pair were lucky, the dog would not scent anything. Would not look over and start barking. Would not cause the owner to investigate the source of canine engagement.

And wasn’t that the theme of the evening, Vitoria thought. Keeping to oneself and one’s own business was, in so many situations, the very best way of ensuring one’s long-term health and well-being.