Daddy's Little Killer Read Free Page B

exactly who they
were looking for – Helen Eriksson, too tall, too thin, dressed
perpetually head-to-toe in black, hair nondescript in its tight bun
at the nape of her neck, no makeup, dark horn-rimmed glasses hiding
her eyes.  They probably started pinging the GPS in my car the
moment that Rick's body was discovered.  As for my telephones,
I had no doubt that they knew every call I made or received for the
past two years.
    I flung my Blackberry out the window of the
car when I started across the Key Bridge.   Probably my
imagination, but I was certain I heard it splash into the
Potomac.  The Fashion Centre in Pentagon City would be a
one-stop shopping spree.  Between Nordstrom's and Macy's, I
could replace clothing and purchase luggage.  A local salon in
the shopping complex could give me a new cut and style. 
Harris-Teeter would supply a box of hair color.  BestBuy would
offer a wide variety of pre-paid cell phones that could not so
easily be traced to me, particularly if I paid cash. 
    I patted my purse.  Agent Seleeby had a
few buttons he wasn't aware were so easily accessed.  I pushed
every single one of them to first annoy and then refocus his
curiosity on my awareness that we were being watched.  I
shouldn’t have doubted Seleeby's ignorance.  David would've
sent another team along without telling anyone if it meant keeping
track of me. 
    The GPS in the car was a problem.  I
arrived in Pentagon City and parked at the metro station in a
tow-away zone.  Problem solved.
    Seleeby missed the wallet entirely when he
rifled through my purse in a quick once over.  Had he looked
inside, he would've found an ungodly number of $100 bills and
identification that did not belong to the Helen Eriksson they were
investigating.  Dad's plan B and beyond thing was truly
ingrained in my DNA.  I wasn't foolish enough to keep any of
it in a bank, where a simple warrant would've opened a safety
deposit box.  No, I kept my cards close to the vest, and the
means to move on in a simple lock box inside Rick's safe in the
den. 
    I've been carrying around plan B since I
thundered through the underbrush to play the role of grieving
ex-wife.  Hope is a crock of shit.  My head and my heart
knew it would come to this.
    The complex in Pentagon City is designed for
tourists and residents alike.  The metro station is located
across the street from The Fashion Centre – a mall that refuses to
be named such – and within walking distance is a Ritz-Carlton
Hotel.  The alternate identification would come in handy, as
would my change in appearance prior to check-in.  As far as
David and his spies were concerned, I simply drove to the metro,
hopped on and disappeared for parts unknown.
    Meanwhile, I could spend a night or two in a
comfortable hotel, buy some necessities, take a taxi to Reagan
Airport and vanish on my terms. 
    I dashed into the mall first and purchased a
pair of jeans, sandals and a blouse from Banana Republic.  The
mourning garb got tossed into the trash on my way out of the
store.  It was a short jog around the block to
Harris-Teeter.  My hair is naturally chestnut with golden
blonde highlights.  Black was the obvious choice for a drastic
change in my appearance, but I couldn't quite let go of my little
bit of Dad that easily.  His hair, while probably quite gray
now, used to be nearly the same color.  Stripping that
similarity away seemed a step too far from who I really am.  I
grabbed a box of medium golden blonde and a cheap beach towel off
the rack and asked where the restroom was.
    The girl who took my money was an average
teenager working her summer job, vaguely disinterested in anything
that wasn't Facebook or Twitter or a text message on her cell
phone.  She glanced up at me briefly, more holes punched in
her face than natural orifices, and jerked her head at the sign to
her left.  I waited patiently for her to count out the change
the register told her was due me and shoved it into the pocket