Chapter Twenty-Six
Now
I spend Saturday doing chores around the house, catching up on e-mail, reading oppo research white papers on Bailey and Lowry that the political consultants have prepared for us, and going grocery shopping at a store about ten miles from where I usually shop.
On my way there, I pull into the parking lot of a busy shopping center, slip the battery into the burner phone, and turn it on.
There’s a text from Junior.
I’m looking forward to tomorrow night. ;)
I suppress a shudder but text him back.
Me, too. :)
I wait a moment, in case he’s going to reply soon, but he doesn’t.
This pre-paid burner phone is one of ten I paid cash for four years ago at a busy bodega in a suburb outside of Atlanta. That means it’s probably not traceable back to me, because I seriously doubt the place keeps their security tapes for more than a couple of months.
But I won’t let it ping anywhere I usually frequent, hence why I’m yanking the battery. I can’t be sure turning the power off is enough. The cops now have incredible ways of tracing and triangulating phone locations.
Also why I’m buying my groceries at a completely different store today, paying for them in cash, and have left both my work and personal cell phones at home.
Yes, I do spend Saturday night with Declan and George. Declan and I cook dinner, and then the three of us snuggle on the couch to watch TV. The men obviously had a play session earlier in the day, because Declan’s ass and the backs of his thighs are covered with fresh welts.
And George locked the boy in the chastity device, not letting him come because George wanted to save that for me.
Dammit, I do love that sadist.
That night, I let my mind be distracted by my boy’s eager attentions. George lies next to us in bed and watches, smiling and stroking his erection as Declan has fun making me come several times. I even pull George in and kiss him while Declan’s busy between my thighs.
Baby steps.
If tomorrow night goes horribly wrong for me, I wantthisgood memory, at least. Of looking into George’s blue eyes and remembering the hungry expression on his face, the blatant desire he has for me as he waits for Declan to finish so George can have him.
* * * *
With Declan asleep in the middle, I’m able to escape early Sunday morning, by 5:30, and return home. After working out and a shower, I go take care of one more errand, leaving my work and personal cell phones behind.
The problem with today’s age is that there are video cameras everywhere. Many homeowners have them—full security systems or even just the doorbell cameras. ATM cameras are good enough quality now that law enforcement can use them to check the street behind the machine. There are traffic cameras, and commercial security systems—they’re frickingeverywhere.
You pair that literal blanket of cameras with cell phone location triangulation, and law enforcement can determine a window of time and then whittle down the location and start scouring cameras in a particular area to see what vehicles passed by when.
Enough triangulation, and enough video camera footage, and you can effectively track a vehicle, even if it’s an older one without built-in GPS features.
That’s why I have to be careful.
There’s no one at the law offices today. I let myself in and leave the alarm disarmed. We don’t have motion detectors, because we have one of those automated robot vacuum cleaners that runs around after hours.
I don a long, brown wig and a hat that shadows my face, along with oversized dark sunglasses. Leaving the security system off and locking the front door behind me, I walk down the block and cut through a small park until I reach the ancient storage facility where I have a small unit rented, and have for years. I pay cash a year at a time under an assumed name.
Ellen’s name.
Well, her middle and maiden name—Louise Turner. She rented it for me years ago so my name wasn’t on it. I’d needed a place to stash some items for a client going through a rough divorce, personal belongings that weren’t part of the settlement but which my client knew her soon-to-be-ex-husband would destroy if he got his hands on them, once he discovered she’d filed.
And, of course, the husband’s attorney objected once we were involved in everything, and tried to nail me on it, claiming he believed I had a storage unit for my client.
“No, your honor. I do not have a storage unit.” I didn’t have to lie. “And I’ll be happy to submit my financials if opposing counsel wants to go through them.” Needless to say, the guy didn’t call me on it, because he knew if I was happy to open my financials that they wouldn’t find anything there.
