Dylan
LATER THAT EVENING, on our official first day of sleuthing, Addison and I formed an epic plan. We studied the pictures laid out on the desk again, and checked the clock for the hundredth time.
“An hour and a half,” Addison said, clapping her hands together. “I wonder if we should just head over there now...in case we hit traffic.”
I grinned, happy to see her so stoked about our firstjob together. Greg’s office was just across the river—maybe fifteen minutes away in heavy traffic—but neither of us could contain our excitement enough to sit still. Addison and I were both still dressed in the skirt, blouse, and heels we’d interviewed in. The new camera was packed and ready, as were our guns, pepper spray, flashlights, snacks, drinks, napkins, ski masks, blankets, folding chairs,headphones, and Kindles. Turns out Addison was no slouch at planning stakeouts, and we were going to be both comfortable and well-entertained. The only things we were missing were personal potties, and yeah, we’d looked at them but decided there was no way we could pee in public. When the time came, we’d have to find a restroom.
“Maybe we should go to the bathroom first,” I suggested, alreadyfeeling the pressure of my bladder not having immediate access to facilities.
“Good plan,” Addison agreed.
After taking care of business, we forwarded the office phone to Addison’s cell, packed up the pictures, and carried everything down to Addison’s Mercedes. Her car was never more than a year old because her dad upgraded it for her every birthday. This year’s model was iridium-silver metallicwith a sunroof and custom rims. In the east Portland industrial district, we’d stand out like cotton candy in a field of kale. It’d be a miracle if someone didn’t steal her tires and leave the car on blocks while we were in it. Still, it was better than taking my hooptie that guzzled oil and backfired like a twenty-gauge every time I started it up.
We loaded up the gear and headed out, pullinginto the parking lot of Bridge City Accounting almost an hour before Greg’s shift ended.
“Where should I park?” Addison asked, scanning the lot.
The building had multiple tenants, which would help us not be too conspicuous, but the lot was open, without many options for cover.
“Maybe between that van and SUV,” I suggested, pointing.
Addison parked and got the camera out of the bag. “There’shis car,” she said, pointing at a silver Prius. “What do you suppose she sees in him?”
“Who? The wife or the side piece?”
“Either. Both.” She pulled Greg’s photo out of the file. “Look at him. He’s definitely not all that.”
Greg was thirty-seven, with brown hair, average features (not ugly, but a long way from jaw-dropping hot), and the body of a gym rat. He worked as an accountant and wasuninterested in marriage counseling when his wife had suggested it three months ago. “Uh...he’s got a job, he’s in shape, and he’s probably economical.”
Addison rolled her eyes and continued to study the picture. “He must be really great in bed.”
I laughed. “Or there’s that.”
I pulled out my Kindle and read as Addison checked her e-mail. At about ten till five, people started filing out ofthe office building, so I put away my Kindle and watched. Greg emerged from his office building at exactly 5:12. The parking lot was a happening place, which made it easy for us to blend in with the other vehicles as we followed him out of the driveway. Well, as much as a new Mercedes can blend in.
“What are you doing?” I asked when she let a car get between us and Greg.
