“He won’t see twenty if he carries on like this.”
“Justin messed up, but the operation’s still on,” she reassures me. “Amy Hutchinson is a creature of self-serving habits. She won’t be home.”
Nearly five weeks of surveillance has shown that every Sunday Amy goes with a friend to watch the noon show at an art-house cinema. It’s now one-thirty p.m. If Amy follows her usual pattern, she’ll be there for another two hours. Justin is supposed to be on surveillance to confirm Amy leaving her house, but he phoned Nolene—and not me, which is probably survival instinct kicking in—to say he was unable to make it.
I pick up the emergency burner phone and dial Amy’s landline. There’s no answer. I hang up. “Okay, the operation’s still on.”
Nolene nods and turns into the entrance to Blue Crane Golf Estate, where Amy owns a house. She steers the RAV toward the boom marked for visitors. There are three cars ahead of us.
My gaze skims over Nolene. She looks nothing like her usual self. A frumpy dress hides a well-toned body even gym gorillas take a second look at. Thick glasses obscure most of her attractive face and an auburn wig covers her short, black hair. She looks years older than thirty.
My only disguise is a cap, sunglasses, and a beard I can’t wait to shave.
We’re silent as we wait for the vehicles in front of us to be cleared.
When it’s our turn, an estate security guard, logbook in hand, greets us cheerfully. “Who are you visiting?”
“We’re here to see the showhouse,” Nolene replies.
“There are many on show today. Which one?”
Nolene takes out her phone and shows him the house on the realtor’s website. Residents of Blue Crane Golf Estate are protective of their privacy. Realizing a lot of gawkers use the pretext of Sunday show days to gain access to the gated community, homeowners insist all potential buyers produce some form of proof to prove their seriousness.
The security guard studies the screen. Stooping slightly, he peers through the open window and grins at me. “Jacuzzi in the living room, my friend.”
With my sunglasses concealing my surprise, I manage a grin back. “That will sell it for me.”
Still chuckling, the guard hands the visitor’s logbook to Nolene. She fills in all the relevant information: name, address, telephone number. All false.
“Have a fine day, my friends.” The guard lifts the boom up and waves us through.
Nolene pulls away and I adjust the rearview mirror so I can study the guard. I watch him toss a grinning remark to the occupants of the car behind us and the tightness in my chest eases. We weren’t singled out.
“Is the guard a problem?” Nolene asks, her knuckles white on the wheel.
“He’s fine.”
“Can you believe what he said?”
“He was being friendly.”
“The nerve of him! It’s not his job to be friendly. He should know his place.” Driving slowly through the estate, she readjusts the mirror and mutters an obscene name under her breath.
“Leave it alone,” I warn her. I’m tired of these arguments, tired of battling a prejudice she’s been fed since birth. Nolene may believe she’s discarded most of her parents’ teaching, but I know she still lives on the fumes of her privileged upbringing. I’ve observed way too many discrepancies festering inside her. And the more I listen to comments like this, the more put off I am.
My silence must have communicated my displeasure, because Nolene flicks me a conciliatory smile and squeezes my hand. “Getting in was easy. Your idea to use a show day is a good one.”
I withdraw my hand. “We haven’t got her yet.”
Nolene’s plan was to kidnap Amy once she left the estate. Electrified perimeter walls and twenty-four-hour security, she argued, made the estate too difficult to access. But I wasn’t happy about snatching Amy in a public place. In her own home, Amy would be relaxed, her guard down. And she’d be alone.
Sunday show days are the most disturbingly simple way to enter the estate. With over five hundred houses inside and hundreds of vehicles passing through the gates every day, the likelihood of anyone remembering us is remote.
Nolene drives for a while before pulling into a parking space marked for visitors. I reach for the door handle and she grabs my arm. “Be careful.”
“I will be.”
“If you think it’s not going to work, just get out without her.”
