"Go ahead."
"Why can't a bicycle stand up by itself?"
"Fuck you, Viper."
"Because it's two-tired."
"You're lucky I don't know where you're stationed."
He cackled like a teenager.
Again, I ignored him.
The target owned several cars and Viper's been running them all through the system these past two days, looking for any interesting stories. This Lexus was the last vehicle for us to check.
"He's headed west on Olive." My hands rested easy on the grips. I kept to the left, just two car-lengths back. "Distance is clean." The part of the job I didn't enjoy was talking on the move. It was too noisy. Most operatives drove cars. Communicating inside an enclosed space was much easier.
I had to be different. I needed my Ducati and I needed my vocal cords to hurt way too often. What I did like is the freedom riding a bike gave me during my job.
I heard Viper make a fake yawn. "You should see the server logs from this clown's office. You'd think the guy invented encrypted email," he half-shouted. "Hell, maybe he did. Hey—remind me to run a cross-check against Silicon Valley's Most Punchable List. If I'm not on it by next quarter, we riot."
"Let's talk later." I didn't enjoy when he got all nerdy on a job, but Viper never took the hint. Or maybe he did.
"Later, later, alligator." Another click and he disappeared.
I felt something a lot like relief. Even though feeling things in general wasn't part of my brain's programming.
The target changed lanes, gunned the Lexus toward the on-ramp. He merged into the swelling tide of commuters heading for the outer neighborhoods. I made a note—sudden acceleration, mild risk-taker, possibly nervous. Or just in a hurry to reach the next point on his grid.
He took an exit I didn't expect. Not home. Not gym. Not the usual dinner spot.
"Viper, come in."
"At your service."
"Track shows deviation."
There was a pause while Viper did whatever it was he did in his cave of monitors and fast-food wrappers. Or at least that's how I imagined his workstation. "Copy that. Looks like he's headed to Ritz-Carlton. That's his once a week stop for the past three months. Days differ through. North garage. Self-park entrance. Doesn't want witnesses. Guess who's getting laid tonight?" He cackled on the line again.
I didn't comment.
A few minutes later, I glided the Ducati into the same garage. Chose a spot behind a pillar, helmet still on, scanned for the target. He was already inside, heading across the lobby. He held the phone to his face, smiling leerily.
Thirty-four seconds later, I saw him meeting a woman by the restaurant entrance. Blonde, six-inch heels, teeth like a chain of pearls. No pretense of affection. Escort, not girlfriend, I deduced. They had a couple of quick drinks at the bar, then headed over to the elevators.
I relayed it to Viper, "He's with a rental. Five-eight, green dress, Louis Vuitton purse."
Viper hummed. "Crystal B from Newport, five hundred an hour. Should've sprung for the VIP package, but maybe he's on a budget this week."
I suppressed a sigh. "Time stamp and alert when he leaves."
"Roger-dodger."
I sat in the lobby behind the massive plant in the corner, pretending to be reading a magazine. The hood of my sweatshirt I wore under my leather jacket was pulled low over my forehead. No camera would show my face.
I watched the street through the glass wall of the hotel. Time slowed toa crawl of a typical LA traffic jam. I used the downtime to review the target's dossier on my phone.
Finance prodigy, two time TED speaker, rumored oxy habit, sealed police report from when he was seventeen. No direct connection to the Valmonts except his friendship with Caius Valmont he developed during their college days. They all ran in the same orbit—hedge funds, start-ups, charity galas with cover fees higher than my annual stipend. And I made good money. No information on the case from three years ago.
