Read Online Love You Dead by Peter James - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Peter James
Tags: Thrillers, Crime, Mystery, Mystery; Thriller & Suspense, Crime Fiction, Murder, Thrillers & Suspense, Police Procedurals
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suitcase on the bed, then began to check the money. It was in bundles, each wrapped with a paper band marked $10,000. She counted twenty. Jesus! $200,000. A very nice
surprise and sweet compensation after the shit she had been through in Muscutt’s office today.
She removed the bundles of bills and stashed them, spreading them between her own three large suitcases, interweaving them with her clothes, as well as putting some in her hand luggage. She was
wondering whether to take his case with her, to avoid it being found here, then stopped and decided to check it for any tracking device that might be in it.
She unzipped the side pocket, but it was empty. Then she ran her hands round the interior lining. And felt a small lump.
She went over to the fruit bowl, which had already been replenished, the knife replaced with a clean one by the turn-down service; picking up the knife, she cut open the suitcase’s lining,
shooting a nervous glance towards the door every few moments. How long before Romeo woke up – and found out what was missing?
She slipped her hand inside the lining and pulled out a plain white envelope with a small object inside it. She slit it open and saw, inside, a shiny black USB memory stick.
Why was this hidden in the lining?
She looked at her watch. 9.40 p.m. Was it too late to get a night flight out of here?
She put the memory stick back in the envelope and zipped it securely in a pocket inside her handbag. She had a feeling that to have been so carefully hidden, it must have a value. She would call
Romeo Munteanu when she got back to England, she decided, in her addled mind, and find out how much he would be willing to offer for the return of the memory stick.
Or maybe not.
After all, two hundred thousand greenbacks, at today’s exchange rate, wasn’t a bad return for one evening’s work.
Hardly the millions she had been expecting from Walt Klein. But not to be sneered at.
She hastily finished packing her bags, transferred the packet of white powder from her clutch to her handbag, then looked at the suitcase, debating what to do with it. She stepped out, looking
around cautiously, went a short distance down the corridor and put it in the laundry room, then hurried back and phoned down for a porter.
For the next few minutes she paced around, nervously waiting. When the doorbell pinged a few minutes later, she checked the spyhole before opening the door. She asked the porter to get her a
taxi to Newark Airport, gave him a twenty-dollar bill and said she would see him outside.
Again, warily, she went out into the corridor and took the elevator down. She scanned the almost deserted lobby before she stepped out, feeling relieved it wasn’t under siege from the
paparazzi. She cancelled the limousine she had booked for the morning, checked out, fearful that Romeo Munteanu would appear at any moment, and hurried out through the revolving door into the
bitterly cold Manhattan night.
The porter showed her the suitcases, safely stowed in the trunk of the yellow cab, before slamming the lid.
Moments later she sat back in the cramped rear, as the elderly, turbaned driver headed out across Columbus Circle.
‘Newark?’ he said. ‘Which airline?’
‘Change of plan, I’ll tell you in a minute,’ she said, tapping the Google app on her iPhone, searching for any flights out of here, on any airline, to the UK tonight. Or,
alternatively, any flight out of here tonight to anywhere.
13
Wednesday 18 February
Three minutes later, Jodie said to the cab driver, ‘LaGuardia, please.’
A siren wailed.
Shit. Her nerves were jangling.
A police car screamed alongside them, Jodie held her breath. But it carried on past them down Central Park South and bullied its way through the stop lights at the junction with Fifth
Avenue.
She pulled her laptop out of her handbag, opened it and inserted the memory stick she’d found in the suitcase. After some moments a new icon appeared on her desktop. She
surprise and sweet compensation after the shit she had been through in Muscutt’s office today.
She removed the bundles of bills and stashed them, spreading them between her own three large suitcases, interweaving them with her clothes, as well as putting some in her hand luggage. She was
wondering whether to take his case with her, to avoid it being found here, then stopped and decided to check it for any tracking device that might be in it.
She unzipped the side pocket, but it was empty. Then she ran her hands round the interior lining. And felt a small lump.
She went over to the fruit bowl, which had already been replenished, the knife replaced with a clean one by the turn-down service; picking up the knife, she cut open the suitcase’s lining,
shooting a nervous glance towards the door every few moments. How long before Romeo woke up – and found out what was missing?
She slipped her hand inside the lining and pulled out a plain white envelope with a small object inside it. She slit it open and saw, inside, a shiny black USB memory stick.
Why was this hidden in the lining?
She looked at her watch. 9.40 p.m. Was it too late to get a night flight out of here?
She put the memory stick back in the envelope and zipped it securely in a pocket inside her handbag. She had a feeling that to have been so carefully hidden, it must have a value. She would call
Romeo Munteanu when she got back to England, she decided, in her addled mind, and find out how much he would be willing to offer for the return of the memory stick.
Or maybe not.
After all, two hundred thousand greenbacks, at today’s exchange rate, wasn’t a bad return for one evening’s work.
Hardly the millions she had been expecting from Walt Klein. But not to be sneered at.
She hastily finished packing her bags, transferred the packet of white powder from her clutch to her handbag, then looked at the suitcase, debating what to do with it. She stepped out, looking
around cautiously, went a short distance down the corridor and put it in the laundry room, then hurried back and phoned down for a porter.
For the next few minutes she paced around, nervously waiting. When the doorbell pinged a few minutes later, she checked the spyhole before opening the door. She asked the porter to get her a
taxi to Newark Airport, gave him a twenty-dollar bill and said she would see him outside.
Again, warily, she went out into the corridor and took the elevator down. She scanned the almost deserted lobby before she stepped out, feeling relieved it wasn’t under siege from the
paparazzi. She cancelled the limousine she had booked for the morning, checked out, fearful that Romeo Munteanu would appear at any moment, and hurried out through the revolving door into the
bitterly cold Manhattan night.
The porter showed her the suitcases, safely stowed in the trunk of the yellow cab, before slamming the lid.
Moments later she sat back in the cramped rear, as the elderly, turbaned driver headed out across Columbus Circle.
‘Newark?’ he said. ‘Which airline?’
‘Change of plan, I’ll tell you in a minute,’ she said, tapping the Google app on her iPhone, searching for any flights out of here, on any airline, to the UK tonight. Or,
alternatively, any flight out of here tonight to anywhere.
13
Wednesday 18 February
Three minutes later, Jodie said to the cab driver, ‘LaGuardia, please.’
A siren wailed.
Shit. Her nerves were jangling.
A police car screamed alongside them, Jodie held her breath. But it carried on past them down Central Park South and bullied its way through the stop lights at the junction with Fifth
Avenue.
She pulled her laptop out of her handbag, opened it and inserted the memory stick she’d found in the suitcase. After some moments a new icon appeared on her desktop. She
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