Page 49 of Beauty and the Assassin
The second Monique leads us to the dressing area, I take the couch that’s the best situated for securing the area and keeping Angelika and Lizochka safe. There are mirrors set in such a way that I have a clear view of all three entrances to the room, plus the couch Elizabeth took, and where Angelika enters and exits from the dressing room.
An assistant brings me a sweet dessert I don’t care for, but gives Lizochka and my little fawn some boring fruit and yogurt. That’s Lizochka’s favorite, but not the fawn’s, not from the longing glance she tosses at the tray resting next to me.
Perhaps it hasn’t occurred to Monique that Angelika might want something other than fruit and yogurt. It’s a virtual certainty that the women who come here are on some diet or other. And they try to make themselves as thin as possible before trying on clothes, like their pride depends on how small the size is.
Except they all look like they’re dressed up as overstuffed wieners on Halloween when they force their bodies into clothes too small to fit correctly.
While Angelika’s trying on clothes, I turn on the tablet and put together a quick dossier on her. Lizochka can review it tonight before the internship interview tomorrow. I do it for all the candidates for positions at the Pryce Family Foundation. After all, we can’t hire people who are going to be problematic. That would detract from the foundation’s mission, which would upset Lizochka.
I make sure to include all the hardships the little fawn has suffered. It isn’t difficult, especially with Roy after her, and it will even inspire empathy in Lizochka, since she herself has suffered the same thing. However, I omit the blood debt Roy Wilks owes me.
That spineless jackal killed Lyosha’s mother—Katya. And it was my son’s tenth birthday wish that the bad guy who hurt his mommy would pay. I haven’t found a good way to do that while raising him and doing my job protecting Lizochka. But at last I have the means to make his wish come true.
Lizochka doesn’t need to know that level of detail. It would only upset her. I don’t want Angelika knowing, either. What Roy did to Katya—may her soul rest in peace—has nothing to do with her.
Once the dossier is complete and sent off, I go over what I managed to extract from Angelika’s phone. It wasn’t a difficult hack. Her device is old and hasn’t been updated in years. I actually had to find an older version of my favorite tracking app to put on it because it was that ancient.
I want to know what she’s been up to since her parents’ deaths.
Her contact list has thirty-six entries. I make a note to check them all.
The call log shows fifty-two unknown numbers. I add them to the list.
She doesn’t have a lot of people she keeps in touch with, which is smart and the best way to stay safe. So many people just can’t leave the past behind when they run. But every time they make contact, they’re leaving breadcrumbs for a predator to follow. It’s especially easy these days with electronic surveillance.
I scan the data for frequency of calls. One name recurs throughout the years: Courtney.
It doesn’t take long to pull up her profile. Courtney Young. Currently living in Philadelphia. Twenty-six years old. Caucasian female. Murky green eyes. Bottle blonde, originally brunette. Two DUIs. Two shoplifting charges. One arrest for assault, pled it down to a minor misdemeanor.
My, my, my. Aren’t you interesting? She doesn’t fit what I imagined Angelika’s friend would be. If Courtney had shared her wild antics, I might’ve thought my little fawn likes to live bad vicariously. But that isn’t the case at all. Courtney rarely says much about herself. She’s mostly interested in how Angelika’s doing. She also never calls. Text only. No photos.
I don’t like people who always text. You can hide so much in texts. On the other hand, she’s making it easier for me to establish a timeline of contacts and have an exact record of conversations.
Pros and cons. Always pros and cons.
I glance up and look at Angelika’s clothes. The mustard-yellow top is cute. But the pale cream one she tried on earlier was far superior. Besides, it fit over her breasts better.
A beautiful woman should have the confidence to strut a little.
I flag a clerk and ask her to send my tray to the fawn. She’s going to need it. Lizochka has boundless energy for shopping, but my fawn’s reserves are still depleted.
A woman needs to keep up her energy. And that means more than yogurt and fruit.
I let the system run the unknown numbers from Angelika’s phone and watch her eat. She does like it’s a sensual experience. Those whiskey eyes soften and take on a dreamy, faraway look. Then her tongue flicks out, licking around her mouth and the spoon, like she can’t bear to miss even the tiniest bit.
If I kissed her, would she taste like tart and chocolate and berries? Would her tongue come out to stroke against mine? My guess is that she’d be experimental and slightly tentative. She’s the cautious type. She only got brave yesterday because of the package. She didn’t say anything about it, but I don’t need an explanation.
Besides, she didn’t put on the underwear from the box this morning, which is sitting in a living room corner at home. As a matter of fact, she didn’t bother to ask if I collected it off the garage floor when I dragged her home.
The return address is a PO box in some small shit town in Michigan nobody’s ever heard of. It’s dilapidated, its population declining like a sandbag with a hole in the bottom.
You can’t give away houses there. But it’s a great place for a thug like him to get his mail. I’d stake my rifle collection the bastard’s residing in another city within a two- to three-hour drive.
He didn’t become the Dealer to live in a pathetic little house in a pathetic little town.
Lizochka is saying something about Angelika needing underwear, and Angelika vanishes inside the dressing room. I scan the output, which is as expected from someone smart enough to run for years. Most of the numbers are spam, marketing or robo-calls from politicians begging for votes. There are two that intrigue me, but they’re inactive now—a dead end.
After about an hour or so of fussing and going back and forth, my little fawn seems to be done selecting all the bras and panties she needs. Monique sends a few evening gowns and cocktail dresses into the dressing room.
