but he was growing bored. He wanted a new challenge, yet something that took advantage of his unique people skills and his experience in the organization.
He went into the backyard and took off his rubber gloves. He slipped the bags from his shoes, stuck them all in his pocket, and ran in place for a moment, consciously keeping his gaze averted from the dead Golden Retriever. Nothing pained him more than killing an innocent animal, but there were unpleasant aspects to any line of work.
Once he worked up a sweat, Delbert hit the street, just another lean, healthy, clean-cut jogger in his mid-thirties. Seattle was full of them, but not many of them killed for a living.
He jogged down East Laurelhurst, every so often catching a view of Lake Washington between the formal houses fronting the shore, and leisurely making his way the four or five miles to the university, where his rental car was parked. It would rain soon, as it always did in Seattle, and he'd be safely in his Ford Taurus before the first, thick droplets came down. He'd dispose of the bags and the sweatsuit downtown on his way to the airport.
It fell good to run. It cleared the mind, opened the pores, and gave him a chance to get some perspective, away from the pressures of his workaday world. He was strictly a contract worker now, which suited his need for independence. But he was growing tired of seeing only small pieces of the big picture, tired of being a vital cog in a larger machine.
It was time to get noticed, to get himself on the fast track and into middle management. Maybe run an operation that would get him noticed higher up. He started sending out some feelers a few weeks ago, but all he got was more of the same, doubleheaders and groups. Sure, killing paid the bills, but it didn't tap his real potential.
He jogged into the cement parking structure and scaled the stairs to the third level, where his car was parked in a dark corner. As soon as he was inside, the cellular phone in the glove box began to trill. He picked it up.
It was his travel agent. His trip to Baltimore was being cancelled, and there would be a new ticket waiting for him at the airport.
"Where am I going?" he asked her.
"Los Angeles."
"What am I going to do?" he asked.
"Produce."
He didn't know what that meant, but he had a feeling it was what he had been waiting for.
CHAPTER THREE
T he three-bedroom house on a quiet, tree-lined street in Reseda did not impress Alice Doss. Neither did Charlie's 1992 Camaro.
It was bad enough when he picked her up in a late-model, American car. She had been expecting something sleek and European. That was the first surprise. When Charlie cruised off the Reseda boulevard off-ramp, she was clearly stunned when he turned right, heading north, rather than left, heading south and across Ventura, the wide thoroughfare that cut across the valley at the base of the Santa Monica Mountains. She was expecting some stunning hillside mansion. Everyone who was anybody lived south of the boulevard.
Now came surprise number three.
He lived in a typical valley neighborhood, north of the boulevard, that is. Dozens of small, boxy houses that were hurriedly snapped together in the deafening reverberations of the baby boom.
The boom had long since ebbed. In its wake, crickets fought to be heard over the sounds of MTV, barking dogs, and people fighting over the bathroom. Each house had only one.
"This your house?" she asked.
Charlie pulled up to the curb and glanced out at the overgrown grass, peeling picket fence, and the clump of weeds strangling his juniper hedge. He couldn't bring himself to hire another gardener. This one might run off with his dog.
"Home sweet home," Charlie replied, pocketing the keys and getting out. Always the gentleman, he walked around the Camaro and opened her door. For a moment, she seemed reluctant to get out, but then she forced a smile and politely took his hand.
"It's so ..." She searched for the right word as Charlie
He went into the backyard and took off his rubber gloves. He slipped the bags from his shoes, stuck them all in his pocket, and ran in place for a moment, consciously keeping his gaze averted from the dead Golden Retriever. Nothing pained him more than killing an innocent animal, but there were unpleasant aspects to any line of work.
Once he worked up a sweat, Delbert hit the street, just another lean, healthy, clean-cut jogger in his mid-thirties. Seattle was full of them, but not many of them killed for a living.
He jogged down East Laurelhurst, every so often catching a view of Lake Washington between the formal houses fronting the shore, and leisurely making his way the four or five miles to the university, where his rental car was parked. It would rain soon, as it always did in Seattle, and he'd be safely in his Ford Taurus before the first, thick droplets came down. He'd dispose of the bags and the sweatsuit downtown on his way to the airport.
It fell good to run. It cleared the mind, opened the pores, and gave him a chance to get some perspective, away from the pressures of his workaday world. He was strictly a contract worker now, which suited his need for independence. But he was growing tired of seeing only small pieces of the big picture, tired of being a vital cog in a larger machine.
It was time to get noticed, to get himself on the fast track and into middle management. Maybe run an operation that would get him noticed higher up. He started sending out some feelers a few weeks ago, but all he got was more of the same, doubleheaders and groups. Sure, killing paid the bills, but it didn't tap his real potential.
He jogged into the cement parking structure and scaled the stairs to the third level, where his car was parked in a dark corner. As soon as he was inside, the cellular phone in the glove box began to trill. He picked it up.
It was his travel agent. His trip to Baltimore was being cancelled, and there would be a new ticket waiting for him at the airport.
"Where am I going?" he asked her.
"Los Angeles."
"What am I going to do?" he asked.
"Produce."
He didn't know what that meant, but he had a feeling it was what he had been waiting for.
CHAPTER THREE
T he three-bedroom house on a quiet, tree-lined street in Reseda did not impress Alice Doss. Neither did Charlie's 1992 Camaro.
It was bad enough when he picked her up in a late-model, American car. She had been expecting something sleek and European. That was the first surprise. When Charlie cruised off the Reseda boulevard off-ramp, she was clearly stunned when he turned right, heading north, rather than left, heading south and across Ventura, the wide thoroughfare that cut across the valley at the base of the Santa Monica Mountains. She was expecting some stunning hillside mansion. Everyone who was anybody lived south of the boulevard.
Now came surprise number three.
He lived in a typical valley neighborhood, north of the boulevard, that is. Dozens of small, boxy houses that were hurriedly snapped together in the deafening reverberations of the baby boom.
The boom had long since ebbed. In its wake, crickets fought to be heard over the sounds of MTV, barking dogs, and people fighting over the bathroom. Each house had only one.
"This your house?" she asked.
Charlie pulled up to the curb and glanced out at the overgrown grass, peeling picket fence, and the clump of weeds strangling his juniper hedge. He couldn't bring himself to hire another gardener. This one might run off with his dog.
"Home sweet home," Charlie replied, pocketing the keys and getting out. Always the gentleman, he walked around the Camaro and opened her door. For a moment, she seemed reluctant to get out, but then she forced a smile and politely took his hand.
"It's so ..." She searched for the right word as Charlie
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