Exit Interview by Dana Cameron

Author:Dana Cameron [Cameron, Dana]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: DCLE Publishing LLC
Published: 2022-12-06T05:00:00+00:00

Chapter Thirty-One: Jayne Rogers

There’s no place like a busy city subway to hide. Lots of commuters coming and going. No one paying attention to an anonymous woman, or anything but their train schedules. I go to one of the larger stations around rush hour.

I realize I feel rusty, and I need a warm-up.

I park the car and get out. A glance at the schedule boards and I realize I’ve caught my first break in a while. Trains coming in from both sides in two minutes. I duck down the tunnel to the inbound side. As that train arrives, another train comes in from the south with another flood of commuters. Cars jostle for place. Men get out and kiss their wives as they surrender the driver-side seats to them.

I duck onto the first side, walk briskly down the tunnel, looking for my targets. A woman with headphones, her canvas bag on the ground, her wallet sitting right on top. I stumble and scoop out the wallet, stashing it as I recover.

I find a brand-new baseball cap left on a barrier by some conscientious soul and I take it as I go back down the tunnel. It will be just enough to alter my appearance while I make my escape. Plus, it’s the Yankees, which will probably annoy Amy, which will keep her from worrying.

On the train, I bump into a guy with bulges in the right places and make a hash out of righting myself. I relieve him of his wallet and cell phone on the way past.

I cut it close. The door closes behind me just as I leave, nearly on my heels. I can feel the air compress behind me. A few more moments of picking pockets on my way back through to the entrance and I have supplies. Not too much, though. The lot is emptying; greed will only get me busted. Plus I don’t like ripping off civilians if I can help it. But too much is riding on this for me to feel bad about someone having to cancel their credit cards.

I imitate the gait of a stiff and unathletic commuter and find my car.

I join the queue to exit the lot and drive until I find a place with good exits and without too many cops, too many cameras. I count out the cash and pocket the licenses, not knowing whether I’ll need them later. The phones are a blessing: I don’t know how long the service will stay on, once the owners realized they’ve gone missing, but for now, I can use them once and not be traced. I load an app to one of them, then sign in. It allows me to listen in on digital police scanners for several localities. Nothing about me directly, but there’s some bad news about Amy Lindstrom’s workplace. I have to believe it’s connected to us. Another car accident with fatalities—not the first in her life. It lets me know we’re getting close and they’re closing in fast, but this thing, this public thing, was a mistake and someone will swing for it.

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