I adjusted the binoculars and watched the dark-haired woman walk into the driveway of my building. Candy was rocking my white Versace suit, my favorite gold Jimmy Choo stilettos, and giant dark sunglasses.
I’d told her to wait until my doorman had his usual smoke break. She followed directions good. And looked good doing it. I spotted one of my Hermes bags slung over her shoulder and my favorite Louis Vuitton suitcase on wheels behind her. Sayonara, baby. I wouldn’t miss any of it. She tossed her hair and dipped her lithe body into the limo like she’d been riding in one her whole life. Perfect.
The warrior is always one step ahead of his enemies. While his enemies sleep and eat and drink, the warrior is making a battle plan.
The wind was icy on top of the neighbor’s skyscraper rooftop, but I didn’t lower my binoculars until the limousine pulled onto Columbus Avenue. Thanks, Candy. Have a nice stay in Cannes. I’d set her up to look like she was taking a red-eye to Costa Rica. But she’d only be in Central America for thirty minutes. She’d been instructed to use my cell phone heavily, calling and texting a list of numbers I’d given her, including texting my godfather once she landed in Costa Rica telling him she was sorry, but she needed some time alone after Christopher’s death. Once she was in the Costa Rica airport, she was instructed to head immediately to a bathroom where she’d change into jeans and a blonde wig. She’d rip the SIM card out of the phone, flush it down the toilet and then smash the phone to bits before she took out a new passport and slipped onto another plane bound for the south of France.
If she followed my plan exactly, no one would be any wiser. And nobody would get hurt. She’d stay in the Cannes apartment I’d rented for the next year and then, if she wanted, she could fly back into America with the one-way ticket I’d bought her under her real name.
I’d spent last night at Kato’s transferring important documents and information from my old laptop to one I’d paid cash for at a store on Market Street. I’d then put some vague, obscure posts on social media about craving warmth and sunshine and being sick of San Francisco’s perpetually gloomy skies.
I should be the one using that passport and hiding out. At first, I’d considered fleeing to the south of France myself, but then I realized that is what would be expected of me. Staying in the city and living in the ghetto was the least likely place for me to hide. That’s what I was counting on. Hiding in plain sight. And it would allow me to investigate who was trying to off me. Was it really Vito?
I paced a bit on the rooftop, keeping an eye on the wide curving driveway of my building — or rather my old building — until my godfather’s men showed up. The black Lincoln Continental was not subtle. It squealed to a halt in the driveway. The goons didn’t bother closing the car doors after they leaped out. The doorman rushed out of his office, hands up, mouth working. He ducked and I felt a little bad when the muscle slapped him on the side of his head, sending his coiffed hair askew. Not cool. But the doorman was obviously in on it. He’d let the goons up to my apartment the other night and now called my godfather’s men to report “me” leaving. I wondered how long my godfather had been spying on me and how long the doorman had been at his service. Fuck me. I had to be smarter.
The 70s-dude paced the driveway, phone to his ear. His scowl was visible from fourteen stories up. I’m sure my godfather was chewing him a new asshole. Training the binoculars up to my sixteenth-floor balcony, I could see the muscle tearing apart my apartment, throwing cushions across the room. Satisfied, I put the binoculars away.