The man in black set his gun down on the counter and peeled off his rubber gloves. He always wore gloves when he worked, but the thin powder-blue nitrile material had snagged on something as he was coming in the back door and ripped it, causing him to get blood on his left hand. He set the wadded-up gloves down next to the gun and gently lifted the handle to the faucet with his elbow. Once the stream of water was hot enough, he rubbed his hands together, letting the blood mix and swirl down the drain of the kitchen sink. He used his elbow again to mash the pump on the bottle of fancy hand soap.
Lilac, he thought. That smells nice. He finished scrubbing his hands and used his fingers to push the remaining soap suds down the drain before cutting off the water and shoving the ruined rubber gloves into his pocket. He was careful not to touch the counter with his bare hands and even more so when he lifted his gun and returned it to the shoulder holster hanging under his armpit. He slipped on a pair of black tactical gloves and opened the fridge next to the sink. He knew from the furnishings and the fancy soap that he’d find either a high-end bottle of wine or some hipster craft beer.
“Sweetwater. Georgia Brown. You have good taste, Dr. Jeffers.”
The doctor didn’t answer. She was dead on the floor in the living room. The man in black hadn’t gotten any more information out of her than he’d gotten from the pretty little pot dealer he’d shot the night before, and he was beginning to feel a little irritated at the lack of progress he was making in finding this Blackwell kid. Now that the money was gone, and it would be a small miracle to try and find it again, his only shot at salvaging the loss was finding the boy. Frustration was setting in, but the man in black knew that would only make him sloppy, so he took a minute to breathe. He took a cold bottle from the cardboard six-pack holder and used the buckle on his belt to pop the top. He walked back into the living room and sat down in a chair at the desk. He drank nearly half the beer in his first swig before he eased open the doctor’s laptop and stared at the log-in screen. He wasn’t quite sure what he expected to find on the computer even if he was able to crack the password, but he considered taking it with him anyway. He let his mind wander for a moment as he tried to figure out his next move. He knew that he and the good doctor bleeding out on the floor were the only two people in the house, so he wasn’t concerned about getting caught there. He let himself relax a little. It didn’t last long. He flinched when his cell phone buzzed against his leg. He slid the chair back away from the desk and pulled the phone out of his pocket to look at the display. He tapped the green button.
“Agent Dahmer here.”
A frantic voice came over the line, so loud that Dahmer needed to back the phone away from his ear to understand. When the yelling was over, he simply said “Okay” and ended the call. He tucked his phone back in his pocket. Apparently the local PD was on the way. So much for taking a minute to himself. He slapped the laptop closed with his elbow and finished the beer. He shoved the empty bottle into another pocket of the tactical pants he was wearing and then searched the kitchen floor for the small aluminum lid. He found it and tucked that away, too. He wanted to do another search through the filing cabinet, but he supposed that would have to wait. He’d still need to change his clothes, too. He left through the back door and eased it shut behind him before melting into the shadows of the backyard. He hopped the privacy fence into the narrow ditch that divided the house he was just in from the one behind it. He walked leisurely back to his car and took off his balaclava before getting in and turning the key. He pulled the black SUV out of the neighborhood and drove about a half mile up the road to a small Baptist church parking lot, where he changed back into the dark suit he had hanging from a hook above the back seat. Once he’d changed his clothes and used a little pomade from the glove box to slick back his hair, he tapped the doctor’s address into his GPS. It wasn’t that he needed it, but he was covering all his bases. At this point in the game, it was the little things that were necessary. If anyone were to check the device in Dahmer’s SUV, they’d see he clearly had no prior knowledge of where he was going. When he heard the sirens, he eased the Tahoe over to the edge of the parking lot and waited just a minute longer. He didn’t want to be the first one on the scene. He looked at himself in the rearview mirror, then rubbed at his hair to mess it up a little. Maybe he didn’t need to appear so raring and ready—it was the small details. He was only supposed to have become aware of this situation during his off time, and he was supposed to be in a rush. He needed to look the part. Once he was confident that Decatur’s finest were at least in the neighborhood, and closing in on the split-level house on Neville Court, he pointed his big Chevy back toward the very place he’d just come from. He smiled. At least now he’d get a chance to look through that computer.