Page 84 of Every Step She Takes
PCTracy:Understood and agreed. I’ll put together a bag for you – clothing, wig and a hotel keycard.
PCTracy:Is there any chance I can give it to you in person?
LlamaGirl:No. After last night, I need more time.
He doesn’t push, just provides instructions for picking up the bag. He’s going to store it at a left-luggage facility and leave the claim tag elsewhere.
It would, of course, have just been easier to meet in person. After last night, though, I really am not ready. I’m skittish, and I need space to reevaluate. Turning myself in is seeming more and more like the right move. The smart move. But I keep thinking of that bloody towel and the other evidence the police claim to have. I also think of the progress PCTracy is making. If it’s possible to get a little downtime in a safe hotel, then I need that. Sleep. Rest. Think. Make clear-headed decisions.
PCTracy promised to have the bag in place by one. I wait until two to retrieve the claim ticket from a restroom. That goes off without a hitch. Same with getting the bag from the left-luggage spot – a souvenir shop in Times Square.
I resist the urge to peek inside the roller bag until I’m far enough from the pickup point. When I do, I ping PCTracy.
LlamaGirl:A stuffed dog?
PCTracy:It’s part of the costume.
LlamaGirl:Uh-huh…
PCTracy:You’re “woman who travels with small dog.” There’s a carrier for the dog. All they’ll see through it is the white fur. I assembled the rest of the costume to fit the persona.
LlamaGirl:Still not getting the dog part…
PCTracy:It’s the accessory equivalent of a facial scar or a bad tattoo. All people will notice is your dog. All people will remember is the dog. It also gives you an excuse to keep your head down. Talk to the dog. Coo at it.
LlamaGirl:You’re having way too much fun with this.
PCTracy:You’ll make a great “woman with small dog.”
LlamaGirl:I don’t think that’s a compliment.
PCTracy:LOL. It’s not an insult, either. Now, when you’re ready, I got early check-in for your room. I’m going to strongly suggest that once you’re in, you stay in. Get some rest. Let me do the legwork, and you stick to online research.
Looking at my reflection in the restroom mirror, I snort with laughter. When I picture “woman with small dog,” I imagine a very chic, well-dressed woman of a certain age, striding through New York with a fluffy dog’s head sticking out of her purse.
Instead, I’m wearing a long dark-blond wig with yoga pants with a barely waist-length lightweight angora sweater. For shoes, I get Keds with no socks. I also have new sunglasses and a new purse. Both are emblazoned with high-fashion names, though I’m guessing they’re street-vendor knockoffs.
I seriously consider changing back to my other clothes, but right now, I’m about as far as I can get from the Lucy Callahan in that hotel photo. If there’s any chance my attacker from last night is in the area, he’ll never recognize me in this.
The hotel PCTracy chose is the biggest one in Times Square. Again, not what I would select, but that is the point. It’s also so big and so busy that I’m invisible. With the keycard in hand, I can head straight for the elevator bank.
When I step into my room, I inhale the unmistakable smell of hot food.
“Hello?” I call.
No answer. I move inside to see that I have a full suite with a sofa and a desk. A room-service cart sits in front of an armchair.
Before I can retreat, I spot a sheet of paper taped to the small pyramid of silver trays. In block letters it says, “READ ME.”
I ease into the room, still looking around, tensed to flee. I tug the sheet free. On the back it says, “MESSAGE ME.”
I stare at it. Then I take out my phone and ping PCTracy.
LlamaGirl:Is there a “Drink me” sign somewhere, too?
PCTracy:That’s why I had you text when you were ten minutes away. So I could get out. Yes, I was in your room. I left my keycard on the desk.
PCTracy:I wanted to make sure you got food without needing to answer the door.
