"I'll get back to you," he said abruptly to Flores, and ended the call. He stared hard at Orlando, who was staring back at him. "Tell me how this could have happened. Tell me how someone got into my bank account and ripped me off to the tune of two fucking million dollars."
"It had to be done from here," Orlando said. He clicked on the computer's history, and there it was, plainly showing that someone, using Drea's computer, had accessed the bank's website. "On the receiving end, both your laptop and hers would show the same IP address, because they go through the same router. If she got your password, as far as the bank's concerned, you're the one who made the transfer."
"I didn't give her the password," Rafael snapped. "I never wrote it down, either." Not even Orlando knew what his password was.
"She got it somehow." Orlando kept his expression blank as he pointed out the obvious. "If you ever accessed the account while she was in the room, she might have paid enough attention to figure out the keystrokes."
"This is Drea we're talking about. She could barely figure out how to turn on the shower." Okay, so that was an exaggeration; they still weren't talking about a mental giant here.
"That much money's a powerful motivation, and the proof is right here." Orlando tapped the computer screen. "I don't think anybody grabbed her, I think she took the money and ran."
Rafael stood there, rage and humiliation burning through him. He'd let himself care about her, and the slut had played him for a fool. He never should have let his guard down, never for a minute let himself believe that she cared at all about him. She had to be the best actress in the world, to keep up that act for two years without a single slip, to produce all those tears the day before yesterday. And he'd fallen for it; that was what ate at him like acid. He'd bought the whole enchilada, fooled himself into thinking she really loved him, hell, even that he was in love with her.
She'd pay for this. No matter what it cost him, she'd pay.
"She can't run far enough," he said flatly. He'd like to take her apart with his bare hands, but he'd learned to put some distance between himself and the actual act, so even if he ordered it, he had some deniability. He could do without killing her himself, so long as he knew she was dead. He might regret not having the satisfaction of personally meting out justice, but vengeance would do almost as well, and he knew exactly how he was going to get it.
THE ASSASSIN WAITED three days after receiving Salinas 's latest summons before he got in touch. He wasn't doing anything else, but he was in the mood for some downtime and he was an independent contractor, not one of the bastard's employees. Whatever Salinas wanted could wait.
He didn't trust the summons; it came too soon after his afternoon with Drea. Maybe Salinas had changed his mind about the offer and was, in retrospect, feeling as if his machismo had taken a hit. It had taken a lot more than a hit, but the assassin didn't think Salinas had figured that out yet. Drea was too good at what she did; she'd keep quiet about how much pleasure she'd gotten out of the deal.
So he waited, and he watched. He was as curious as ever about Salinas 's future plans, but while he didn't have many virtues, patience was one he possessed in abundance. Something was going on; he could tell by the expressions on the faces of Salinas 's goons, on Salinas himself. The assassin had observed the man coming and going several times, and it was obvious he was in a bitch of a bad mood.
When he judged Salinas had waited long enough, he first indulged himself with a leisurely tour of the Metropolitan Museum, which was one of his favorite places in New York. He didn't mind the tourists, or the gaggles of children; the exhibits were their own reward. When he was finished, he stood on the broad steps and made the call.
"Come to the penthouse," Salinas ordered. "When can you be here?"
"I'm nearby," the assassin said calmly, "but it's a nice day. Bethesda Terrace, in half an hour." He disconnected, then turned off his phone and slipped it into his pocket. Not only would Salinas have trouble setting up an ambush in such a short time, but the Terrace was a public place, full of both tourists and city residents. It was also wide open, so his avenue of approach wouldn't be limited. From there he could disappear into the depths of Central Park, should Salinas be of a mind to have him followed.
He had no idea exactly where Salinas was, so half an hour might be an impossible deadline for him to meet. For himself, though, Bethesda Terrace was a pleasant walk. If Salinas was up in the penthouse, he'd have plenty of time to get there. If he was across town...tough. For something important, he'd make contact again.
The assassin enjoyed making things difficult for the bastard, even in such a small way. Pleasure came where he found it, though, so he followed both his instinct to play it safe, and his inclination to jerk Salinas 's chain.
He walked into the park, pausing to get an ice-cream cone. Though he knew the park fairly well, he nevertheless bought a map, and spent a few minutes studying it because he liked to know exactly what his options were if he happened to need one. He kept the map in his hand, knowing Salinas would spot it, and draw the conclusion that the assassin didn't live locally and therefore wasn't familiar with the layout of the park. The conclusion would be half right, because he didn't really live in any one place; he stayed in various places for various lengths of time, and right now that place happened to be a few floors below Salinas.
He found a vantage point and watched. If he saw anything that looked suspicious, he'd call off the meet. He knew Salinas wouldn't meet him alone; a man like that couldn't afford to go anywhere without his muscle in attendance. The assassin didn't worry about the thugs he could see, though; it was the ones who weren't out in the open that he looked for.