F Paul Wilson - Sims 03 Read Online Free Page B

           “Thanks.”
                 Romy had to act quickly. She glanced
up, searching for the strand of monofilament she’d been told she’d find hanging
from the central light fixture. There it was, a length of fine fishing line,
barely visible.
                 Two of Zero’s people had broken in
over the weekend. They’d unlatched the door and rigged the fixture to drop when
the fishing line was pulled.
                 The original plan had been to loosen
the hinges on the door so that it would fall outward when Romy tugged on it.
She would let it knock her down and claim a terrible back injury. But Patrick
had vetoed the idea. An injury caused by the door might leave the landlord as
the liable party rather than the tenant. And it was the tenant they were after.
                 The most open-and-shut scenario—he’d
called itres ipso loquitor —was to arrange for Romy to be “injured” by a
tenant-installed fixture. After some reconnoitering, the fluorescent box in the
ceiling over the reception area had received the nod.
                 Romy was supposed to pull the string
and let it crash to the floor, then stagger out and collapse in the hall,
pretending it had landed on her.
                 Pretend…she’d never been good at
pretending. How was she supposed to slump to the floor out there and moan and
groan about being hurt and have anyone buy it? And the Manassas people, when
they heard about it they’d know that what had happened here was all a sham, a
set-up designed to drag them into the legal system and expose their corporate
innards. They’d respond with lawyers using every possible legal ploy to keep
their secrets.
                 They’ll play hide, we’ll play seek. A game.
                 But this was no game to her. Romy was
serious. She’d show them just how serious.
                 Acting quickly, before the dental
assistant could unlock her office across the hall, Romy stepped under the fixture and yanked on the line.
                 Her cry of pain was real.

           7
     
                 Patrick sat in the driver seat of
Zero’s van, idly watching the little office building. He’d parked across the
street in a church parking lot—Our Lady of Something-or-other—and left the
engine idling to run the heater, but he was keeping his window open to let out
the pungent odor that seemed to be ingrained into the van’s metal frame. The
driver seat felt like little more than a sheet of newspaper spread over a
collection of rusty springs.
                 But the sharp jabs against his butt
were inconsequential compared to the discomfort of sharing the van with the
shadowy form seated behind him. Here was a perfect opportunity to probe Zero,
maybe get a line on what made this bird tick, but Patrick found himself
tongue-tied.
                 What do you say to a masked man?
                 Had to give it a
shot: “Do you mind if I ask you a personal question?”
                 Zero’s deep voice echoed from the
dark recess at the rear of the van. “Depends.”
                 “Why do you call yourself ‘Zero’?”
                 “That is my name.”
                 Ooookay. Try
another tack. “How about them Mets?” That was usually
a foolproof conversation opener, especially out here on the Island, even in the
off-season. “What do you think of that last round of trades?”
                 “I don’t follow sports.”
                 Okay, strike that. Maybe if we
concentrate more on the moment…
                 “You have any idea what this van was
used for before you got it?”
                 “It was a delivery truck run by a
Korean Christian group in Yonkers.”
                 “Smells like they spilled a gallon of
roast puppy stew on the