Tripwire by Lee Child

But it was all a waste of time. She knew it. She had to face it. He looked at her like a niece or a kid sister. Like the nine-year gap still counted for something. Which it no longer did. A couple aged fifteen and twenty-four would certainly have been a problem. But thirty and thirty-nine was perfectly OK. There were thousands of couples with gaps bigger than that. Millions of couples. There were guys aged seventy with twenty-year-old wives. But it still counted for something with him. Or maybe he was just too used to

seeing her as Leon’s kid. Like a niece. Like the CO’s daughter. The rules of society or the protocol of the Army had blinded him to the possibility of seeing her any other way. She had always burned with resentment about that. She still did. Leon’s affection for him, his claiming of him as his own, had taken him away from her. It had made it impossible from the start.

They had spent the day like brother and sister, like uncle and niece. Then he had turned all serious, like a bodyguard, like she was his professional responsibility. They had had fun, and he cared about her physical safety, but nothing more. There never would be anything more. And there was nothing she could do about it. Nothing. She had asked guys out. All women her age had. It was permissible. Accepted, even normal. But what could she say to him? What? What can a sister say to a brother or a niece to an uncle without causing outrage and shock and disgust? So it wasn’t going to happen, and there was absolutely nothing she could do about it.

She stretched out in her bed and brought her hands up above her head. Laid her palms gently against the dividing wall and held them there. At least he was in her apartment, and at least she could dream.

The guy got less than three hours in the sack, by the time he sailed the boat single-handed back to the slip and closed it down and got back across town to bed. He was up again at six and back on the street by six-twenty, with a quick shower and no breakfast. The hand was wrapped in the plastic, parcelled up in yesterday’s Post and carried in a Zabar’s bag he had from the last time he bought ingredients and made his own dinner at home.

He used the black Tahoe and made quick time past all the early morning delivery people. He parked underground and rode up to the eighty-eighth floor. Tony the receptionist was already at the brass-and-oak counter. But he could tell from the stillness that nobody else was in. He held up the Zabar’s bag, like a trophy.

‘I’ve got this for the Hook,’ he said.

‘The Hook’s not here today,’ Tony said.

‘Great,’ the guy said, sourly.

‘Stick it in the refrigerator,’ Tony said.

There was a small office kitchen off the reception lobby. It was cramped and messy, like office kitchens are. Coffee rings on the counters, mugs with stains on the inside. The refrigerator was a miniature item under the counter. The guy shoved milk and a six-pack aside and folded the bag into what space was left.

‘Target for today is Mrs Jacob,’ Tony said. He was now in the kitchen doorway. ‘We know where she lives. Lower Broadway, north of City Hall. Eight blocks from here. Neighbours say she always leaves at seven-twenty, walks to work.’

‘Which is where exactly?’ the guy asked.

‘Wall Street and Broadway,’ Tony said. ‘I’ll drive, you grab her.’

Chester Stone had driven home at the normal time and said nothing to Marilyn. There was nothing he could say. The speed of the collapse had left him bewildered. His whole world had turned inside out in a single twenty-four-hour period. He just couldn’t get a handle on it. He planned to ignore it until the morning and then go see Hobie and try to talk some sense. In his heart he didn’t believe he couldn’t save himself.

The corporation was ninety years old, for God’s sake. Three generations of Chester Stones. There was too much there for it all to disappear overnight. So he said nothing and got through the evening in a daze.

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