The mark, one of the people Shepard had identified, was a mediocre investment banker in his mid-thirties named Len Stuart. Getting his information had been easy enough. Shepard just had to remotely lift his daily schedule off his smartphone, and Len himself had proven most helpful in that regard.
“This guy has literally every minute of his day planned,” Shepard had told Morgan, looking over Stuart’s schedule. “Morning exercise, brushing his teeth . . . Look at this: ‘6:37 – bowel movement.’ The guy is like some kind of machine. Anyway, there’s this not so subtly named ‘recreation’—it corresponds to every past appointment he had with the escort agency. And the next one is set for just a couple of days from now.”
“I wonder if he’s made the appointment yet?” said Morgan.
And there they were, with an operation set to gain access to Stuart’s apartment and interrogate him. Morgan and Bishop went ahead, dressed in casual polos and khakis—just a couple of high-class guys, coming over for some wine and cheese or whatever, and Morgan with a duffel bag, containing everything they’d need that night for the interrogation. They sat at a bar in front of Stuart’s apartment building, right in front of a storefront window that gave them a plain view of the street, drinking iced tea out of whiskey glasses, and waiting for the plan to unfold.
They didn’t have to wait long before they saw Risa’s driver bring her around in a town car and drop her off at the doorstep of Stuart’s building. She rang the bell, was buzzed in, and disappeared inside. Morgan nodded to Bishop, and they each popped in their earpieces.
“Cobra and Bishop online,” Bishop said quietly so that no one around them could hear.
“All right,” came Shepard’s voice over the radio. “Testing, one, two. Bishop, if you can hear me, pick up your glass and move it three inches to the right.” He did, while Morgan looked nonchalantly for the camera Shepard was using. No matter how many times he did it, Morgan was still impressed by the hacker’s ability to crack any system. “I’ll take that look-see to mean you can hear me, Cobra, but just to make sure, why don’t you touch your left ear with your index and middle fingers?” Morgan did. “Okay, good. So without further ado, heeeere’s Risa!”
The sound cut to footsteps—heels along a corridor. They stopped, and then there was the ringing of a doorbell. Silence, then a door opening, and then voices, coming in as clear as day.
“Len?” came Risa’s voice. “Hi, I’m Stacey.”
Stuart looked at the woman standing at his door. She really was a nine-ruby. Face of an angel, the woman had said on the phone. And that it was.
“Of course you are,” he said, with a predatory tinge in his voice. He was wearing his best suit, a graphite Zegna with a metallic blue tie—an outfit intended to project dominance and power. He knew what these women were all about. He knew how to get under their skin. “Well? Are you coming in?”
“Don’t mind if I do,” she said, with impeccably faked girlish excitement. He knew they were faking, and it didn’t fool him. But he liked it when they performed for him. When they thought they were getting away with something. He closed and locked the door behind her, and then he told her, “So this is what I get for two grand an hour.”
She slinked toward him like a cat, holding her body against his and bringing her mouth to his ear. “You haven’t seen anything yet,” she said, and he felt her hot breath on him.
“I’m sure I haven’t,” he said in a husky voice, smiling, running his hand along the side of her body and squeezing her supple flesh. “How about a drink? I have some merlot in the decanter.”
“I can’t,” she said taking a step back and pouting as if she were sorely disappointed. “House rules.”
“This is my house,” he said, stepping toward her, so close that he looked down on her. He grabbed her wrist roughly. “Don’t you think I get to decide what the rules are?”
“Powerful man,” she said. “I like that.”
They usually flinched when he grabbed their wrists, but this one didn’t. Stuart was a bit put off by that. Just a bit. After all, he liked a challenge. He let go of her hand, and she walked a few steps away from him, pretending to be interested in the decor all of a sudden.
“Nice place,” she said. “Swanky.”
“The best of everything that money can buy,” he said. “You fit right in here, don’t you? An expensive doll for an expensive apartment.”
“I guess,” she said, with a nervous smile. “How about I get you that drink now?”