Following him, I slip on my leather gloves that have an extra finger. If the cameras don’t get wiped fully, or someone takes a picture, the sixth finger will make it look like an AI edit. That was Di’s idea for when I can’t have her in my ear, since everyone is always filming these days.
The man in question stops at an alcove and pulls the hidden necklace from behind his tie. Besides his predilection for buying coke, Joe here also likes to buy children. He keeps paying off prosecutors, and after having one of his former victims on my show, I know he has to die.
This location is perfect, because the cameras are pointed at doors and the hallway is curved, and Di’s research said he would sneak out to feed his habit at least three times during the evening. I missed the first, ran into Ethan on the second, this was my chance.
Pulling the short, thirteen millimeter syringe from my pocket, I uncap it and approach him. Holding it between two fingers, I cuff him on the neck like an old friend.
“Joe, are you skiing on your own?” I ask as the needle sinks into his fat neck. With my other hand, I hold out a baggie of fentanyl laced coke in front of his face, hidden by our bodies if anyone walks by.
“Are you sharing?” He asks without facing me fully, moving his hand to touch the spot I stabbed on his neck. As much coke as he uses, along with the liquor he has been drinking, and I know his pain is dulled.
“I’ve had enough,” I reply as I tuck the syringe back in my pocket. If he used the coke, it would ensure his death and the cover up. “It’s yours, if you want it.”
Joe’s greed knows no bounds, and he happily takes the baggie, dipping his tiny gold spoon from the necklace into the bag. He snorts it and goes to hand the bag back to me.
“Don’t worry about it,” I tuck my gloved hands into my pockets. “I have a flight to catch and would rather not have it on me.”
He only shrugs and takes another bump. His pupils were already pinpricks, but his breathing is slowing. It will take him some time to die, so I wave and head back to the party, slipping the gloves off in my pockets.
It’s ten o-clock, but I want to be sure the man is dead when I leave, so I waste time on small talk with simpering wives who hit on me while their husbands chat business a few feet away.
A stumble catches my eye an hour later, and I see it’s Joe moving to the hall again. Excusing myself, I follow at a distance, seeing no one help the human stain. His addiction is well-known to this circle, andhe’s not well liked. I kill a lot of men who are only mourned by the stock market, and Joe will not be an exception.
Finding him slumped against the wall alone, I crouch down to find Joe’s breathing almost stopped and his lips a greyish-blue. “Hey there, Joe, not feeling so well?”
He doesn’t react, so I lift his hand and see his fingers have gone grey as well. With so many accidental overdoses, I take pleasure in causing one on purpose for a man so evil.
“If you’d spent your money on real charities instead of ones just for show or buying children, you wouldn’t be dying right now,” I told him, though I doubted he could comprehend my words anymore.
“Holy shit,” a soft curse catches my attention, and I turn to find the sous chef with a hand over his mouth. “Should we call 911?”
“Oh, no. He had too much nose candy and liquor,” I scramble to explain. “He just needs to sleep it off.”
Instead of looking sad, Ethan rolls his eyes, “You said he was dying. Did you do something?”
His last words are laced with disbelief, so I roll with it. “Do something? Like help him sit down so he doesn't fall?”
Ethan narrows his eyes, like he can see through me bullshit like no one but Di ever has before. “I have training, I know his blue lips mean something serious.”
Standing, I loom over him. I’ve never been caught before and I need to know if he will be a problem. “Who trained you?”
“The CIA,” he tells me with defiance on his face where I expect fear. Ethan looks down at the billionaire CEO as the man falls to his side and something dawns on him. “You’re the Fat Cat Killer!”
Fuck. I mentally curse and cover his mouth as I push him against the wall. What am I supposed to do? If he has CIA training, he’s likely undercover. Was he here to catch me? I wish I had Di on comms right now.
“You’re coming with me,” I growl. I need to get out of there, but I can’t leave a witness behind. One who knows my name and guessed at my secret killer identity.
“Unless someone gives him Narcan soon, he’s dead,” Ethan points out as I take his hand and lead him toward the service exit.
“That’s the plan,” I mutter, dragging Ethan along with me down the stinky alley.
My hired driver is waiting two blocks away, and he knows to take me straight to SFO without a word. Ethan doesn’t talk, I assume from shock, but I still don’t know if I’m going to kill him yet.
The plane is gassed up and ready, but Ethan is an unknown variable. “Do you have your ID on you, and your phone?”
“Yes,” he answers, and I hold out my hand, waiting. He puts his wallet and phone on top of each other, and I read his full name on his ID and passport. Who carries their passport?
Ethan Miller, apparently. I take a picture and send a text to Di to look up a witness but don’t wait for her response.