James
A phone rings, Michael's.
He glances at the screen, then curses. "It's Lucy on reception," he snarls. "I told her we weren't to be disturbed."
He stabs a finger at the mobile. "Yes?" His tone is savage. "Lucy, my instructions were clear that... What? Speak up would you... Oh..." He goes rigid. "Right... Um, yes, bring it to the house, please." He rattles a breath. "Lucy, my apologies. Yes... Of course you did the right thing."
He taps the phone off again, takes a moment. "Lucy says that a package has been delivered by special courier. It's addressed to... The 'Red-Headed Whore's Pimp.'"
Bile rises in my throat. Mitch whimpers.
Michael continues, "She says as soon as she realised, she put it in a plastic bag to avoid fingerprints. And she picked up a couple of pairs of latex gloves from the kitchen."
"Probably too late for that," comments Klempner. "If they're pros, they'll have wiped it anyway, and since then it's been through God-knows-how-many pairs of hands."