Free Dirty Work by Stuart Woods Page B

said.
    Brett placed a pillow over her face and pinched her hard in a tender place. When the scream was over, she removed the pillow. “Ginger, you do exactly as I tell you. Do you understand?”
    Ginger gave her the phone and extension numbers, and Brett wrote them down. Then she found her handbag and removed a straight razor from it.
    Ginger was attempting to squirm off the bed now, and Brett grabbed her by the hair and dragged her back. She held her hand over Ginger’s mouth, then placed the razor against her throat and drew it lightly across her skin, raising a hairline of red. “When I take my hand away,” Brett said, “don’t scream, or I’ll hurt you badly.” She took her hand away.
     
    Ginger was crying now.
    “That’s very good,” Brett said. “You keep that up. Now here’s what we’re going to do, Ginger: I’m going to dial your office number and your boss’s extension, and when his voice mail answers, here’s what I want you to say. What’s his name?”
    “Mr. Arnold,” Ginger sobbed.
    “You say these words exactly. ‘Mr. Arnold’—you’re sobbing—‘this is Ginger. I’m afraid there’s been a death in my family, and I have to fly back to Indianapolis tonight. I’m going to be away for at least a week, and I’ll call you when I know when I’ll be back. I’m awfully sorry about the short notice.’ Did you get that?” Brett pressed the razor against her throat again, eliciting another paroxysm of sobbing.
    Brett began dialing the number.
    “I’m not going to say that!” Ginger said, suddenly collecting herself.
    Brett hung up the phone and held the razor to Ginger’s left breast. “You’ll do it exactly that way, or I’ll slice your nipples off, Ginger.”
    Ginger began sobbing again, but she nodded.
    Brett dialed the number, waited, then dialed the extension number. She held the phone to Ginger’s lips and the razor to her nipple.
    Ginger performed admirably, Brett thought.
     
    Brett waited a full minute after Ginger stopped struggling before removing the pillow from her face. She checked for a pulse, then listened at her chest for a heartbeat. Nothing. She untied Ginger’s hands and released the belt from her feet. She went into the kitchen and found a pair of kitchen gloves, a bottle of spray cleaner and a cloth, then she rubbed down the body, carefully removing any possible trace of a fingerprint or her own body fluids. She got a clean bedspread from a linen closet and rolled Ginger’s body in it, leaving her on one side of the king-sized bed. She pulled her panties on, then got into a pair of Ginger’s jeans, a sweatshirt, and sneakers, then she switched off the garden lights, went outside, and looked around. She couldn’t see any neighbors at their windows. She opened the hotbox, which was empty, and noted two large bags of potting soil leaning against the fence. She went back inside, hoisted Ginger’s body over her shoulder, looked around outside, then went into the garden and dumped the body into the hotbox. She emptied both bags of potting soil over the body, covering it completely, then tossed in a few flowerpots that were lined up against the garden fence.
    Having worked up a sweat, Brett went back inside, stripped off her clothes, and took a hot shower, never removing the rubber gloves. When she had dried herself and her hair, she cleaned the hair from the shower drain and saved it, then walked around the apartment, naked, selecting things. She found a good suitcase and packed some of Ginger’s clothes. She found her passport in a desk drawer—Ginger Harvey, her full name was—then emptied her briefcase on the bed and took the wallet and credit cards, putting them into her own bag.
    When everything was packed and in order, she got into bed, set the alarm clock for five a.m., and went immediately to sleep.
    When the alarm went off, she rolled up Florence Tyler’s clothing and effects, then stripped the bedcovers, put them into the over-and-under washing