Free Natural Suspect (2001) by Phillip Margolin

suitcase. She took this to the bed and unzipped it. Inside there was a Ruger nine-millimeter semiautomatic pistol, two spare clips of ammunition loaded with wad-cutters, a state-of-the-art IBM laptop computer, some spare clothes, two passports (one American, the other Venezuelan), approximately ten thousand dollars in U . S . currency and similar amounts of British pounds and Russian rubles, a small jewelry bag that contained an assortment of pearls, diamonds, and other precious stones, a half kilo of cocaine packed in see-through Baggies, and three paperback novels: Thomas Hardy s The Mayor of Caster bridge, Dostoevsky's The Brothers Karamazov , and John Fowles s The French Lieutenant's Woman.
    Sissy removed the computer and the Fowles novel.
    She took the computer to a small vanity desk, reached underneath, plugged the modem connection into the telephone line, and then sat back as the screen blinked on. It made a whirring noise as it warmed up. Sissy's fingers flew across the keyboard, and in a moment she was connected to the Internet. She typed in her password and discovered an e-mail message waiting for her. She clicked the cursor on the message and read it aloud:
    "I have acquired all the news that's not yet fit to print. Need instructions. Discard. Discard with prejudice. I make no recommendation. There are positives and negatives to both solutions. Please advise soonest."
    Sissy nodded and thought hard for a moment. She moved the cursor to reply and when the e-mail screen came up, typed: I have no problem with either solution as long as you believe the problem is effectively neutralized. Will rely upon your professional expertise guiding these situations.
    She did not sign the e-mail, but punched the button sending it on its electronic way.
    She leaned back in her chair, rocking idly, staring at the screen. Sissy felt she was in an odd state, slightly on the edge of anticipation, seeing things unfolding like a Japanese origami sculpture. She was accustomed to waiting, to being patient, which, she sometimes thought, was her strongest suit. Patience and the ability to stay within character, she reminded herself. She idly wondered why there weren't awards for performers such as herself, who managed to play a role successfully for months on end. The prize she expected was now well within sight.
    Sissy sighed. Morgy-Worgy's usual deeply inadequate lovemaking had left her restless, her nerves slightly tingling, as if electric currents were scorching her skin. She punched at the computer keyboard and slid effortlessly into a sadomasochism-and-bondage chat room, where she signed into the electronic conversation as Irma The Bitch. She spent a pleasant half hour taunting and teasing some of the other chat room members, finally making an assignation with some dweeb who promised to lick dog fecal matter off her boots. She told the man to meet her at midnight the following night at a biker's bar in the East Village and insisted the groveling guest wear a pink silk shirt, feather boa, and skintight white pants. She figured if the submissive showed up, the membership of the Village Vipers M . C . would kill him almost instantly.
    She signed off the S&M chat room and spent some time linked to a mathematics study group Web site operated by MIT. There were generally some interesting issues being discussed late at night by the next generation of scientists, but this, too, only ate at the hours, instead of filling them. Finally she signed off the computer and packed it back into her suitcase. She picked up the Fowles novel and read for another hour, admiring the complexity of the characters and the situation, as well as the dexterity with which the author slid between past and present. By then it was past midnight.
    Sissy stretched, like an old cat aroused from a nap. It was late enough to go to bed, though she had little desire to climb beneath the sheets next to her rich, untalented, obnoxious, and unattractive husband.
    The things a gal