Smooth Operator (Teddy Fay) by Stuart Woods, Parnell Hall Page A

cutters.
    Teddy went back to the second-rate hotel he’d checked into earlier that morning. Not that he couldn’t afford a first-ratehotel, he just didn’t want that kind of attention. No one gave a damn about him here. As long as he had his room key, he could activate the elevator. He rode up to the eighth floor and let himself into his room.
    Teddy stashed the equipment under the bed, took out one of the burner phones, and called Betsy on her cell. “Hi, honey. I don’t have much time to talk.”
    That was their code. When Betsy heard that, she knew to give no specific information, just make generic responses and wait for her cue.
    “I tried to call you before,” Teddy said, “but it’s crunch time and I’m very busy. I won’t have time to watch TV, so remember to set the DVR.”
    “You got it.”
    Betsy hung up the phone with a sense of foreboding. There were no shows Teddy wanted her to DVR. He’d been trying to give her a message.
    Before she had time to think about it, a production assistant ran up to summon her back to the movie set.
    —
    TODAY THE MOVIE CREW was shooting on the sound stage at Centurion Studios. Betsy tapped Peter on the arm. “I gotta run back to the office.” He nodded, and she went out the door.
    Peter’s office was at the other end of the lot. Betsy could havetaken a golf cart, but she always walked so she did now. There was no reason to make anyone think she was in a rush.
    Betsy hurried into Peter’s office, grabbed the remote, flicked on the TV. It was tuned to ESPN. Betsy shook her head, clicked the remote, and changed the channel.
    It was still breaking news on MSNBC: CONGRESSMAN ASSASSINATED .
    Betsy sucked in her breath.
    Good God, Teddy. What have you done now?

29
    K aren took the paperback thriller, opened it in the middle, put it facedown on the floor, and broke the spine. She flipped a few pages and smashed the spine again. She picked up the book, grabbed the pages, and slowly, carefully tore them out.
    They came out attached by the glue from the spine. She carefully separated two pages from the bunch. She opened them up in the middle and flattened them out. The pages held. She set them aside, and did it again. She tore out a dozen more attached pages.
    Now, if she just had a way to stick them together. Tape, or glue, or staples. Anything.
    The room had clearly been used as a workroom. The old metal sink was stained with bleach and floor wax and shellac and varnish and whatever else had been dumped into it over theyears. One blue paint smear was fairly thick and relatively fresh. It appeared to be enamel paint. It gave when Karen picked at it.
    Karen dumped the sandwich on the floor and used the edge of the plastic plate to scrape some paint off the sink. She diluted it with water, mushed it around with her fingertips. After several minutes it felt slightly sticky.
    It was poor glue at best, but it would have to do. Karen laid two pages on the floor side by side and smeared a half-inch line of paint down the edge of one. She overlapped the other, then leaned all her weight on them, pressing them together against the floor as hard as she could. She relaxed the pressure, sat back on her heels to evaluate her work. It wasn’t big enough, of course, she’d have to add to it, but it would tell her if her paint-glue would hold.
    It wouldn’t.
    The pages came apart as soon as she tried to tug them across the floor. And that was without the added weight of the key. She needed better glue.
    Karen had been so engrossed in her task she’d neglected to clean up. The big man would be coming in to get the plate. There was paint on the edge of it. And paint on her hands. And the pages from the book were lying on the floor.
    Karen gathered up the pages and shoved them back in the book. She washed her hands and washed the plate. The plate fared better. When she was done, there was just a trace of paint on the edge, barely detectable. Her hands would not pass a close inspection.
    She