By eleven thirty, with his shopping complete, Gavin switched to the Bronco for reconnaissance.

An empty parking lot across the street from Queen Bebe’s provided Gavin with a perfect view of his prey. With the ass end of the Bronco facing the salon, he climbed into the way-back, pulled a telephoto lens from his camera case, and settled in.

Under the hot August sun, sweat trickled down his temples as he studied the layout of the shop, noting the absence of surveillance cameras. From his nest, he watched Sadie Vauk as she worked, talked, and more important, drank from a bottle of water she kept at her station. He would need to get her to turn her back so he could be alone with the water bottle. Maybe he could ask for something to drink or to see a style catalog. He’d only need a few seconds.

Pleased with his effort, Gavin climbed back into the cab of the Bronco, started the engine, and turned on the air conditioner, aiming the vents at his face. He pulled a pair of latex gloves and the burner phone from the glove box. He had been practicing his conversation with Sadie Vauk, being careful to construct a script that would keep his speech impediment hidden. He went through the exchange in his head one more time, enjoying the slap of cool air on his hot skin. Then he dialed.

“Queen Bebe’s.” It was Sadie.

“Hi, I’m calling for an appointment to get a haircut.”

“Oh, cool. I can get you in sometime next—”

“I’ve got a problem, though. I have to fly to London in the morning and I need to get a trim before I go. Do you have an opening today?”

“I’m sorry, but I’m booked full.”

“I’m in a real bind here. If there were any way…I’ll pay you double if you could add me on at the end of the day. My regular guy had a funeral, and I have to look good for my trip.”

Gavin could hear Sadie wrestling with her decision. She was on the fence, so Gavin pushed on. “Triple. I’ll pay triple your normal rate, but I can’t go any higher. I’m begging.”

“Okay, but you need to be here by six.”

“Perfect.”

Adrenaline coursed through Gavin’s body, the exhilaration making him want to scream and punch at the air. How could skydiving or bungee-jumping ever compete with the thrill of bending a woman to his will? Dancing on the edge of a verbal cliff while his speech impediment fought to break free? He’d done it. Round one, and Picture Boy had bested the princess.

“What’s your name?” she asked.

Gavin smiled to himself. “My name? Kevin.”

* * *

Gavin went home and finished his preparations, spreading the plastic sheathing in a basement bedroom just inside the garage, and a second sheet in the back of the Bronco. From his hiding place beneath the lazy Susan, he retrieved a small bottle of gamma-hydroxybutyric acid and carefully poured a measure of the clear liquid into a vial the size of a double-A battery. He put the vial in his pocket.