Chapter Eleven
Trip sits in her car, decked out in black. She has come home after a long journey, her clothes signifying a return to self. The minute she strips out of the ridiculous clothes she’s been wearing all week and slips into her black jeans, black t-shirt with long sleeves, black windbreaker, black gloves and other accoutrement, she feels alive in a way she hasn’t since the first murder occurred. Her hair is slicked down, and she is wearing no makeup. If she only had enough hair to pull back in a ponytail, she would be completely herself again. As it is, she’s feeling good as she sits in the car smoking a cigarette. She has a notebook on the seat besides her, neatly listing her points of interest. She is on the case, even if her client is herself and she doesn’t know what she’s repossessing. If she is to be honest, the uncertainly adds an element of spice to the job that has been missing from her last coups. Even though the ‘Freezin’ Seamen’ case held her interest because of the sheer oddness of the contents of what she was asked to repossess, the job itself had been fairly straightforward.
Trip continues to smoke, wondering what became of Gina Lattimore, the woman who had stolen the guy’s cum and stored it in her freezer. Trip shrugs as she dismisses the question from her mind; none of her business any more. She has more important matters at hand which require her complete concentration. Though every nerve in Trip’s body is screaming for her to do something, she forces herself to sit in the car and wait. This is recon to see if there are any cops patrolling the area. After a half hour, Trip comes to the conclusion that any patrol is sporadic enough not to be a bother. She slips out of the car and locks it before approaching the apartment building. As she does, she flashes back to the last time she was here, then pushes that out of her mind as well. There’s nothing to gain by freaking herself out with memories of Angelica’s dead body. This time, Trip is not going to be greeted by a dead body sprawled on the kitchen floor. At least, she sincerely hopes not.
She steels her nerves and reaches for the door. Earlier in the day, she had come to the building purporting Sto visit a friend, and despite all the shit that has happened in the building, some knob let her in. It probably didn’t hurt that she used a high, breathy voice much like Marilyn Monroe’s without a trace of an accent. To further help her cause, she had worn short shorts and a tight top as well as a blond wig. She hadn’t needed the get-up as her voice was enough to get her through the door, but it never hurt to be prepared. She had jimmied the door not to latch, and it is still that way hours later. She looks at her watch and sees that it’s nearly one in the morning. Time to get this show on the road.
She glances at the mailboxes to confirm Blanche’s apartment number before trotting up the stairs. There is not much activity, but Trip still treads stealthily. She reaches Blanche’s floor and cautiously looks around. There is no guard or tape blocking the door, so she assumes that the cops are finished. Even if they aren’t, it wouldn’t matter to her. She pulls out her handy-dandy set of lock picks from her bag and is in the door in record time. Adrenaline surges through her veins as she slips into the apartment. She still has the juice, baby, and it feels good to get back on the horse again after being thrown off it. She closes the door and locks it behind her. As an afterthought, she slides a chair under the door handle—just a little protection to alert her if someone else gets the same idea. She takes another deep breath before turning on the lights with a gloved hand.
