by Scott Pearson
Paul stopped in the hotel bar for a cocktail just after killing a man a few floors up. He knew it was an indulgence, but hed done it before when there was the perfect place to sit. A table out of the way, but not too out of the way as if he had something to hide.
He appraised the dry gin martini before him with the same cool stare hed directed around room 514 before hed left, opening the door with the handkerchief that was now back in his pants pocket. Only when perfectly satisfied did Paul move on.
Upstairs that meant leaving the room and walking down the corridor, glancing around as if impressed by the pattern in the carpet, the delicate sconces lighting his way, the tasteful wallpaper border near the ceiling, but, in reality, the casual movements of his head were timed to keep his face away from a security camera. . . .