Vengeance

45 KENSINGTON, MARYLAND

Lonnie Mixell eased his Jeep Grand Cherokee to a stop alongside the curb on Webster Road, shifting his gaze to the storefront across the street — Gordon’s Wholesale, a family-owned operation. The most delicate part of the plan he had devised to accomplish Brenda Verbeck’s goal was the delivery, and he had a few options. Gordon’s Wholesale offered the lowest risk and highest probability of success, but there was no guarantee he could arrange it.

He glanced at his face in the rearview mirror. His hair was now blond again, his eye contacts and mouth implants were in place, and he had deliberately donned a pair of worn jeans and the oldest sweatshirt he owned. Sufficiently disguised and presentable for the day’s mission, he crossed the street and entered the store, asking the nearest worker if Dave Gordon was on the premises. He was directed to an office in the back of the main warehouse, where he was greeted by Gordon’s secretary, who looked up from her computer when he entered the office.

“Can I help you?”

“I have an appointment with Mr. Gordon.”

She squinted her eyes a bit, then looked back at her computer display. A few clicks on the keyboard followed, then she replied, “I don’t see anything on his calendar. Are you sure you have the right day and time?”

“Wednesday at 4 p.m.”

“Well, I’ll let him know you’re here, Mister…”

“Banks. George Banks.”

The woman smiled and moved down a short hallway, knocking on one of the doors. After opening the door and poking her head in the office for a moment, she returned to her desk.

“He’ll see you now,” she said.

Gordon’s office door was partially open, but Mixell knocked nonetheless, pushing it open wider before introducing himself.

“Have we met,” the man replied, “or talked on the phone? I don’t recall making an appointment to meet with you.”

“Actually, we’ve never met, nor do I have an appointment today.”

A perplexed look crossed the man’s face. “Then why are you here?”

“I need a job, and I was hoping you had an opening.”

“I’m sorry, Mister — what’s your name again?”

“George Banks.”

“I’m sorry, George, but I don’t have any openings right now.”

The man’s response had been a likely outcome of today’s task, but Mixell wasn’t yet ready to concede defeat.

“I’m looking for weekend work. I’ve already got a weekday job, but I don’t make much money and not enough to support my family, so I was hoping to pick up some work on the weekends. I imagine you’ve got to pay your employees extra for weekend deliveries. I’ll work for the standard rate, minimum wage even. And I can start this weekend.”

“Minimum wage? Every Saturday and Sunday?”

Mixell nodded.

“All right, George. You’ve got yourself a job. Minimum wage plus five extra dollars an hour.” He gestured toward the woman at the desk. “Carole will provide the paperwork you need to fill out.”

He stood and approached Mixell, offering his hand. “Welcome to Gordon’s Wholesale.”

The paperwork was quickly filled out and Mixell returned to his Jeep, pulling the SUV out into traffic for the second of the day’s errands.

Less than half an hour later, Mixell stopped by a local grocery store. Pushing a cart through the aisles, he quickly found what he needed — at least from this store — and entered a self-checkout lane. Had anyone bothered to peruse the items in his cart, they would have concluded that he was either very hungry or had a lot of mouths to feed.

He made a few more stops at different stores to prevent anyone from noticing the unusual quantities he was purchasing, and eventually headed toward his rental home in Woodmore.