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20 minutes later, bike in tow, he’s in the back corner of the Coffee Hound lot, where he’d parked his van earlier that morning before beginning the circuitous route to uptown and transforming into his man-in-black alter under cover of the outhouse at Underwood park.
Following his bike through the sliding side door, he slams it shut. As soon as the lock clicks he strips off his shoes and jacket and the jeans and glasses, plain grey sweat clothes and a pair of brown Keens take their place.
After fishing the hammer out, he sets the satchel into a slim grey fannypack that he clips around his waist under the sweater—that hard-earned prize would be staying with him and nowhere else.
The hammer, glasses, jacket, jeans, and the yellow bag with all its contents, he bundles into a duffel, tucking it under the back of the passenger seat.
Evidence would be disposed of accordingly—later—out of state.
He pulls into the Connie Link Amphitheater 10 minutes later.
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Donning the blue baseball cap, he steps out and crosses the street.
He chuckles when he sees the lock laying on the ground.
Note to self, don’t lock a bike up outside of Trailhead Apartments.
Maybe maintenance had thrown it out. Or maybe someone just really needed a bike.
Either way it gives him one less thing to deal with. He hoped it would serve its new owner well.
Passing by the lock he has to remind himself not to slow and stare.
He figures he’s probably being overly cautious. No one was ever going to connect the afternoon-jogger-retrieving-a-bike dot with the hungover-flamboyant-fratboy dot with the scoliotic-gem-thief dot—if he was to be apprehended it would be due to a stray print or because facial recognition software really just is that good—but obsessing over the minutia of body language made him feel better nonetheless.
The placebo effect still works even when you know it’s a placebo, after all.
On his way back to the van he catches a glimpse of silver-gold behind the trees lining the trail. That shoulder length cut, laser straight on the silhouette of a petite frame.
Not headed in his direction though.
At the twinge of disappointment, he has to remind himself that it’s all for the better this way, the less interaction he has while he’s in town, the less convoluted any alibis will need to be.
She probably has a boyfriend anyways. Definitely, she definitely has a boyfriend.
That morning’s rush of hormones has finally caught up with him. He’s been running on fumes, and those dried up about an hour ago.
Back in the van he downs a nitro cold brew and starts driving.
He won’t make it all the way back tonight, he’ll just go as far as he can. Whenever he gets remotely close to too tired to follow every traffic law to a T, he’ll post up at one of the rest stop off I-70.
There were advantages to living out of a van.
The hard part was over, now he had all time in the world to get out of the flatlands.
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