Daemon

had a Lincoln Navigator with twenty-inch chrome rims, a DVD and satellite hookup with ESPN, and a subwoofer the size of a refrigerator in the cargo bay – but that had probably been auctioned off to the next generation of playas by the HPD.
    Now
this
car was a white guy’s car. Conservative. Not an ounce of personality to it. Instead of saying ‘look at me,’ it said ‘I’m one of you.’ It was a conformity ride.
    He peered through the windows. Maybe it was the effect of prison, or maybe he was just getting older, but conformity had never looked quite so appealing. He opened the door, and a pleasant chime came to his ears. The dome and door lights lit up the gray leather interior. The off-gassing adhesives left no doubt it was brand-new.
Stolen
.
    Mosely leaned in. The keys were in the ignition.
    Not quite yet
…
    He searched for the trunk latch and tripped it. He heard the trunk pop at the back of the car. Mosely cautiously moved to the rear bumper and lifted the trunk lid.
    The trunk did not contain a corpse. Nor was it filled with kilos of cocaine or heroin. It contained only a brown leather two-suiter suitcase and a black leather computer bag. He unzipped the computer bag. A laptop computer. These were not his favorite. He’d had too much data on his the last time he was busted. The computer bag contained numerous pockets, stuffed with pens, legal pads, and cables. One had a stack of business cards snugged into it. He pulled a business card out and read it:
    Charles Taylor, Jr
.
    Executive Vice President, Corporate Counsel
    Stratford Systems, Inc
.
    He pictured some lawyer lying dead in a bayou.
    Mosely closed the bag and undid the clasps on the brown two-suiter case, unfolding it. Expensive. With an engraved monogram of ‘CWT’ in the center of a brass plaque. He unzipped the case to reveal a couple of very fine suits (both size 48), shirts, and a tie. The side pockets contained toiletries, boxers, and socks. No weapons, drugs, or anything else. It was looking alarmingly harmless.
    I’m a mule. I just don’t know how
.
    Maybe the body panels were packed with heroin. Welded in place. He closed the suitcase and slammed the trunk. He’d never know.
    He took off his suit jacket and laid it on the passenger seat, then sat behind the wheel. He turned the ignition key to the first position. The car’s instrument panel came to life, and a computer screen in the dashboard flickered, revealing a color map. A large arrow indicated his current position and direction.
    Suddenly the car phone rang. Mosely looked around. He noticed a phone button on the steering wheel. He pressed it, and the familiar British female voice spoke out over the stereo speakers, startling him. ‘
Good, Mr Moze-ly. I trust you’ve searched the car and found nothing dangerous. Please open the glove compartment and remove the manila envelope
.’
    Mosely realized with a start that he hadn’t checked the glove compartment.
Stupid
. He leaned over and flipped it open. The manila envelope was right on top. He grabbed it and noticed the car’s registration and insurance certificate in a neat plastic sleeve just beneath that. He withdrew the envelope and slammed the glove box. He sat back in the driver’s seat and opened the envelope with a rip.
    The Voice returned. ‘
Inside you will find materials necessary for your journey
.’
    Mosely poured a whole bunch of card-sized objects into his lap. The most noticeable was a Texas driver’s license with his picture on it. Alongside his picture was the name Charles W. Taylor, Jr., and a Houston address. The license looked and felt real – holograms and all. There was also a stack of platinum credit cards in his lap – Visa, American Express, MasterCard, Discover – all in the name of Charles Taylor, and a couple of them had the Stratford Systems, Inc., name beneath his. There were more of his business cards, a gym membership, a University of Southern California Alumni Association card with his name on it, a Houston Bar Association ID, and then there were dozens of credit card receipts from all sorts of businesses – restaurants mostly – that ranged from $97 to $1,780. The charges were from the last few days. There was also a two-page hotel receipt for the Hyatt Regency in Austin. The bill was $6,912. Taylor’s signature was the barest squiggle of a line – very easy to forge.
    He looked in the envelope and found a few more items. There were several wallet-sized photos of a very