by Rebecca York
Finally, she was forced to stop pumping the bike. Her legs ached. So did her chest. What she needed was a shower and some sleep. But she wasn’t fool enough to assume things would look better in the morning.
L. J. SMITH closed his eyes and leaned back in his ergonomic desk chair as he listened to the angry voice-mail message for the second time. The man on the other end of the line was so angry that he could barely speak two words without one of them being an obscenity.
“This is Havers. Listen, you S.O.B., I paid through the nose for some of your effing credit cards a couple of days ago. One of them is a piece of crap. The owner is dead. A woman named Marianne Blaisdell. We almost got our asses hauled into custody when we tried to use it. If you don’t call me in the next twelve hours, I’m going to take action.”
Smith’s face contorted. For a moment he hesitated, then he pressed the button that saved the message. He’d have preferred to erase it, but Havers wasn’t going to go away. And he shouldn’t. He’d get a refund on his whole order, an abject apology for the screwup, and an assurance that it would never happen again. Because in this business, when you lost your reputation for reliability, you lost your customer base.
Drumming his fingers on the polished wood surface of his desk, L.J. thought about his next move. The name Marianne Blaisdell was familiar. He’d seen it splashed across the front page of the Baltimore Sun a few days ago. She’d been murdered and her body dumped behind an empty row house.
Which left him with three undesirable possibilities. One of Techno Transfer’s hackers had found her wallet with its credit cards and identification, figured California was far enough away for safety, and had decided to take a little shortcut in his work. Or the killer could have sold the credit cards to one of his guys. Both of those were pretty bad. But not as bad as the third scenario—that one of his employees was a murderer who was mixing business with pleasure, or whatever you wanted to call it.
Eyes narrowed, he opened the file that contained his personnel records. Most of his staff were quiet guys who spent as much time at home on the computer as they did at work. A couple had prison records; a few engaged in odd extracurricular activities but nothing that affected their work. Now he had to find the skunk in the woodpile. Somebody very dangerous—or reckless—or dumb. It didn’t matter. Whatever had gone down, he’d have to terminate the guy. He’d done it before and he was fully prepared to do it again to keep his business functioning smoothly.
SCREECHING to a halt just short of the parking area in back of his Canton row house, Ben cursed silently under his breath. The kids next door had been building forts out of packing crates again and they’d left the debris scattered around his trash cans. Sighing, he got out of his car and cleared away enough of the mess so he could squeeze past He’d complained to the boys’ mother before and discovered she was overworked, underpaid, and struggling to keep food on the table since her husband had taken off for parts unknown. After that. Ben didn’t hassle her too much and he spent some of his own limited time with her sons. But they still had problems he couldn’t solve.
Not surprising, since he couldn’t solve his own.
He sighed again as he unlocked the back door and turned on the kitchen light. He didn’t see the dishes in the sink. Instead he flashed on an image of Jenny the way she’d looked as she’d dashed away from the car and up the steps as if she was afraid he might follow.
Eyes closed, he stood very still trying to wipe out the disturbing picture. It was replaced by the panicked expression on her face when he’d first come to the Birth Data office. He slapped his fist against his palm. He should try to get some sleep. But he knew that it wouldn’t do him much good to lie down. He’d only see Jenny’s face behind his closed eyelids.
His eyes opened and he looked around the kitchen, fixing on the dirty dishes. As he washed them, the smooth movements of his hands belied his inner turmoil. He was angry with himself. When he’d started to talk about going to Howard High, he hadn’t fully understood what he was doing. But the drive home from Jenny’s had given him plenty of time for self-analysis.
He slammed a mug into the soapy water and grimaced as hot suds splashed his shirt. He prided himself on his analytical mind and his sense of control. He’d never felt as out of control as he’d been ever since he’d heard Diangelo mention Jenny’s name. He’d been helpless to stop himself from butting into the investigation, and helpless to govern his behavior when he was around her. All he had to do was get close to her and he started acting like an adolescent at the mercy of his hormones. Even now, remembering the taste of her lips or the electric moment when her hand had accidentally strayed into his lap was enough to make him hard again.
He understood what had happened, all right. The need to get the truth out in the open had become a pressure cooker building up steam inside his chest. Finally, he’d blurted out his confession and told Jenny he knew her, knew about the accident, because he simply couldn’t go on lying after the way they’d turned each other on. He had to know if there was a chance for a real relationship between them. And the only way to do it was to come clean. He’d been prepared to tell her the rest of it, too, until she’d leaped out of the car and run away. Talk about picking the wrong moment. Now he wondered if he would get a second chance and whether he’d only screw up again.
JENNY HAD GONE to bed, but she’d known she couldn’t sleep after that last scene with Brisco. Lifting her watch from the nightstand, she checked the time. Four-fifteen in the morning. She was going to be a zombie tomorrow. Thank God she didn’t have to go to work.
Swinging her legs over the side of the bed, she stood and donned the pair of sweatpants she’d hung on the back of her closet door.
The bare floor was cold against her feet, but she didn’t bother pulling on slippers as she made her way to the small room downstairs where she kept her computer. To her chagrin, she found that she’d forgotten to turn off the machine. It had been running the whole time she’d been down at Fells Point.
Unfortunately that wasn’t the only thing she’d forgotten, she realized with a little groan. Her cane was still in Brisco’s car. Luckily she kept a couple of spares in the closet.
When Brisco found the one she’d overlooked, would he try to return it? She stopped short as she imagined him knocking on the front door the way he had earlier in the evening. Then she lowered her head into her hands. She didn’t want him knocking on the door. He’d lied to her, even if it was a lie of omission. Probably it would be better if she never saw him again. She’d tried to believe that as she’d lain awake in bed. Yet she wasn’t sure she was being honest with herself. She wasn’t sure of anything where Ben Brisco was concerned. Maybe she was simply a coward, and he’d given her the perfect excuse to break off a relationship that frightened her. On the other hand, she did know one thing for certain. She’d been the one to encourage Marianne to start meeting people on-line. So she was at least partially responsible for what had happened to her friend. When Craig had died, there was no way she could atone. She was in the hospital herself, trying to cope with the enormity of waking up blind—and finding out it was a permanent sentence. But this time was different. There was something she could do for her friend. She could help catch Marianne’s killer. Even if Ben Brisco wanted her out of the loop.
She imagined coming to him with more evidence, and she felt her face glow as she heard the timbre of his voice when he praised her. The daydream expanded to his telling her he couldn’t solve the case without her…. With a shuddering sigh, she cut off the fantasy before it could really form. What was wrong with her? She was doing this for Marianne, she reminded herself, not because she cared what Ben Brisco thought or how he felt about her.
With decisive movements, she reestablished the link with World Connect. She knew that Marianne had been thinking about a Caribbean cruise. According to the status scan, there were presently twelve people in a chat room discussing cruises.
At four-thirty in the morning?
Jenny
knew she could read the bulletin boards without revealing her name and number. But she couldn’t remain anonymous in a chat room. She’d have to disclose her identity—but only to a small, specialized group of night owls, she told herself. Taking a deep breath, she typed in her name and number and asked what ports of call were best for a first timer.
A guy named Scott told her how much he liked the Western Caribbean. A woman named Tina said she’d had more fun in Bermuda. Then a man named Fred jumped in to ask if Jenny was planning to travel alone.
“With a girlfriend,” she quickly typed.
“So when are you going?” he asked.
“I’m not sure. I’m just starting to investigate the possibilities.”
Fred named a couple of party ships, then asked, “Do you like to dance?”
“Love it,” Jenny answered with what she figured was the right response.
“So did my late wife.”
When she deliberately didn’t pick up on the personal comment, he was ready with another question.
“Are you and your friend from Baltimore?”
Startled, she reared back from the computer. Instead of answering she said she had to get ready for work and signed off quickly. With jerky motions, she shut down the machine and sat with her shoulders pressed against the chair back as she reviewed the conversation. She hadn’t mentioned where she lived. Did he have some kind of specialized equipment that gave him information ordinary subscribers lacked?
There’d been no way she could have anticipated anything like that. She wished she’d stuck to her original plan and stayed out of the chat rooms.
Chapter Nine
The watcher hiding under the branches of the maple trees fifty yards from Jenny Larkin’s house smiled to himself as he saw her pad past the window in a T-shirt and panties. She didn’t have a clue that he was getting an eyeful. He could step out from under the trees and walk right up to the back door if he wanted, break the glass, go inside, and do anything he wanted. But he wouldn’t make his move yet Not until he knew for certain that nobody else was going to show up. Like that cop from the other day.
Taking a last drag on his cigarette, he stubbed it out and ground it into the dark soil with the heel of his running shoes. He was back on track. And he wasn’t going to make another mistake like the one a few nights ago. It had been a stroke of genius to check out the records on research projects at that association for blind people. That was how he’d found out that Jenny Larkin was using the same computer system as Marianne Blaisdell. After the robbery attempt, Randolph Electronics had scooped up Blaisdell’s machine, and he’d figured he couldn’t make the delivery after all. But he’d kept checking around, because he hated to disappoint a customer who would pay sixty thousand bucks for one computer.
A hot, syrupy feeling had spread through his chest when he’d seen her and realized she was the bitch who’d damn near put his eye out with a screwdriver. His face still stung where she’d slashed him. But he was going to get even.
The back door opened, and she came outside. He went very still as he watched her take several deep breaths.
She tipped her head to one side, and he wondered if she’d come out for a little fresh air. Then she began to tap her cane along the surface of the wooden deck. She was heading for a metal trash can but she wasn’t carrying any trash. He waited while she took off the top and dipped inside. She came out with a plastic container full office or something. He considered moving closer to get a better look but didn’t. If she couldn’t see, she probably had a great sense of hearing. But he had the upper hand, he reminded himself. He had twenty-twenty vision. And when he started chasing her, it was going to be fun watching her trip over rocks and roots and catch her hair in the tree branches as she tried to get away. Maybe he’d let her think she had a chance. That would add a little spice to the game.
His eyes never left her. She was heading toward a bird feeder, and he finally realized it was birdseed in the container. She was going to feed the little buggers.
He took a step forward. He was almost out from under the trees when an old sedan came up the driveway, and he froze. A gray-haired woman got out, and Larkin turned immediately toward the sound.
“Hester?” she called out
“Sorry I’m a little late,” the old lady answered. “Traffic was backed up at Route 1.”
Larkin finished filling the feeder. “That’s okay. It gave me a chance to take care of the wild life. I’m going to need some more birdseed. Let me put it on the list and get my pocketbook. Then we can leave for the grocery.”
“Your garden is so pretty,” the woman named Hester murmured.
“Thank you.”
“There are a few weeds along the edge of the path here. Do you want me to get them?”
“Thanks. I’d appreciate it.” Larkin put the plastic container back in the trash can and set the lid firmly into place.
“Are you all right?” Hester asked as she tossed some unwanted greenery into the woods.
“Of course. Why do you ask?”
“You look a little upset.”
“Well, I’ve had a few…untoward…things happen lately. But nothing serious. And nothing to do with you.”
“So do you want to go anywhere else beside the grocery?”
“No. That will be fine.”
Then they both went into the house.
The man in the bushes gave a satisfied little sigh.
He considered waiting until they’d left and grabbing the computer. He’d get his money and be finished with the job. But she’d know the machine was missing—and then the place would be crawling with cops. It might be weeks before he could get his revenge, and he wasn’t about to wait that long. He wanted her to understand that she’d brought her punishment on herself by tripping him up at Blaisdell’s.
BEN PULLED a candy out of his pocket, then grimaced when he saw the flavor printed on the wrapper. Passion fruit After stuffing it into the ashtray, he concentrated on finding a parking space near Three Sheets to the Wind.
This morning he’d donated the remainder of the cinnamon ones to the secretary’s candy dish and started on an assortment of exotic mixed fruit that he’d picked up the week before at Harborplace. The tart flavors had seemed like the perfect contrast to the cinnamon he’d shared with Jenny—until he’d discovered that passion fruit was part of the mix.
Damn, he was hurting, and it hadn’t gotten any better after six hours of tossing and turning in bed.
After shoehorning his car into a space halfway down the block, he reached in his breast pocket and pulled out the picture of Marianne Blaisdell and Duke Wakefield he’d slipped from an album in her bureau drawer. It was a couple of years old, because the photographic record of their life together had ended abruptly. In the photo she looked wholesome and hopeful—a far cry from the woman whose battered body had turned up in a weed-choked backyard. Wakefield looked like a jerk.
There’d been no point in talking to the day staff, so he’d waited until the end of his shift when he should be on his way home.
Inside the bar, the evening crowd was still small. It would swell when the band arrived.
Ben flashed his badge at the lean, mustachioed bartender. Then he got out the picture of Blaisdell and her ex-husband. “Have you seen either of these people around?” he asked.
The man shook his head and went back to polishing glasses, so Ben began to canvass the waitresses. On the third try, he hit pay dirt with a dishwater blonde whose black uniform was two sizes too small.
The woman looked at the picture for only a few seconds before nodding her head. “I’ve seen her. I don’t know him.”
“In here?”
“Yeah. Either last week or early this week.”
“How do you remember her?” Ben asked.
“She seemed out of place—nervous—like a crowded bar wasn’t her scene. You know what I mean?”
“Was she alone or with somebody?”
“Alone—at first. She relaxed a
fter she hooked up with a guy.”
“He picked her up?”
“I’d say they’d arranged to meet.”
“What were they doing?”
“They had some drinks and talked. Then they left.”
“You’re sure it wasn’t him?” Ben asked, tapping the picture of Duke.
She shook her head.
“But you could describe him? You’ve seen him around other times?”
“He comes in here sometimes.” She pursed her lips. “He was here last night.”
That got Ben’s attention. “Last night? What does he look like?”
“He’s got different looks.” She laughed. “Real different.”
“How do you mean?”
“I guess he thinks he’s a master of disguise. Sometimes he’s got long blond hair. Sometimes it’s shorter and dark. Sometimes he dresses like a biker—in leather. Sometimes like he just got off the early shift at Domino Sugar. Sometimes like a cowboy.” She thought for a minute. “Yeah, last night he was Jesse James. Western shirt with fancy studs across the front. Boots.”
“Yeah, Jesse James,” Ben repeated. “What time was he here?”
“Same time you were. Left just before you did.”
“You’ve got a good memory for faces.”
She nodded.
His mind flashed back to the man who had barged out of the rest room. He’d been big, with long blond hair that didn’t exactly go with his cowboy outfit. My God, could he have been the same one who’d killed the Blaisdell woman? He shuddered as he remembered the way he’d crowded Jenny against the wall.
“Anything else you can tell me about him?” Ben asked. “Eye color? Scars?”
