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myself to glance away. And met a pair of hostile
eyes over his shoulder.
The man was sitting in the booth opposite us.
The lighting there had been lowered, and his face
was mostly in shadow. As our gazes locked, his
glare deepened. I glared back. Homophobic jerk. It
took a few seconds for him to drag his eyes away
from me, and I didn't miss the sneer that curled his
lip. He had seemed vaguely familiar, not as in
someone I'd met, but had maybe seen a couple of
times in passing.
"Perry?" Drew said. "Are you with me?"
"Sorry, yes." I signaled to a waiter. "Why don't I
order for us while you're producing the art master-
piece?"
"Good idea. I'll have the steak, rare, fries, salad
and ranch dressing." I ordered the same, and when
the waiter had retreated I glanced across at the
booth. It was empty.
By the time the steaks arrived, Drew had filled
four pages, drawing rough layouts from the first
floor to the attics. Though he did say that the attics
were partly speculation, as the roofs weren't in too
good a shape. I'd already seen that from the photos,
so it was no surprise. The basement he couldn't
even guess at, as the only access from inside the
house was blocked with rubble. There would have
been outside access, probably at the back via the
kitchen annex, but he didn't have a clue where to
look for it. It didn't help that the rooms he'd drawn
out were the end-results of the modernization in the
Twenties.
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Still, I had enough information there to make
some educated guesses and work with them, and
over coffee at the end of the meal, I started showing
him some possible set-ups. Anything more concrete
would have to wait until I'd actually seen the place
and could judge for myself what the original layout
had been.
An hour or so later, we shook hands again and
parted. Drew suggested another informal meeting
for a meal and a chat: I gave him a vague answer
and managed to get away without committing
myself to anything.
On the way back to the hotel, it suddenly came
home to me that I was being an idiot. I was un-
attached. I didn't have to keep trying to shut him
out. Drew was attractive, not to say hot, and if he
came on to me again, I should maybe go along with
it even if the ethical side of it did not sit comfort-
ably. I considered the possibility for a warm, fuzzy
five minutes, then tipped a metaphorical bucket of
ice-water over my head. No way. But that night I
had the first wet-dream I'd had in months, and
Drew Connors had the starring role.
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Chapter Six
The next morning, I didn't get another weird
phone call. Instead I got a letter. It was in a plain
white envelope, no postage was on it and the
address was computer printout on a generic self-
adhesive label. The word 'Personal' had been done
in bold capitals and underlined. Inside the envelope
were two sheets of paper; one held one sentence.
Stay away or you'll end up with more scars.
The second sheet was a printout of a photo of
me. It was a close-up profile shot and the scar on
my temple was clearly visible. But the details were
fuzzy, as if the picture had been blown up beyond
the scope of the pixels. I gaped at it in total incom-
prehension for a full minute, while at the same time
the still-functioning part of my brain recognized the
first two letters of Sloane's Antiques just behind my
head. And apples on my tongue. Whoever sent this,
meant it.
"What the hell?" Then I understood that the
weird phone call of a few days ago had escalated to
an anonymous letter. A decidedly threatening letter.
Anger and tension churned in my gut and I started
to rip the thing to shreds. I stopped before no more
than an inch was torn. This had just gone a step too
far and someone needed to be slapped down. Hard.
I took out my cell phone and keyed in a number.
"Joe," I said when he answered. "I need to talk to
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you. It's unofficially official, if you know what I
mean."
"No, I don't, but that's okay." I could hear the
smile in his voice. "Mary's Bakehouse, the corner of
Delft and Westside."
"Sure, what time?"
"Twelve-thirty?"
"I'll be there. Thanks, Joe."
Mary's Bakehouse was a diner on the other side
of downtown Leidenton, far enough from BSA's
office that I had to leave early to get there on time.
Joe was already there, sitting at a table that gave
him a clear view of the door and the tree-lined side-
walk beyond the windows. He wasn't wearing his
uniform shirt, just a white t-shirt with a dark leather
jacket over it.
"Neat hair," he said appreciatively as I took the
chair across from him. "Looking good, Perry."
"Thanks," I said. "And thanks for agreeing to
meet up."
"Not a problem. I'm always happy to spend time
with you, even if it takes an unofficial official
problem to make it happen," he added with a grin
that took any sting away from the words. "Any
chance you'll be hitting the gym again any time
soon? Or running in the park?"
"Yes to both, but not until I've found a new place
to live. I'm in an apartment hotel at the moment,
courtesy of Victor and BSA, but I've got less than a
month to find somewhere else."
"You'll do it. So, what's the problem?"
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"I got a phone call." That was when the doubts
hit me. A slightly freaky call and a stupid note, and
I was running to my cop friend? I shrugged and
pressed on. "And an anonymous letter. Uh, the
voice was male, and I didn't recognize it. He was
whispering and it was muffled." Joe was making
notes and nodding. "I used call-back and it was a
public phone in a mall."
"Okay," he said. "What did he say to you?"
I repeated the message and he scribbled away in
his notebook.
"Did he sound angry? Aggressive?"
"No, it was almost a monotone, hardly any
inflection at all. As if he was reading from a script."
"Accent?" I looked at him blankly. "Pick a state.
Texas? Virginia? California?"
"No. Um, north-east? He could have been a
local, I guess," I added doubtfully.
"Some companies record incoming calls. Does
BSA?"
"No." I shook my head. "That was the first thing I
checked."
"Ah-huh. Did you bring the letter?"
I nodded and handed over the two printouts and
envelope. I'd put them inside one of those clear
plastic document sleeves, letter and picture back to
back, the envelope sandwiched between them. Just
in case there were any useful fingerprints. "Huh.
Interesting. Do you know when this was taken?"
"Saturday afternoon outside Sloane's Antiques."
A chill settled between my shoulder blades. "He
must have followed me there."
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"So, any ideas as to who and why?" There was a
wry smile twisting one corner of Joe's mouth, and
his eyebrow lifted.
"No," I said. "Not for certain. That's why I'm run-
ning this by you unofficially. Somebody in the office
suggested it was probably Cray's latest fuck-toy try-
ing to make sure I don't walk back into the picture.
If it is, I can't see Cray knowing anything about it," I
added, forestalling his next question. "He was too
keen for us to stay together."
"Well, that's the likeliest suspect. Don't suppose
you know the guy's name?"
"Nope. All I can tell you is he's pretty, about five-
seven, not a natural blond, has a butterfly tattoo on
his left ass-cheek, and he's barely legal. I can find
out, though. I have to meet Cray to sort out house-
stuff."
"Good. Let me know when you have it." He
tucked notebook and pen away in his uniform
pocket. "Is there a chance you and Cray will get
back together?" he asked, voice neutral.
"Not a cat in hell's," I answered, hunching over
the sudden twist in my gut. "You know how it goes:
hurt me once shame on you. Hurt me twice... He
doesn't get a second go-round with me."
"Glad to hear it." Joe's unashamedly lascivious
grin warmed me deep inside, reminding me I really [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]