Lawrence Block - The Girl With the Deep Blue Eyes

“No tapes,” he said. “You think I want to be on any damn tape recording?”

“It’s the best way to be sure she’s not seeing anyone,” he said, “but I can understand that privacy’s a legitimate concern. I’ll still need access, though. I assume she has a computer.”

Well, of course she did. Who didn’t nowadays?

“If she’s like most people,” he said, “her whole life’ll be on it, just waiting to be downloaded. I’ll be in and out of there in no time at all, and then you can have your key back.”

Right.

He gave her time now to remember what she’d forgotten and come back for it. When this didn’t happen, he picked up his clipboard for camouflage and walked to the front door. He rang the bell, because you didn’t want to take anything for granted, and when it went unanswered he used the key and let himself in.

What furniture there was looked as if it had been ordered all at once from Walmart or Ikea — everything white, everything new, and none of it built to last. The one thing that wasn’t white was her portable massage table, folded and propped against a living-room wall. Her Mac laptop rested on a dinette table in the small kitchen. He booted it up, and the home page supplied her daily horoscope.

He plugged a flash drive into a port and dumped her hard drive onto it.

While the life and times of Ashley Hannon were busy reproducing themselves on the Kingston flash drive that lived on his keychain, Doak climbed the stairs to the bedroom. More white furniture — a six-drawer dresser, a queen-size captain’s bed with drawers on both sides.

She hadn’t made the bed, and one pillow still held the impression of her head. He picked it up, inhaled her scent. For an instant he had the sense that he was being observed, and then his eyes met those of a teddy bear propped on the other pillow. The bear was dressed in striped overalls and a matching railroader’s cap, and looked as though he’d seen it all.

He put the pillow back, then took the microphone from his pocket and looked for a place to mount it. It was not much larger than his flash drive, and the underside of the bed would have been a logical spot for it, but the bed’s platform sat flush on the floor.

He opened drawers until he found one that held blankets. Barring a cold snap, there’d be no reason to open the drawer — and there wouldn’t be any cold weather for a while, not in a Florida summer.

He set up the mike all the way in the back of the drawer, on top of a blanket; the battery-operated receiver went in the crawl space, which he reached by pushing up a panel in the hall. A quick look showed she had nothing stored up there, and thus no reason to come upon the receiver.

It would work, he thought, but did it have to? If he hadn’t already owned the equipment he wouldn’t have bothered.

He opened her closet, rummaged through her clothes. Once again he found himself breathing in her scent, and he let himself imagine her body, all firm toned flesh, with a puff of blonde curls at the juncture of her thighs.

He stood there, let himself feel what he was feeling...

And then there was the sound of a car outside, braking to a stop.

His mind raced. If it was her, she’d be in the house before he could let himself out of it. He would have to lurk in one room and wait for a chance to slip past her, but how could he realistically expect to get out without being seen?

And, Jesus, his flash drive was still plugged into her Mac, where she couldn’t miss seeing it.

So he didn’t have much choice, did he? He’d plant himself behind the bedroom door, waiting for her to come upstairs, hoping she’d walk right past the computer, either not noticing it was turned on or thinking she must have left it like that. She’d come into the bedroom and he’d take her from behind.

And what? Hit her in the head, hard enough to knock her out? No, safer and more certain to clap one hand over her mouth and wrap his other arm around her neck, putting her gently to sleep with a choke hold.

He let himself visualize it all, her body struggling in his grasp, then relaxing as she lost consciousness. And pushed the image aside to listen for her key in the lock, for the door opening.

When he didn’t hear it he went to the window. The car at the curb was not Ashley Hannon’s Hyundai but a Dodge minivan, from which a black woman was lifting a sack of groceries while two of her children made a run for the swing set.

Jesus.

He left the bedroom as he’d found it, went downstairs, retrieved his flash drive and shut down her computer, then let himself out of the house. The neighbor woman was putting away her groceries, he could hear her through the screen door. Her son was pushing his sister on the swing, and they were too involved in what they were doing to pay attention to a middle-aged white man carrying a clipboard.

He got in his car and drove around the corner, stopped in front of a house not all that different from the one he’d just left. He breathed deeply, in and out, and thought how relieved he’d felt at the sight of the minivan.

Relief touched with disappointment.

Because, the fear and tension notwithstanding, he’d wanted her to come up the stairs and into the bedroom, wanted to clap a hand over her little mouth before she knew what was happening, wanted to choke her until she blacked out and went limp in his arms.

“Choke me, will you? Come on, how tricky is that? Use both hands, put ’em around my throat, and choke me a little. Not too hard. Oh, that’s nice. A little harder, just a little bit. Oh, yeah.” And then what? Lower her to the floor, slip a hand under that skimpy white skirt, touch her through her panties. Maybe reach inside her panties, give her a little finger wave.

He was hard thinking about it.

Well, he could do something about that. He didn’t even have to go home for the clipboard.

“I’m sorry to bother you, Mrs. Ellison. I thought I had all the information my client required, but it turns out I have some more questions.”

No makeup, and this time he noticed that her ears were pierced for earrings, but that she wasn’t wearing any. Her housedress was almost identical to the one she’d worn before, and stretched at least as tight over the full breasts and round belly.

“But this can’t be a good time for you,” he went on. “What time does your boy go for his nap?”

“Oh,” she said. “It depends, but usually around noon or a little after. But you don’t have to—”

“It’s eleven-thirty,” he said. “Suppose I come back, oh, forty-five minutes from now? That would be at twelve-fifteen. Would that be all right?”

He didn’t wait for an answer, just flashed her a smile and turned to walk to his car. He didn’t look back, didn’t see her again until he was back behind the wheel of the Monte Carlo. Then he caught sight of her, still standing in the doorway, looking at him.

He was right on time, and when she opened the door to his knock he explained that he hadn’t wanted to ring the bell for fear of waking her son.

“Not much chance of that,” she said. “Once he’s asleep, you could shoot off a cannon next to him and he wouldn’t hear it.”

In the living room, he took the same seat he’d had on his earlier visit. “Ah, this is nice,” he said. “It’s warm out there.”

“I’ve been inside all day,” she said.

“Well, don’t be in a rush to go out. A person can raise a thirst out there.”

“Would you care for some iced tea?”

“Oh, you don’t have to do go to the trouble.”

“It’s no trouble. There’s a pitcher in the refrigerator.”

“Well, if you’re having some yourself, Mrs. Ellison.”