Lawrence Block: The Girl With the Deep Blue Eyes

He showered, dressed. He’d laid out clothes before he went to bed, and they were on the chair waiting for him — boxer shorts, dark trousers, a long-sleeved shirt with a tropical print. A parrot, a palm tree, just the sort of thing a snowbird would buy the day after he got off the plane.

He’d bought it himself in a strip mall halfway between Tampa and Perry. Hardly ever wore it since.

Along with the clothes, the chair held the recording device the sheriff had reminded him not to forget. He fastened the rig around his chest, clicked it on and off and on again, said “Testing, one two three,” which was what everyone said under the circumstances, probably because it was easier than thinking of something else to say. He played it back, heard the words in his own voice.

It always surprised him, hearing his own voice. It was never the way he thought he sounded.

The shirt covered the wire. Nothing showed. He slipped his hand between two shirt buttons, switched the thing on, played the test again, then erased it. He said, “Recorded in the parking lot of the Winn-Dixie supermarket on Cable Boulevard in Belle Vista, Gallatin County, Florida, this sixteenth day of April in the year two thousand fourteen. Participants are J. W. Miller and Lisa Yarrow Otterbein.”

Stopped it, played it back. He’d spoken in his everyday voice, but how much of that was New York and how much had turned Floridian was hard for him to tell. He’d speak differently as Frankie from Bergen County, and he wouldn’t have to think about the accent. All he had to do was get the attitude right and the accent would follow.

He checked his wristwatch for the tenth or twentieth time. The time raced or crawled, it was hard to say which. He didn’t want to do this, and at the same time he wanted to do it and be done with it.

He circled the Winn-Dixie lot a few minutes before eleven, looked for a silver-gray Lexus, looked for any car parked off by itself.

Nothing. He drove a few blocks away and parked on the street. Checked the wire, made sure it was still working. Picked up the yellow pad, looked it over, shook his head at what he’d written.

Took out his phone, checked to see if anyone had called. He’d switched it from Ring to Vibrate before he left the house, because he didn’t want to get a phone call while he was busy being Frankie from Jersey.

No calls.

He summoned up her photo. Surprising, really, that you couldn’t determine the color of her eyes. They were such a vivid blue you’d think the camera couldn’t help picking it up.

He put the phone away. Checked his watch again, and returned to the Winn-Dixie. The parking spot he picked was at the rear of the lot and over to the left. There were no other cars within thirty yards of it.

He was ten minutes early, which was about right. He should be here first. Let her come to him.

If she did.

He hadn’t really entertained the possibility that she’d fail to show, but now it seemed highly probable. It was, after all, one thing to broach the subject to someone you knew, even as superficially as she knew Gonson. It was another thing to meet with a complete stranger and pay him a down payment on a contract killing.

She’d skip the meeting, he decided. She’d stay home and give it some more thought, and then she’d tell Richard Lyle Gonson that she’d changed her mind. Or she’d make up a story explaining why she’d been unable to get to the Winn-Dixie lot at the appointed hour, and looking to reschedule. And there’d be more phone calls all around, and tomorrow morning or the day after he’d be sitting where he was sitting now, only this time she’d show up, because she wouldn’t pull the same crap twice. And—

And there she was. A silver sedan, but was it a Lexus? Cars tended to look alike these days — although nothing out there looked much like his Monte Carlo. But this was indeed a Lexus, he recognized the hood emblem, and it was skirting the several rows of cars huddled around the store entrance and heading instead for the rear of the lot.

She seemed to hesitate, settling at length on a spot one row in front of him and four spaces off to the left. She shut off the ignition, stayed behind the wheel.

Did she want a sign? All right, he could give her one. He flicked his headlights on and off, then on and off again. Was that entrapment? He decided it wasn’t, not unless she was a moth.

Her door opened and she got out of the car. She was wearing a burnt orange top over a pair of powder-blue designer jeans. A tan leather bag rode her shoulder, and one hand pinned it to her side, as if to secure the thousand dollars.

He leaned across the passenger seat, opened the door for her. She hesitated for a beat, and he patted the seat in invitation. She got in and drew the door shut.

“Right on schedule,” the sheriff said. “But I don’t see the look of accomplishment that lit up your face the last time you wore a wire.”

“No.”

“I’d guess you got stood up, but you could have told me as much over the phone.”

“No, she showed up,” he said. “Simplest thing is to play it for you.”

“Recorded in the parking lot of the Winn-Dixie supermarket on Cable Boulevard in Belle Vista, Gallatin County, Florida, this sixteenth day of April in the year two thousand fourteen. Participants are J. W. Miller and Lisa Yarrow Otterbein.”

(beat)

“I don’t know how to say this.”

“Hey, take your time.”

“Look, I made a big mistake. I was upset, I was angry, and I told... I don’t want to say his name.”

“I know who you mean.”

“I never thought he’d take me seriously. I certainly didn’t take it seriously myself, and when he got back to me and told me he’d made arrangements with you, I didn’t know what to think.”

“Maybe you need some time to think it over.”

“No, all I need is for this whole incident to be as if it never happened. I’m not, not the sort of person who does this sort of thing.”

“Whatever you say.”

“My God, I don’t even kill bugs!”

“My wife’s the same way. She makes me kill ’em for her.

Which, when you stop an’ think about it—”

“I take them outside and let them go.”

“Okay.”

“I told Mr.... I told that man I never meant it, that it was a complete mistake, that he should get in touch with you and call it off. If you’re sure, he said, then just don’t show up. He’ll get the idea. He doesn’t even know your name, he’s not going to turn up on your doorstep.”

“You coulda done that.”

“And maybe I should have, but I don’t like loose ends. And why should you be stuck here waiting?”

“Very considerate.”

“This way it’s all perfectly clear. I’m not at all interested in... what we talked about, and we can both go our separate ways and think no more about it.”

“Yeah, okay.”

“You’ve had to make a trip for nothing, and I apologize for that. If you feel you ought to be reimbursed for your time—”

“Hey, I got more time than I know what to do with. And it’s very decent of you to show up on time and not leave me high and dry. But I get the feeling there’s more to it than just tying off loose ends.”

“What do you mean?”

“Maybe there’s a part of you wants to go through with it. I just now made a bet with myself, and you know what I bet? I bet you got an envelope in that purse and the envelope’s got a thousand dollars in it. Do I win my bet?”

(beat)

“I thought there was a chance you would want to be reimbursed for your time and—”