Sandra Brown - Low Pressure

“He was a cop. He would know how to disappear.”

“He’s not the only thing that went missing,” she said, her tone gaining Dent’s full attention. “With the bribe of a few beers, I talked a detective into letting me review the Susan Lyston case file. I could have saved my bar bill. He reported back that the file was missing.”

“Did you believe him? Maybe he was holding out for a sweeter bribe. I would have.”

She responded to his insinuating smile with an eye roll. “He seemed genuinely perplexed, upset, and embarrassed by his and the police department’s failure to produce the file. I think he genuinely wanted to help.”

“Or he genuinely wanted to get laid and then get an acknowledgment in your book.”

“Not every man thinks like you.”

“Sure they do.” It was a rote response because he appeared to be already concentrating on something else. He was gazing into space and tapping his thumbnail against his front teeth. “I have an idea of who may know where Moody is.”

He stood up and took the telephone book with him. Pointing to her half-empty mug of coffee, he said, “Bring that with you. You can finish it on the way.”

“I can’t go anywhere without first stopping by my house. I’m a mess.”

He looked her over. “Right. Okay. Good, in fact. I’d like to leave my Vette in your garage.”

“Why?”

“It’s too easy for that knife-wielding son of a bitch to spot.”

He pulled into the driveway behind her car. “I’ll switch cars while you’re making the overhaul.”

“I look that bad?”

“Allow yourself at least fifteen minutes.” He was ragging on her, but his rascally smile suddenly reversed itself. “What’s that?”

Propped against her front door was a large manila envelope.

“When I spoke with the house painter yesterday, I asked him to leave an estimate in the mailbox, but I guess the envelope was too large.”

However, when she picked it up and read the bold label stuck to the front of it, her stomach sank. “Van Durbin.”

She worked open the sealing adhesive and removed several eight-by-ten photographs. All of them were of her and Dent. Sorting through them quickly, she said, “These were taken—”

“Yesterday. At the Austin airport.”

Clearly recognizable in the background was the ticketing area where they had stopped at an automated kiosk to pick up their boarding passes for the flight to Atlanta. There was another photograph of them hurrying toward the security check line and one of them in line waiting their turn.

The fourth picture, obviously taken from a distance with a telephoto lens, had been snapped after they’d cleared security and were rushing toward the gate. Their backs were to the camera.

And Dent’s hand was planted solidly on the small of her back.

She went through the photos a second time, now noting that in each shot he was touching her. She didn’t remember there being that much physical contact between them, but the evidence was there.

The most startling picture had been taken while they were waiting in the security check line. He was pulling a small piece of leaf—a holdover from their trip to the neighborhood park—from her hair. It had seemed like nothing at the time. The gesture had lasted no more than a second or two, but the camera had caught them with their faces close, his fingers in her hair. They were smiling into each other’s eyes in a way that was indicative of much more than his teasing remark about being unable to take her anywhere without dusting her off first.

The photos implied an intimacy between them that now made her feel hot, self-conscious, and glad that her back was to him. She cleared her throat. “Van Durbin must have left them here yesterday before tracking us to your apartment last night.”

“Busy guy.” He sounded distracted, and she wondered if he, too, was surprised to find himself caught in such telling tableaus.

“Why did he bother to hand-deliver them?” she asked.

“To let us know that we can run but we can’t hide. I hope the bastard had a rough night in jail.” She sensed his leaning in to get a closer look at the photographs from over her shoulder. Speaking in a low voice, he said, “You know, to look at these, you’d think—”

“Oh!” she exclaimed suddenly. “That’s Jerry.”

“Huh?”

“Jerry.” She pointed out a face in the airport crowd in the background. The man was looking at her and Dent, not at the camera, but it had a clear angle on his face.

“Who the hell is Jerry ?”

She laughed. “He’s… he’s nobody. An ardent fan.” Shaking her head with dismay, she said, “What a bizarre coincidence.”

Tucking the photos under her arm, she unlocked her front door and the two of them went inside. “Let me go first.” Dent moved her aside as he reached beneath his loose shirttail and produced a pistol.

Bellamy gasped. “Where did that come from?”

“Pepe’s Pawn Shop, I think it was called. It’s a tamale stand now.”

“Dent! I want nothing to do with guns.”

“ Gun . Only one. And you never have to touch it.”

“What are you doing with it?”

“Discouraging anything our tattooed friend has in mind for us. Now stay put till I check things out.”

After a swift walk-through he returned and reported that the house was as they’d left it the day before. She was relieved to see that he’d tucked the pistol away.

“I checked the mailbox and found this.” She held up the letter envelope with the painter’s estimate inside. “Seems fair. And I like the idea of his being the locksmith’s brother-in-law. Saves me from having to give a house key to someone else.”

She reached for her cell phone, but Dent said, “Call him later. I want to hear about Jerry, your ardent fan.”

“He calls himself my number-one fan.” She picked out the photograph with him in it. “The focus is soft, but I’m almost certain that’s him.”

Dent studied the man in the picture.

His deep frown caused Bellamy to ask, “What?”

“I don’t know. Something. Tell me about him.”

“There’s not much to tell. I don’t know him, not even his last name. He came to one of my first book signings and thereafter kept popping up at personal appearances and lectures in New York, always bringing several copies of the book for me to autograph.”

“New York? So what was he doing at the Austin airport yesterday?”

“I have no idea.”

“You told me that your sense of being watched started when you got to Austin. Ever get that feeling in New York?”

“Sometimes. But I thought it was claustrophobia, being surrounded by a crowd.”

“You’re always surrounded by a crowd in New York.”

“Yes, but—”

“This was different? And it started when you began publicizing your book?”

She nodded. “The first time it happened, I was signing copies at a mystery bookstore. I thought the spooky atmosphere, all the people waiting in line, caused me to get flustered and panicky. I felt… airless.”

“Was Jerry there?”

“I think so.”

“When was the last time you saw him?”

“The day—” She stopped suddenly.

He cupped his ear with his hand. “The day… what?”

“I left the city.”

“Same day the rat was delivered. Where’d you see Jerry that day?”

“Outside the network studio. But I’m positive that one has nothing to do with the other.”

“Well, I’m not. Positive, that is. Maybe Jerry’s stalking you.”

“With evil intent? Absolutely not. He’s harmless.”

Dent raised an eyebrow as though questioning that assertion.

“I swear to you, Dent, he’s about as sinister as a glass of milk. Bookish. Mild-mannered. Ordinary looking. He blends into the woodwork.”