Martin Greenberg: Crime Spells

She went back into the living room.

St. Johns was funny, smart, and twenty minutes into their conversation over perfect martinis, she was thinking maybe she would sleep with him instead of burgling him. That would be okay.

But, she reminded herself, she was broke. She had a couple thousand in the bank, but her apartment rent was due, her car note, and her fridge was mostly empty. She needed the money more than she needed to get laid.

A shame. He really was fun. He was some kind of importer, specializing in Pacific Rim antiquities, he said, and there were a few pieces of Polynesian or Hawaiian or other island art carefully set out here and there that she suspected were probably worth a small fortune. Jewelry she knew, painting and sculpture, she didn’t have a clue.

He smiled at her. “So, what do you do when you aren’t attending boring social gatherings?”

“Not much, I’m afraid. When my parents died, they left me a fair-sized insurance policy. I had the money invested, so it brings in enough to keep the wolf from the door. I take classes in this and that, work out, travel a bit. Nothing very exciting.”

He smiled bigger.

She smiled back. Oh, this wasn’t just ice cream, this was Haagen Dazs Special Limited Edition Black Walnut; you could get fat just opening the carton. The temptation surged in her, a warm wave. She had enough to pay the rent and car note, barely, she could buy some red beans and rice and veggies, make it another week before she had to have some more money…

In her purse, her cell phone began playing Pachelbel’s Canon in D.

Crap! What to do? Shut the phone off and stay?

Because she wanted to do just that so much, she decided it wasn’t a good idea. A matter of discipline. If she slipped, that could lead her down a dangerous slope. Just because it had always been good didn’t mean it couldn’t go bad.

Oh, well. She smiled, fetched her phone, touched a control.

“Hey, what’s up?” A beat. Then, “Oh, no! That’s terrible! Are you all right?”

St. Johns raised an eyebrow at her.

“No, no, I’ll come over. I’ll see you in a little while.”

She snapped the phone shut. “I’m sorry. That was my girlfriend Maria,” she said. “Her fiancé just dumped her, and she’s in a terrible state. I need to go see her.”

“I knew it was too good to be true. I’ll give you a ride.”

“No, I’ll catch a cab. She lives way out in Hillsboro, I wouldn’t ask you to do that.”

“It’s no trouble. I don’t have anything else planned.”

“Really, I appreciate it, but no. Could you, uh, give me your number? I’d like to see you again.”

“Oh, yes.” He produced a business card that had nothing on it but his name and a phone number. “Take care of your friend,” he said, smiling. “And do call me. I’d love to see you again.”

“I will look forward to seeing you,” she said. Unfortunately, you won’t know who I am when I do…

“Let me call a cab.”

“Thanks, Arlo.”

“My pleasure.”

After he called, he walked her to the door and rested his hand on her shoulder. There was a moment when she thought he would kiss her-and she wouldn’t have objected-but it passed.

Another road not taken.

Too bad, but that’s how life was. Sometimes, business had to come before pleasure.

Her taxi arrived. The night was warm, and she slid into the cab and gave the driver an address near a stop where she could catch a MAX train to a station near her place.

“Yes, madam,” the driver said. He looked to be about fifty, and from his accent, she guessed he was Indian or Pakistani.

It really was too bad about St. Johns.

The cabbie was chatty, going on about the warm weather and how the Bull Run Resevoir was low for this time of year. She responded politely, already thinking of how she was going to burgle St. Johns’s apartment. If the Glamor worked on voices, it would be a snap-she’d become St. Johns, tell the security guy she’d lost her key, and have him let her into the place. Take something the mark wouldn’t miss, and adios.

Too bad St. Johns wasn’t a mute-

Ah! Wait a second, hold on, she had something here…

“Beg pardon, Miss?” the cabbie said.

“Huh?” She looked at him.

“You made an exclamation? Are you in distress?”

She smiled. “Oh, oh, no, sorry. I was just thinking of something. I’m fine.”

The cabbie smiled and nodded.

Actually, she was better than fine. She had come up with a terrific idea. Why hadn’t it occurred to her years ago? It was so simple.

She paid the cabbie, gave him a nice tip-what the hell, she’d be flush again in a couple days, right? She walked to the MAX station. A light rail train arrived, and she got on, along with several others. She exited at the stop near her house. An old lady dressed in khaki slacks and a tie-dyed t-shirt and running shoes got off the train and set off at a fast walk ahead of her. The woman had long, steely-gray hair and a lot of smile wrinkles and was obviously in pretty good shape from the pace she set. You could do worse than to be somebody like that when you got old, Darla decided. But not for a real long time.

St. Johns needed to be out of the building, so she had to risk using her car. She parked near the exit to the garage early and waited to see St. Johns’ Caddy leave.

At about nine in the morning, the Escalade pulled out.

Okay, kid, here we go…

Darla approached the building’s street entrance. She put a hand on the doorman’s sleeve as she asked to see the security man on duty.

Inside, she was conducted to the security desk. The man behind it looked up.

“Help you, Miss?” He stood and moved to the counter.

“Yes, I saw a car parked out front, and there were two men in it who seemed to be watching the entrance,” she said. “Probably it’s nothing, but I thought I should say something about it.”

“Two men? What kind of car? They still there?”

She shrugged. “I’m not good with cars. Like a van, maybe an SUV? Dark, kind of old, muddy? But they left.”

“Uh-huh. You get get the license number, ma’am?”

She shook her head. “Sorry.”

“Ah. Well. Listen, we appreciate it. We’ll, uh, keep an eye out for it.” Probably thinking was a twit she was. Two men in a car, right.

She reached out and touched his arm. “Probably it’s nothing,” she said. “But these days, you can’t be too careful.”

“Yes, ma’am. That’s true.”

Darla stepped into a doorway in the next building and lit the Glamor. Show time…

“Morning, Mr. St. Johns,” the doorman said. He opened the heavy glass door.

Darla smiled and nodded, knowing that her disguise was perfect.

She walked to the security desk.

“Mr. St. Johns. How may I help you sir?”

She shook her head and touched her throat. In a raspy voice as low as she could manage, Darla said, “Laryngitis.” She coughed.

“Oh, sorry to hear that.”

“Forgot my key,” she said. Her voice was a passable imitation of a sick frog.

“No problem, sir.” The guard opened a wide drawer, scanned the contents, and produced a door key. “Here you go. Drop it off whenever.”

Darla smiled, nodded, and coughed as she took the key.

Perfect. She didn’t have to sound like St. Johns; she had set it up that her-his-voice was gone. Very clever, if she said so herself.

People were coming and going, and the guard’s attention veered away from her.

There weren’t any cameras in the elevators, at least none she’d seen the night before, but she lingered until a couple other people arrived to ride up. They would see her as Darla, and if there was a hidden camera in the elevator, the guard would see three people in it. How much track would he be keeping?