Stuart Woods - Imperfect Strangers

On the street, he declined the offer of a taxi from the doorman and walked in the opposite direction from his last visit to the gallery. Moving quickly, he walked down the street, then turned two corners and doubled back toward the gallery. Half an hour later he had one more turn to make, one more block to go. He stepped into a doorway, unrolled the raincoat and put it on, plaid side out, then donned the tweed cap, the gloves and the glasses. His reflection in the shop window revealed a different man. Different than he had ever been.

He found himself short of breath. He stopped for a moment, took some deep breaths, and forced himself to continue at a slower pace. The streets were deserted.

He turned the last corner. In the middle of the block, where the gallery was, stood a little group of people, and one of them seemed floodlit. There were other lights, too; red and blue. He kept to the opposite side of the street and moved down the block. On the other side of the ambulance were two police vehicles, one a black and white, the other an unmarked car. Mesmerized, Sandy stopped across the street from the gallery and watched. Inside, a clutch of men stood talking, and there was the flash of a camera. The photographer was shooting down, at something behind the desk.

The television crew began moving toward the ambulance, and Sandy caught the eye of the cameraman. "What happened?" he asked.

"Lady got herself snuffed," the man said without slowing down. He positioned the camera at the rear of the ambulance, and after a moment, he was able to photograph a stretcher covered by a blanket as it was slid into the rear of the vehicle. Sandy started walking again, keeping it slow, not wanting to attract attention by seeming to hurry away. When he had gone a couple of blocks, he removed the raincoat, the cap and the gloves, wadded them up and stuffed them into a wastebasket. A find for one of the homeless. He put the glasses into his breast pocket again.

Back at the hotel, Sandy waited impatiently until the eleven o'clock news came on. The story did not run until just before the weather. Sandy recognized the reporter from the scene.

"Police are withholding the name of the victim pending notification of next of kin," he was saying. "All they will say at the moment is that a gun was used."

A police detective blinked into the bright light. "The victim was a Caucasian female in her late thirties," he said. "There was a single gunshot wound to the head."

"Will the position of that wound make identifying the body difficult?" the reporter asked.

"Probably not," the policeman answered. "We have identification materials from a handbag that had been emptied onto the floor. The perpetrator was probably looking for money; the desk had been rifled."

The reporter faced the camera again. "The owner of the gallery Peter Martindale, did not answer the phone at his residence, and his car was not in the garage. A neighbor said he believed that Mr. Martindale had gone to Los Angeles earlier in the day for a speaking engagement at a university there."

The weather report came on, and Sandy switched it off. What had happened? Had Martindale killed his wife in a fit of anger? Surely not, not when he was expecting Sandy to do it for him later that evening. This was baffling. Had Martindale contracted with more than one assassin, just to be sure? Made no sense at all. What the hell was going on?

The telephone rang. Sandy picked it up. "Hello?"

"It's Bart."

"Yes?"

"How was your evening?"

Sandy hesitated. "I think you must have the wrong number," he said.

"I was calling a pay phone," he said.

"This is not a pay phone; it's a hotel room."

"Will I find it necessary to call again?"

"I should think not," Sandy replied.

"All is well, then?"

"That depends on your point of view."

"Don't play games with me," he said.

"The game is over," Sandy replied, then hung up.

It was, he thought; it was over. And he was not a murderer.

Sandy walked out of the front door of the hotel into the bright sunshine, rested, fresh, and looking for his car.

"Mr. Kinsolving," the doorman said. "Your driver has just phoned in; he's had a flat on the freeway, and he looks to be a good half-hour late. Shall I phone for another car, or will you take the hotel car with our compliments?"

Sandy looked at the stretch limousine with the back door open. "That will do nicely," he said.

"I hope you won't mind sharing with another guest."

"Of course not."

The doorman put the luggage into the trunk, and Sandy climbed into the forward rear seat, just to have the experience of riding backward. A moment later a long female leg entered the car followed by a tall woman. She gathered herself into the rear seat and opened a New York Times.

Sandy looked her over quickly: mid-thirties, auburn hair to the shoulders, hazel eyes, good clothes. He thought of saying something, but she seemed purposefully absorbed in her Times.

Sandy, himself, was more interested in his San Francisco paper, which he had just bought in the hotel lobby. He flipped through the pages impatiently, looking for the story. It was on page three, and small; nothing much new from the earlier evening's television report, except that the police had disclosed that a cash box had been found in a wastebasket two streets away. Sandy hoped it wasn't the same basket in which he'd deposited his disguise. The gallery's owner still had not been located and thus not interviewed. The woman across from him finished the first section of her Times and placed it on the seat beside her.

"Excuse me," he said. "May I have a look at your Times?"

She glanced at him briefly and nodded.

"Thank you." He dove into the newspaper and remained there all the way to the airport, except for an occasional surreptitious glance at his distant traveling companion.

Sandy checked in at curbside, but the woman followed her bags inside the terminal. Probably off to Europe or Asia; the last he would see of her. He realized, to his surprise, that she was the first woman he had found attractive since the moment he had heard about Jock Bailley's stroke.

He reached the gate just as first-class boarding was announced, took his seat and ordered orange juice. He was pleased, a few moments later, to see the woman from the car pass his seat and enter the tourist compartment. Pity she wasn't flying first class, he thought.

Twice during the flight he got up to go to the john and caught a glimpse of her in a seat a few rows back, her long legs spilling over into the aisle. He noted that she was not wearing a wedding ring.

At LaGuardia the limo driver was waiting with Sandy's name scrawled on a piece of cardboard. He beckoned the man to follow him to baggage claim, and the wait was nearly half an hour. The woman stood across the carousel, waiting just as impatiently as he. Her bags came a moment before his, and he hurried to catch up with her as she walked toward the taxis. As he had expected, there was a long line, and she looked annoyed.

"May I offer you a lift into town?" he asked. "Seems the least I could do, since I shared your car in San Francisco."

She turned a looked at him. "Where are you going?"

"Madison and Seventy-fourth, but the driver will drop you wherever you're going."

"Thank you, yes," she said, offering him a tiny smile.

He held the door of the car, a sedan this time, as she got in. Neither of them had a newspaper now.

"My name is Sandy Kinsolving," he said, offering his hand.

She took it. "I'm Cara Mason."

"Where are you headed, then?" he asked as the car pulled into traffic.

"Sixty-third, between Park and Madison."