Blind Spot (15 page)

“You heard me?” he asked.

“You scared the hell out of me.”

“Sorry,” he said. “Thought you were messing around with somebody’s door. You looked like a kid at first.”

“I get that a lot,” she said.

He ran his eyes up and down her figure. “I can see I made a terrible mistake, however. You are most definitely a woman—”

She cut off his compliment. “Who’re you?”

He folded his arms over his chest, raised his eyes, and nodded toward the ceiling. “I live in the penthouse.”

She’d heard about
the penthouse
from her Realtor when she asked about who lived over her. The agent had said it was empty and would probably stay that way for months because the space was too large and expensive to sell quickly. He’d said that the previous resident—a rich attorney—had torn up the entire top floor of the historic building and turned it into his private palace. The Realtor said the rich guy had even laid claim to the building’s flat rooftop so he could use it as his own terrace, leaving the other condo owners without an outdoor place to play and barbecue. After hearing that, she’d taken an instant dislike to this rich guy. She’d immediately resented him and was glad he was no longer living above her. Plus, she’d liked that she wouldn’t have anyone clomping overhead.

The Realtor had either lied about the upstairs’ being empty or been mistaken about how long it would take to fill it with another resident. A penthouse dweller of some sort was standing in front of her, and she wasn’t sure what to think—or say. All she could come up with: “Hi.” She turned her back on him to fiddle with the lock.

“Having trouble?”

“Nothing ever comes easy,” she said to the door.

“I’ve got some WD-40 in the penthouse.”

She wished he would stop referring to
the penthouse.
“No thanks.” She kept wiggling the key back and forth while pushing and pulling and jiggling the doorknob. “I’ve almost got it.”

“Seriously. Let me. I’m used to the temperamental hardware around here.”

She let go of the key and knob and backed away from the door. “Go for it.”

He extended her the leash and a white plastic bag. “Hold Oscar for a minute, would you?”

She hesitated. The way he was looking at her made her uncomfortable. She felt like this was some sort of test: maybe he wanted to see if she was an animal lover. She accepted the leash but eyeballed the bag. “I’m not good with poop.”

“It’s empty.”

“Fine.” She took the bag from him and shoved it in her jacket pocket.

His eyes darted from the leash in her hands to the bag in her pocket. “You’re okay with the dog paraphernalia?”

“Fine. Fine. Let’s just get to it. Please.”

He smiled at her and repeated: “Fine.” Stepping up to the door, he took over. “You’ve got to pull in while turning.” He yanked the knob toward him while turning the key to the right. Nothing. “Stubborn bastard.”

The gladiator wasn’t above swearing. Good. She mistrusted people who didn’t swear. She also approved of his top, an Aerosmith tee shirt from their 1997 Nine Lives Tour. She wasn’t an Aerosmith fan, but she appreciated that he was one. The gladiator couldn’t be the rich attorney guy; he was too normal. He wasn’t good at this door detail, however. “I should call a professional,” she said to his back.

“Locksmith would charge you big-time on a Saturday night. I’ve got some acquaintances. They’re good at breaking and entering.”

“Oh yeah?” The wiener dog pulled on the leash, one of those gadgets that worked like a fishing line. She pushed a button and reeled the dog back in. “Can you call them?”

“Not really. I guess they aren’t
that
good. They’re in jail.”

She let out some line, and Oscar went sniffing down the hall. “I was thinking about the caretaker.”

The guy laughed while working the key and knob. “Let me know if you track him down. I’ve got a few problems of my own in the penthouse.”

“I don’t want to trouble you any more than I already have,” she said. “Maybe I should…”

“Got it.” He pushed the door open a crack, pulled out the key, and turned around. “Name’s August Murrick.”

She paused before offering her own name. The building was called Murrick Place. This guy had to be the rich attorney who’d originally torn up the top floor. She was disappointed. “I’m Bernadette Saint Clare.”

“FBI agent.”

She didn’t like that he already knew what she did for a living; she valued her privacy. “You’ve done your homework.”

The right side of his mouth turned up. “You’re kind of petite for an agent. What’s regulation?”

“They snuck me in under the radar.”

“They must like your work.”

“Yeah. They just love me.” She held out her hand, and he dropped the key in her palm. She handed him the leash and pulled the poop bag out of her pocket.

He took the bag from her. “I’ll have to have you over for a drink. We can trade war stories. I’m an attorney. Criminal defense. Dumb-ass drug stuff mostly. I’ve gone a few rounds with you feds.”

You feds.
She hated the way he said it, making her sound like a thug with a badge. She shoved her hands in her jacket pockets. “I should get going. Do some more unpacking.”

“Need help?”

“No,” she said quickly. She took her hands out of her pockets and inched closer to the doorway. “I’m good. You’ve done enough, and it’s late. Probably call it a night myself pretty quick. I want to get up for the Farmers’ Market.”

“Really nice meeting you. Gets lonely around here sometimes.”

“Not exactly a regular neighborhood, is it?”

Oscar yanked on the leash, jerking his owner’s arm. “We’ll catch you later, then. Gotta finish the inside leg of our nightly tour.”

“Inside leg?”

“We meander around inside the building. Then we go outside. Hit the park.” The gladiator turned his back on her and went down the hall with his wiener dog leading the way.

“It’s pouring outside,” she said after them.

“We’ll manage,” he said over his shoulder.

“Thanks for the help…” She hesitated, not knowing what to call him. “Appreciate it.”

He raised his free hand in a sort of salute. “Call me Augie,” he yelled without turning or stopping. The pair disappeared down a stairwell at the end of the hall.

It occurred to her that he’d taken no notice of her eyes, and she appreciated that. She went inside and closed the door, turning the dead bolt.

Her mind returned to the robed Franciscan. “Two weirdos in one night,” she said to herself, sliding the security chain into place. She pushed the priest out of her mind. At least she knew what the second weirdo looked like.

Fifteen

As Chris Stannard took the Smith Avenue High Bridge across the river, she watched the lights of his ancient Volvo sedan in the rearview mirror of her own Lexus SUV. Doing the Lord’s work was a low-paying proposition. How could someone living so modestly look down his nose at an envelope filled with cash? Forget about God. With
money,
all things are possible, and this guy would do well to accept that reality. She was glad she’d insisted he keep the cash.

Her corner unit was one of six apartments that sat above a row of brick storefronts. They both parked on the street in front of the shops and went around to the back, entering the building through an enclosed stairwell. The two of them walked down the hall together, and she stopped in front of the last door. Whereas the other apartments had dark-stained entrances, hers was coated in a glossy layer of white enamel. Even the knob was painted white. As she fiddled with the lock, she inhaled a hated smell. When she unlocked her apartment door and pushed it open, the odor became even stronger.

They stepped inside. “Sorry about the stink,” she said, wrinkling her nose.

“What is it? Smells familiar.”

She flipped on the lights. “There’s a salon right below us.”

“My mother ran a hair salon out of our front porch.”

“Interesting.” She thought:
Momma’s Boy heard from again.

“What else is below?”

She stepped out of her shoes. “Coffee shop. That stinks, too—especially in the morning—but they’ve got live jazz Wednesday nights. Photo gallery. Pottery studio. That’s pretty cool. You can see I’ve got a few pieces.”

She was proud of her place; she’d done a lot with very little. The apartment was no bigger than a large bedroom, and she’d furnished it as such. Instead of the usual fold-out couch or boring daybed, she had a massive sleigh bed with a curving headboard centered against one wall. Matching nightstands topped by matching table lamps were parked on each side of the bed. Most of the opposite wall was taken up by six double-hung windows. The kitchen was masked by a folding screen, and the bathroom was behind a door tucked into a corner of the room. Everything was white. Not antique white or off-white, but the blinding white housepainters use on ceilings. The walls and woodwork were done up in that stark shade, as were the spread on the bed, the Roman blinds folded halfway down the windows, and the screen hiding the kitchen. A fluffy white area rug covered most of the wood floor. Even her adored pottery pieces—chunky covered jars and vases that looked like oversized marshmallows—were ceiling white.

He took a couple of steps inside and kicked off his soggy shoes. “I take it you don’t like color.”

She tossed her keys and purse on the lone piece of furniture not related to sleeping—a wingback chair. White. “Bet you feel like you’re back at the hospital.”

He walked into the middle of the room. “Feel like I’m floating.”

“On a cloud?”

“
In
a cloud.”

“That’s what I was after,” she said with a satisfied smile. She went behind the kitchen screen and fished a white towel from a drawer under the counter. She went back around the screen and tossed the rag to him. “There you go.”

He caught the towel and rubbed his head with it. “Aren’t you afraid of getting something dirty?”

She walked over to the windows and lowered the shades the rest of the way. The rainy night disappeared behind the white. “Everything in my life, everything outside these four walls, is sullied and muddled and complicated. I wanted a clean, simple place. White sanctuary.”

“I get it,” he said.

“For some reason, I knew you would.” She let go of the drapery cord and turned around, walking toward him with an outstretched hand. “Give me your blazer.”

He slipped out of the wet wool and draped it over his arm. “I’m good.”

She took the towel from him and threw it over a row of white radiators that sat under the windows. She wondered what he had in his blazer that he didn’t want her to see. A wallet with his identification? She turned away from the radiator and watched him brush and fluff his curls with his fingertips.

“Not very kid-friendly,” he said, continuing to run his eyes around her apartment.

“What?” She looked down and unbuttoned her smock. Underneath was a low-cut tank, and she wanted him to see it.

“Aren’t you going to take your little girl with you when you leave? Isn’t this place for the both of you?”

She pulled off her smock and tossed it next to the wet towel. “Let’s not talk about my little girl right now.” She paused, then softened her tone. “She’s at my sister’s for the weekend. Hanging out with her cousins. Having a good time. Being a kid.”

She slipped behind the kitchen screen again, rummaged around in a drawer for a corkscrew, and pulled a bottle out of the refrigerator. She closed the fridge with her knee and looked at the label. Not a very good chardonnay, but she suspected Momma’s Boy wouldn’t know the difference between a good bottle and a box-o’-wine. She popped the cork, grabbed a couple of glasses, and poured. She came out from behind the screen with a glass of wine in each hand. She handed one to him. They clicked their glasses together. “An eye for an eye,” she said.

He offered his own words: “Life for life.”

“Life for life.” She brought the glass to her lips.

While she gulped, he sipped. “Your husband—where is he right now?”

“Out of town. Golf trip with his buds. He won’t be back until next week.” She gulped again and motioned to the bed with her glass. “Sit.”