Out Are the Lights (19 page)

    'You're crazy.'

    'Maybe. I'll tell you why I won't do it.'

    He smirked. 'Tell me.'

    'Because if I attack you, I won't be able to stop. I'll kill you.'

    'That so?' he asked, looking pale.

    'And I don't want to kill you, because then it'll be hard to find out who the woman is.'

    'What woman?'

    'Your friend with the Mercedes.'

    He shook his head. 'You're not making any sense.'

    'Yes I am.'

    'I don't know any woman with a Mercedes. That's a bit out of my league.'

    'That's true.'

    'Look, I don't need this. I just came by…'

    'I know. To offer your sympathy. Well, thanks anyway. But you're the one who'll need sympathy, Dal. You and your girlfriend. Something bad is gonna happen to you both.'

    'Connie, for…'

    'You tried to kill my man.'

    He got up. 'I'm leaving.'

    She walked to the door and opened it. Dal stepped outside. As soon as she shut the door, she rushed across the room, grabbed her purse, and ran back to it. She opened it a crack and peered out. Dal was halfway down the stairs. She waited until he reached the bottom. When he was out of sight, she stepped onto the balcony and looked over the railing. Dal, at the end of the courtyard, was nearly to the rear gate. He'd parked in the alley: Connie's car was in front. She ran down the stairs, and out the front gate to her car.

    She glanced both ways. Dal could exit the alley at either end of the block; if she chose wrong, she might lose him. She decided on the south end because it was closer.

    She backed onto the road, and hit the gas pedal. With a quick spurt, the car shot to the comer. She stopped. As her eyes sought the alley's opening, she saw Dal's red VW already heading down the road. Away from her, thank God. If he'd come this way, he couldn't have missed her.

    While she was stopped, a car passed. Great. It would run interference for her. She pulled out and followed it, sometimes veering to the left for a glimpse past it. They were gaining on Dal.

    He turned right and disappeared around the side of an apartment house.

    Approaching the comer, Connie eased off the gas. She took the turn slowly. Dal's car had almost reached the end of the block. It stopped at an intersection, then continued straight ahead. Connie sped up.

    On the next block, his VW turned into the driveway of an apartment complex. Connie drove by, squinting into the darkness of the subterranean parking lot. She glimpsed his brake lights, and drove on.

    If Dal knew he was being followed, he might've ducked in to lose his tail. That, Connie knew, was one possibility.

    The other two were more intriguing.

    She stopped near the corner. In her side mirror, she could see the driveway. She waited for Dal's car to appear.

    Nearly two minutes passed. Then a station wagon came up the road behind Connie. She turned the comer to let it pass, then drove slowly along to an empty stretch of curb. She parked, and leaned her forehead against the steering wheel.

    Dal, she realized, hadn't ducked into the lot to lose her. He was too impatient to wait inside for more than half a minute. So, unless he'd gone out a rear exit-if there was one-he'd entered the lot to park.

    The apartment complex was his destination.

    He lived there.

    Or the woman did.

    Connie climbed from her car and walked back to the driveway she'd seen Dal enter. Its pavement sloped into shadows. She stepped down it.

    The parking lot was cool, and dark after the brightness outside. She took off her sunglasses. There were only half a dozen cars down here. She didn't see Dal's VW. She saw a dark brown Mercedes, but not a gray one.

    Maybe around the comer…

    The concrete felt slippery, as if it had been waxed. Poor footing if she was attacked.

    
Who would attack her, Dal?

    'Those parking structures are bitches,' her self-defense instructor had warned. 'Great places to get mugged or raped. And where do you think the creep's waiting for you? He's crouched there between the parked cars. So always walk right up the middle of the driveway, so you'll have plenty of time to see him coming.'

    Connie walked up the middle, her glance darting from car to car. Several times, she looked behind her. Then she came to the curve. She stepped over to the concrete wall, and peered around it.

    Her heart flip-flopped.

    She ducked.

    Had Dal seen her? She didn't think so. He was still sitting in his car.
My God, why?
She'd expected him to be in a room by now.

    Maybe he did know that he'd been tailed.

    If that were true, he'd drive right past her once he thought it was safe to leave. She looked around. The nearest car to hide behind was yards away. Should she dash for it? Or maybe break for the sunlit entrance and try to get back to her car while Dal was still waiting?

    Standing, she chanced another glance at Dal. He opened his door. She pressed herself to the wall and looked to the right at the nearby elevator.

    If he walked straight to the elevator, the wall would conceal her. She could watch him in safety, as long as he didn't turn around.

    She looked for floor numbers above the elevator door.

    None.

    
Damn!
She could've watched them to see where Dal got off. Without them, she'd have no idea which floor to check.

    She'd have to look in the lobby. Maybe his mailbox or buzzer…

    He walked by, moving slowly, head down, and the idea barely had time to form in Connie's mind before she rushed out. He started to turn. Her stiff open hand chopped the side of his neck. He dropped to his knees. Connie tensed, ready to kick the back of his head, but the single blow had been enough. He fell forward. His face hit the concrete.

    The keys were in his hand. Connie took them. She found one with a room number. 316. She threw down the keys and jerked the wallet from his rear pocket. Should she just take the money? No, a real mugger might want the credit cards, the license, the works.

    She stuffed the wallet into her handbag.

    Then she ran from the parking lot.

    In the heat and brightness outside, she put on her sunglasses. She walked quickly to her car and drove home.

    

    

    'Sure you don't want to come along?' Grenich asked.

    'No, really. I can't look food in the face before noon.'

    'I was counting on you driving. Haven't got a car, myself.'

    'How did you get here?'

    She held up her thumb.

    'Want to take my car?'

    'Can I?'

    'Sure.' Freya took her keys from her handbag, and gave them to the girl.

    'You sure it's okay?'

    'No problem. Have fun.'

    'Want me to bring you something back?'

    'No. Thanks.'

    'Okay. Back in a jiff.'

    

    

    The moment she was gone, Freya raced to the telephone and dialed. She waited nervously as it rang.

    'Hello?'

    'Todd.'

    'Princess.'

    'We've got troubles.'

    'With a capital T?'

    'Sure, make jokes. That's just what I need.'

    'What do you need?'

    'Help. My God! You know who's here-who dropped in last night? Chelsea 's twin sister. Her identical twin. I tell you, I nearly dropped dead.'

    'Ho! I should think so! Thought the delightful lady'd come back from the grave, eh?'

    'That's exactly what I thought. And it's not funny. What'll we do?'

    'What did you tell her about Chelsea?'

    'I said she'd gone on a trip.'

    'And so she did-a trip from whose bourne no traveler returns.'

    'Todd!'

    'You'll have to bring her out to the house, I think.'

    'And how do I manage that?'

    'Where is this lovely specimen now?'

    'She headed over to the Box for a Breakfast Jack.'

    'Marvelous. When she returns, simply explain that Chelsea called while she was out. She wants the two of you to meet her at a fabulous old house on the coast.'

    'What if she doesn't buy it?'

    'Oh, she'll buy it. You underestimate yourself, princess. You are a master of duplicity-or should I say mistress?'

    'Well, I'll try.'

    'We'll be waiting for you. Perhaps we can work the twin angle into the story-line. Wonderful potential. See you soon.'

    'Sure.'

    He hung up.

    

    

    Freya heated water. She took her tea into the living-room, sat on the couch, and stared at the blank screen of the television.

    

    

    'Look, I admit I ran the light. Okay? But I did not steal the car.'

    'The registration-'

    'I know,' Grenich said. 'She let me borrow it. Look officer, her apartment's only a block from here. Can't we just go back and ask her? Please?'

    

    

    The doorbell rang.
My God, back already?
Must've changed her mind.

    Freya got off the couch and went to the door.

    Guess who phoned while you were out.

    'Miss Jones…' the cop started.

    She sprang through the doorway, shoved Grenich against him, and ran.

    'Hey!'

    Her bare feet slapped the painted concrete as she raced along the balcony. At the top of the stairs, she glanced back. The cop was running toward her.

    'Stop!' he shouted.

    She lunged down the stairs. Missed one. Tumbled headlong.

    Like a nightmare when she falls down a long flight of stairs, and endless flight, and always wakes up before she hits.

    But Freya wasn't asleep and she didn't wake up and she hit with a quick blast of pain as if she'd been smashed in the face with a sledge hammer.

    'Is she dead?'

    The cop nodded.

    'Christ on a crutch!'

    

    

    Back in her apartment, Connie finished unwrapping the sausages she'd planned for breakfast. They were still cool from the refrigerator; she supposed they would be all right. She put them in a skillet and turned the burner on low.

    Then she made coffee. She stared at its dark stream as it slowly filled the pot.

    Now what? she wondered, watching it. Give Dal's address to the police? That's what she'd half-planned to do when she got the idea of following him. A good reasonable justification. Find out where he lives so the cops can arrest him. But that had only been half her plan. Not really what she wanted to do. Just an excuse.

    
So what's your real plan, kiddo?

    Bust into his place tonight and murder him? Hell, she could've finished him off this morning, if that's what she wanted.

    Stake him out, that's it. Follow him. Sooner or later, he would lead her to the woman with the gray Mercedes.

    Then go to the police.

    Maybe.

    The coffee stopped steaming. It dripped a few times. She picked up the pot and filled her mug. She poked the sausages with a fork, turned them. They'd take a good deal longer.

    She sipped her coffee, and went to the kitchen table. She opened her handbag. Reaching in, she pulled out Dal's wallet.

    Another good reason to stay away from the cops; they might not look fondly on her methods.

    Sitting at the table, she emptied Dal's wallet. Twenty-eight dollars in the bill compartment, along with assorted cards and papers. She set them aside. The wallet had slots for six credit cards. She pulled out the cards and stacked them neatly. Then she emptied the clear plastic picture holders, taking out his driver's license, Social Security card, a Red Cross card with his blood type, his high school graduation photo, and a Polaroid shot of Connie, herself, in a bikini.

    He used to beg her to pose nude. She never allowed it, but one night he caught her in the shower. She chased him and tore up the photo and then they made love.

    To think she used to…

    She ripped the photo into tiny bits. She dropped the pieces onto the table. They made a nice little pile. She tore up the photo of Dal, and added it to the pile. Then his Red Cross card, his Social Security card, his driver's license.

    She drank some coffee, and remembered the sausages. She got up to check them. She rolled them over. They were doing fine. She added more coffee to her mug, then took scissors from a drawer and returned to the table.

    The plastic was easy to cut. She snipped up his Shell card, his Chevron card, his automobile club card, his Visa and Master Card, his Sears card. The pile of debris was growing.

    Nothing left to add but the odds and ends she'd found in his bill compartment. She got up to check her sausages, then sat down again. She took a long drink of coffee. Then she tore up a post office receipt, a plumber's business card, and an old envelope comer on which he'd written Connie's address the day they met.

    She wished she'd never given it to him.

    She found four postage stamps. She set them aside to keep, then tore up three nondescript receipts and added them to the pile. She picked up a piece of tissue paper, the kind used at Dal's store-correction, former store-to wrap clothes before boxing them. She ripped it in half, the split nicely dividing a woman's first name from her last, her address number from her street, and dropped the pieces into the pile.