Dead In Red (14 page)

Oh yeah—this was going to be so easy.

Not!

First things first, I told myself. Get the
camera; worry about the rest later.

Already sweating, I reached the ramp garage,
following a man and woman in office attire, briefcases in hand,
their suit jackets draped over their arms. Good looking and
cheerful after a hard day’s work, they looked like they just
stepped out of a Lord and Taylor ad. The three of us entered the
stairwell.

Damn broken elevators. Damn stinking muggy
weather. A vein in my temple throbbed by the time I made it to the
second level, where the woman peeled off with a wave to her
colleague. The guy picked up his pace, leaving me shaking with
fatigue by the time I trudged up the last few steps.

My car was at the end of the aisle, a
million miles away. The guy had already unlocked his car, had
ditched the briefcase and was setting his folded jacket over top of
the passenger seat as I plodded past.

The roar of an engine reverberated off the
concrete and a motorcycle rounded the corner, going far too fast. I
froze, like a deer in headlights, as the bike rushed toward me.

“Look out!” the office worker shouted.

The rider’s black faceplate reflected the
dull glow of the overhead fluorescent lamps.

A jerk at my neck pulled me off balance. I
landed on my ass, rolling into the wheel well of a car, my nose
scraping rubber.

“Are you okay? What an asshole!”

I’m not the asshole,
I felt like shouting, then realized he’d meant the biker, not
me.

He helped me to my feet, steadied me. “You
okay?” he asked again.

“Yeah.” I dusted off my jeans, realized he
must’ve grabbed me by the back of the shirt—pulled me to safety.
“Thanks, man.”

He studied my face, was probably about my
age, and looked as shook up as I felt. “You need help getting to
your car or something?”

It was adrenaline that had me shaking now.
“I’m fine. Thanks again.”

I felt his gaze on my back as I headed for
my car. Okay, was the biker just some idiot having fun, or had I
pissed someone off?

I preferred to think the former, but I
suspected the latter.

* * *

Brenda was
setting the table as I entered the kitchen. She turned to
give me an ambivalent stare. “Are you actually going to grace us
with your presence tonight?”

I glanced at the table. “Well, there are
three plates, so I sort of thought I might. And I might even eat
something, too.” I crossed to the fridge and took out a beer and
cracked the cap.

Driving for twenty minutes in my
air-conditioned car had had a calming effect on me. I had no
intention of mentioning my little adventure.

I took a tentative sniff of the aroma
permeating the kitchen. “Roast chicken—on a Wednesday?”

“Is there a better day?”

“When I was a kid, roast chicken was
reserved for Thanksgiving and Christmas.”

Brenda straightened the tablecloth. “My
mother made it every Sunday—winter, spring, summer and fall. But
this came from the Deli Department at Wegmans.”

I leaned against the counter and took a long
pull of my beer.

Brenda scrutinized my face. “You look tired.
You’re not pushing yourself too hard, are you?”

If she only knew. “Isn’t that what I need to
do to find my limits?”

She seemed preoccupied as she turned away to
fold the paper napkins into miniature bishop’s miters, setting them
on the plates; a nice touch. Then again, Brenda always managed to
add simple joys to everyday life.

“You okay?” I asked.

“Sure. It’s Richard who’s bummed. He’s
making himself crazy over you.”

“Me?”

“He’s bored. Right now, you’re his only
diversion. If something’s going on with you, couldn’t you share it
with him?” Her voice was nonchalant and she didn’t bother to look
at me. Meanwhile, all my muscles tightened.

I’d been over my little adventure again and
again in the last half hour. What had I actually seen in the
seconds from the time the bike turned the corner to me landing on
the concrete floor? A black motorcycle—manufacturer unknown; a
biker clad in black leather and a black helmet. I hadn’t even
thought to report it. I couldn’t give a better description and I’d
bet the guy who also witnessed it couldn’t either. I might just be
paranoid.

I might.

I tilted my bottle back for another swallow.
“Nothing’s going on with me.”

Brenda eyed me for a long moment. “If you
say so.”

She knew how to challenge me, but I wasn’t
going to bite—not this time. And yet I felt an unreasonable anger
toward my closest of kin. Okay, I was a member of Richard’s
household, but I still deserved my privacy. I’d lost a lot since
the mugging; my health, at least half my possessions, and a hell of
a lot of my dignity. I didn’t feel the need to consult with him on
everything I did or experienced. Especially with what I’d recently
experienced.

I didn’t need to hear “I told you so.”

Footsteps foretold Richard’s arrival. He
paused at the doorway. It didn’t take a psychic to feel the tension
in that kitchen. “Supper almost ready?” he asked Brenda, like I’d
turned into the invisible man.

“Almost.”

He crossed to the cabinet next to me,
withdrew the Famous Grouse bottle, then grabbed a whiskey glass.
“Ice.”

“It’s in the freezer,” I said.

“Yes.” He half-filled the glass with ice,
then poured his scotch. He leaned against the counter, his elbow
brushing mine, and sipped his drink. “Tough day at the salt
mine?”

“Just peachy.”

He nodded.

I knew what he was up to, invading my
personal space, but I wasn’t going to be the first to move. I fixed
my gaze on nothing, tipped my beer back and took another swig.

Brenda shook her head and charged forward,
pushing us away from the sink. “I need to get the vegetables
going—so outta my way.”

We retreated to our regular seats facing one
another at the table.

Richard stared at me.

I stared back.

“I need to borrow your camera.”

“What for?”

“To take a picture.”

“Of what?”

“Possibly a suspect.”

“Who?”

“I don’t want to talk about that right
now.”

“Why not? Think Brenda or I will go blabbing
about it to someone?”

“No, I don’t. I just . . . don’t
want to talk about it. Can I borrow your camera or not?”

Richard took another sip of his drink and
shrugged. “I guess. When?”

“Tomorrow.”

“Fine.”

“Thanks.”

Brenda whirled. “Will you two just stop it!
I’m sick of it. You’re behaving like a couple of spoiled
brats.”

Richard turned his gaze to me, all wide-eyed
innocence. “You know what she’s talking about?”

I shook my head. “Nope.”

“Neither do I.”

Fists clenched at her side, Brenda exhaled a
breath, her irritation palpable. “Men!”

# # #

CHAPTER 11

There are distinct pleasures to being filthy
rich—which Richard most certainly was. His top-of-the-line Nikon
could probably be found at any newspaper around the country, and it
was just what I needed to get candids of Cyn on her way into work.
The problem was finding an inconspicuous place to take them
from.

I spent an enjoyable evening reading the
entire manual and playing with the camera. Not that I hadn’t fooled
with it before. Photography had long been a hobby of mine, and I
still planned to set up a black-and-white darkroom in my new
apartment. I loved digital, but there was something about good
old-fashioned silver halide that kept me hankering for my old
single lens reflex.

By the time I turned out the light, I felt
comfortable using the camera. Richard and I hadn’t sniped at one
another while we went over the downloading procedure on his
computer, either. Even Brenda’s ire had cooled when I presented her
with a minutes-old shot of her most-charming smile.

Dana, the mill’s baker, had said Cyn usually
strolled in around nine. I wasn’t going to take a chance of missing
her, so at eight-thirty I’d already parked my car two blocks away
on Main Street and hoofed it down the side street to case out a
hiding place.

The sun was already blazing and I was
grateful to duck into the shadow of a Dumpster near the Hawk’s Nest
restaurant. Sweat beaded along my temples as I considered Cyn’s
reasons for legal action should she see me: harassment, stalking.
If she was friendly with the restaurant’s owner she might even get
me picked up for trespassing. And who was I going to show the photo
to anyway? The whole idea was beginning to seem absurd when Cyn’s
black Mercedes with New Mexico plates parked across the way.

I really was out of practice doing this kind
of work. My hands were shaking and I had to steady the camera
against the Dumpster to take the shots. Bing, bing, bing. She never
suspected a thing. I waited for her to get inside the mill before I
dared move out of the shadows. Still, I couldn’t wait to see the
pictures and punched them up. They looked pretty good on the
camera’s tiny screen. Only an enlargement would tell me how
good.

“Hey!” A skinny, T-shirt-and-jeans-clad kid
stood on the deck at the back of the restaurant, unlit cigarette in
his hand, staring down at me. “What the fuck you doin’ down
there?”

Shielding the camera, I took off, jogging
west, away from the mill and the guy’s heated shouts. Cold sweat
poured off me as I circled round to the front of the building,
easing into a brisk walk—not looking left or right—until I got to
my car. I jumped in and burned rubber hightailing it out of
there.

The bar didn’t open for another two hours,
so I had plenty of time to go home and download the shots, but
reconsidered. I wasn’t yet ready to let Richard know my suspicions
about his former friend and instead made for a professional photo
shop.

Two of the shots weren’t up to my usual
standard, but then Cyn wasn’t nearly as photogenic as Brenda—or
maybe it was just because I didn’t like her that the thought
occurred to me. The third picture was good enough to show
around.

I could’ve gone home, returned Richard’s
camera and still had plenty of time to get back to the bar before
opening. Instead, I purged the camera of the morning’s pictures,
packed it in the trunk, and headed straight for work.

I wasn’t ready to face Richard’s inevitable
questions.

Tom was already at the bar when I got there,
nearly forty-five minutes early. “Don’t you ever sleep?” I asked as
I tied an apron around my waist.

“Ya never sleep when you run a business like
this,” he said, looking over his reading glasses from behind the
desk in his office.

I withdrew Cyn’s photo from the envelope I’d
brought in with me. “You ever see this woman before?”

Tom studied the picture, shook his head.

“She didn’t show up at Walt’s funeral?”

Tom looked annoyed. “There were five of us
there. I think I would’ve noticed.”

I took the picture back. “It’s the woman I
told you about—Cynthia Lennox.”

He studied my face. “You think she had
something to do with Walt’s death?”

“I don’t know. I know he was in her place of
business sometime before he died. I just don’t know why.”

Tom’s eyes narrowed. “Where’d you learn
that?”

I turned away, unwilling to look him in the
eye. “Around.”

The Molson truck had made its weekly stop
and another thirty cases of beer awaited me. Loading the cooler had
to be the worst part of the job. I hauled out the dolly and loaded
it with beer. Before I had a chance to move it, though, Tom emerged
from his office and headed into the men’s room with a squirt bottle
of Lysol and a roll of paper towels. It was then I decided I’d
rather load the cooler.

Our first customer showed up at 11:02.
Construction hadn’t been kind to the orange-shirted worker with a
heavily lined face, a halo of salt-and-pepper hair and a five
o’clock shadow, who took the stool closest to the taps. He rested
his arms on the bar, looking up at the blank TV.

“It’s too damned quiet in here,” he bellowed
across the dead-silent room. I found the remote, switched on the
set and cranked up the sound two clicks.

“What’ll you have?”

The older guy stared up at me. “Who the hell
are you?”

I turned from the beer taps to face him. He
had to be on the high end of fifty. His voice sounded like
gravel—the cigarette pack folded into the upturned sleeve of his
T-shirt gave away the reason for that. He didn’t seem angry, more
. . . depressed. I cut him some slack.

“Name’s Jeff. Tom hired me last week. What
can I get you?”

He hunkered down on the barstool. “A Molson
and a shot.”

I poured him the beer and gave him a shot of
well whiskey. He lifted the shot glass in salute. “To poor Walt. He
didn’t deserve to go like that.”

I watched him down it in a single gulp, then
slam the glass onto the bar top. I reached under the bar to grab a
bowl of pretzels, plunked them in front of the old guy to grease
the wheels of conversation. “I never met Walt. What was he
like?”

“A good guy.” He nodded, staring off into
space, sadness making his mouth droop.

I forced myself to be patient.

The man took a sip of his beer, set it down
and stared into its foamy head. “We worked together for over twenty
years with Belfry Construction before he got hurt.” He shook his
head. “Damn shame.”

I waited for him to continue.

“Cable snapped on one of the cranes. Crushed
him under a slab of concrete.” The old guy shuddered and took
another gulp of beer. “Never really was the same after that. Hell,
who would be?”