Just One Look

She mentally ran through the rest of her to-do list and tried to come up with an order. Mindless stuff. Would there be time before lunch to do the food shopping and get back to the house? Probably not. The frozen goods would melt in the car. That errand would have to wait.

She stopped. To hell with this.

Freddy should be at work now.

That was how it’d always worked. Their perverted little dance lasted from around ten to ten-thirty. By ten-forty-five, Charlaine always heard that garage door open. She’d watch his Honda Accord pull out. Freddy worked, she knew, for H&R Block. It was in the same strip mall as the Blockbuster where she rented the DVDs. His desk was near the window. She avoided walking past it, but some days, when she parked, she would look over and see Freddy staring out the window, pencil resting against his lips, lost.

Charlaine found the yellow pages and looked up the number. A man identifying himself as a supervisor said that Mr. Sykes was not in but was expected at any moment. She pretended to be put out. “He told me he’d be in by now. Doesn’t he normally get in at eleven?”

The supervisor admitted that he did.

“So where is he? I really need those figures.”

The supervisor apologized and assured her that Mr. Sykes would call the moment he arrived at his desk. She hung up.

Now what?

Something still felt very wrong here.

But so what? Who was Freddy Sykes to her anyway? Nothing. In a way, less than nothing. He was a reminder of her failures. He was a symptom of how pathetic she had become. She owed him nothing. More than that, imagine, just imagine, if poking around got her caught. Imagine if somehow the truth came out.

Charlaine looked over at Freddy’s place. The truth coming out.

Somehow that no longer bothered her all that much.

She grabbed her coat and headed toward Freddy’s house.

chapter 11

Eric Wu had seen the lingerie-clad woman in the window. The previous night had been a long one for Wu. He had not anticipated any interference, and while the large man—his wallet said his name was Rocky Conwell—had presented no threat, Wu now had to get rid of a body and another car. That meant an extra trip back up to Central Valley, New York.

First things first. He packed Rocky Conwell into the trunk of his Toyota Celica. He moved Jack Lawson, whom he had originally jammed into the Honda Accord’s trunk, to the back of the Ford Windstar. Once the bodies were out of sight, Wu changed license plates, got rid of the E-ZPass, and drove the Ford Windstar back to Ho-Ho-Kus. He parked the minivan in Freddy Sykes’s garage. There was still enough time to catch a bus back up to Central Valley. Wu searched Conwell’s car. Satisfied that it was cleared out, he took it to the Park-n-Ride on Route 17. He found a remote spot near the fence. A car being left there for days, even weeks, was not unusual. The smell would eventually bring attention, but that would not be anytime soon.

The Park-n-Ride was only three miles from Sykes’s house in Ho-Ho-Kus. Wu walked. Early the next morning, he rose and caught the bus back to Central Valley. He picked up Sykes’s Honda Accord. On the way back, he took a brief detour past the Lawson residence.

A patrol car was in the driveway.

Wu considered that. It did not cause him great concern, but perhaps he should nip any police involvement in the bud. He knew just how.

Wu drove back to Freddy’s residence and turned on the television. Wu liked daytime TV. He enjoyed watching shows like Springer and Ricki Lake. Most people poo-pooed them. Wu did not. Only a truly great society, a free one, could allow such nonsense to air. But more than that, stupidity made Wu happy. People were sheep. The weaker they are, the stronger you are. What could be more comforting or entertaining?

During a commercial—the theme of the show, according to a graphic on the bottom: “Mommy Won’t Let Me Get a Nipple Ring!”—Wu rose. It was time to take care of the potential police problem.

Wu didn’t need to touch Jack Lawson. All he had to say was one sentence: “I know that you have two children.”

Lawson cooperated. He made the call to his wife’s cell phone and told her he needed space.

At ten-forty-five—with Wu watching a mother and daughter wrestle across a stage while a crowd chanted “Jerry!”—a call came in from a prison acquaintance.

“All okay?”

Wu said yes.

He pulled the Honda Accord out of the garage. As he did, he noticed the woman who lived next door standing in the window. She was wearing lingerie. Wu might not have thought much about the scene—a woman still in her unmentionables after ten in the morning—but something about the way she suddenly ducked away. . . .

That might have been a natural reaction. You parade around in lingerie, forgetting to pull down your shade, and then you spot a stranger. Many people, perhaps most people, would move away or cover up. So it could be nothing.

But the woman had moved very fast, as if in a panic. More than that, she had not moved when the car first pulled out—only when she’d spotted Wu. If she had been afraid of being seen, wouldn’t she have pulled the shade or ducked down when she first heard or saw the car?

Wu pondered that. He had, in fact, been pondering it all day.

He picked up his cell phone and hit the button to dial the last incoming number.

A voice said, “Problem?”

“I don’t think so.” Wu turned the car around and started back toward the Sykes house. “But I may be late.”

chapter 12

Grace didn’t want to make the phone call.

She was still in New York City. There was a law against using a cell phone while driving unless it was hands-free, though that had nothing to do with her hesitation. With one hand on the steering wheel, she felt around on the floor of the car. She located the ear attachment, managed to untangle the cord, and jammed the earpiece deep into the canal.

This was supposed to be safer than using a handheld?

She turned on the cell phone. Though Grace hadn’t called the number in years, she still had it programmed into the cell. For emergencies, she supposed. Like this one.

The phone was answered on the first ring.

“Yes?”

No name. No hello. No company greeting.

“This is Grace Lawson.”

“Hold.”

The wait was not long. First Grace heard the static and then, “Grace?”

“Hello, Mr. Vespa.”

“Please call me Carl.”

“Carl, right.”

“You got my message?” he asked.

“Yes.” She did not tell Carl Vespa that it had nothing to do with why she was calling now. There was feedback on the line. “Where are you?” she asked.