Read Online Lie Down with the Devil by Linda Barnes - Free Book Online

paralegal. I made a note of the time and the address and settled back to wait, proud of myself for tracking him thus far.
    I thought about calling Paolina, safe, physically safe, at McLean. No. Even if she agreed to talk, I couldn’t risk any activity that might split my concentration.
    I regretted—well, almost regretted—not bringing a partner, someone who’d casually enter the building foyer, determine whether there was a guard, read thebillboard listing the various offices. Someone who’d help while the time away, someone who’d talk, who’d help me decode Ken’s driving habits.
    Mooney used to do that. Mooney always talked. It was one of the reasons we’d never dated; I’d enjoyed talking to the man too much to risk our professional relationship. God knows, I’ve had my troubles with romantic relationships. I despise the very word
relationship.
    I put on a pair of lensless spectacles, removed my hat, and fluffed up my hair. If Ken, the groom, happened to change his habits and check the rearview, the cab itself would be unremarkable in the darkness, without the roof lights little more than a pair of well-lit circles. Some people, when they stop at traffic lights, glance at the drivers behind them, and if he did, I wanted him to see a different look, even if only a different misty outline.
    I was tempted to race in and write down the names of the offices myself, but I’d have an awkward situation on my hands if he suddenly emerged, so I settled in to keep an eye on the door. I didn’t think there was much risk of missing his return to the Volvo. The place might have a back exit, but why bother with his car out front? I didn’t think he’d stay indoors long. It wasn’t intuition; he was parked in a no-parking zone.
    He emerged twenty-two minutes later and stuffed the tote in the trunk. I logged the time, gave him a half-block head start, and we were off to the races.
    Twenty-two minutes might be time enough for a quickie on an office desk, but it didn’t seem an attractive option. Okay, so maybe he had a little business to finish up after dinner. Now was the time for a playboy to head to a bar or to the unknown girlfriend’s bed. Or maybe he’d go back to the Allston digs he sharedwith his devoted fiancée, drink the lonely night away, watch the Celtics win. That would keep my costs down; Gloria expected me to return the cab with a full tank.
    He drove faster. I stopped thinking about where he might be going and concentrated on keeping up, following the silver zigzag as it slid through the river of red taillights. Back into Boston, the traffic lighter now, the workers all gone home, curled up contentedly by the fire or the flickering television. At a stoplight, I grinned at myself in the rearview. Tailing the guy felt good. If Allston was our destination, we’d head west soon.
    He turned south. I kept the tail loose, followed him onto 93, the Central Artery, into the underground network of tunnels that locals call the Dig or the deathtrap depending on the daily news, headed toward Route 3. I scrunched my eyes, then opened them wide. The Dig is like one of those kids’ toys, a marble run. If you pick the correct lane, it shunts you out to your destination; if you have the misfortune to get in the wrong lane, you go to the wrong place. Often only one lane goes where you’re headed and at the moment I didn’t have any idea where I was bound. The silver zigzag raced on, flashing in and out of traffic. Was he on to me, or just having fun, enjoying the night drive?
    Whew.
I’d guessed right, gotten lucky, going with the majority as we zipped under downtown, emerging from the claustrophobic tunnel alive, no heavy concrete panels crashing on my head tonight, escaping onto Route 3, dashing toward the South Shore. I tried to convince myself this was a good thing for my client. Aunt Ruthie in Hingham, sweet old Aunt Ruthie had invited our bridegroom over for a cup of chamomile tea.
    There were strip joints on