Devil-Bitch Langdon), but maybe he was small potatoes to people with real crooks to catch. He’d have to proceed carefully.
When he judged enough time had passed, he fired up his car, checked it for any burnt-out lights or other excuses for cops to stop it, and drove to Dallas. Once there, he registered at a crummy motel, paid cash, and began to scope out the very fancy Ms. Owens.
She lived in the kind of neighborhood where any stranger was suspect, so it looked as if he’d have to watch from a distance. He didn’t like that. If the FBI was also watching from another building, he’d be visible.
Maybe they were checking her mailbox. He had no idea what lengths they were willing to go to.
Should he send flowers with a rendezvous note? But what was to stop the feds from showing up at the meeting place?
The problem was, he didn’t know enough about her habits to go wait for her at a place she might turn up. He racked his brain until it finally occurred to him that every rich Texas woman would have at least one habit.
Accordingly, he phoned Nieman-Marcus, said he needed to talk about his bill, and was referred to a Donald McCullough. He then went to the store itself (to get around the caller ID problem) and, by means of a simple ruse or two, actually managed to make a call from the credit department. He was rewarded with the ubiquitous voice mail. Good. The real Rosemarie would probably have just blundered in and interrupted.
“This is Donald McCullough at Nieman-Marcus,” he told the robot. “I’m returning your call about your bill. Four p.m. at my office will be quite convenient. See you tomorrow.”
She would know his voice, but how she’d respond, he couldn’t say. What he would do in her shoes would be to go to McCullough’s office, look around for the caller, wait around a bit and leave if they didn’t show up.
If she did that he could catch her at the bottom of the escalator on the next floor down. Of course, she might decide to turn him in, but he was willing to take the chance. He knew enough about her to make her extremely cautious when dealing with him. Besides, the two of them loved each other. Always had.
Feeling cocky the next day, he waited a few blocks from her house, on the route he knew she’d have to take, and the sight of her driving by in her big sleek white Lexus made him happier than anything had in months. In fact, it made him feel like a million dollars. Bulletproof. Absolutely on top of the world.
He decided to abandon the charade of waiting by the down escalator and in fact caught her as she was coming in the door and planted a big one on her just as she opened her mouth to say his birth name: “Earl Jackson! What the devil do you think you’re doing?” He could just hear her saying his first name, the one he’d had when he married her, in that phony British accent of hers, but anything to keep his name quiet.
“Rosemarie. You’re looking pretty.”
“Well, you look like hell.”
* * *
Rosemarie Owens let him take her arm and stroll her around the store, pretending now and then to admire an expensive bauble. Running wasn’t going to help anything. She figured he probably wanted money; she could just give him some and send him on his way. “The whole world’s chasin’ me,” he said. “— or haven’t you heard?”
Mmm hmm. Definitely money.
She said, “Earl, that wasn’t nice what you did to me— having me kidnapped that time.”
“Well, the guy let you go, didn’t he? I wouldn’t let anything happen to you.”
She was silent, for once at a loss for words. What kind of man had you kidnapped and didn’t even say he was sorry?
“Now, Rosemarie, we may have both done a few things— regarding each other— that we regret…”
“Like getting married, you mean?” They had gotten married when she was fifteen, he sixteen. She was Daniel’s mother.
“You hurt me, baby. You really hurt me.”
She turned to him, smiling, and hugged his neck. “Oh,
When he judged enough time had passed, he fired up his car, checked it for any burnt-out lights or other excuses for cops to stop it, and drove to Dallas. Once there, he registered at a crummy motel, paid cash, and began to scope out the very fancy Ms. Owens.
She lived in the kind of neighborhood where any stranger was suspect, so it looked as if he’d have to watch from a distance. He didn’t like that. If the FBI was also watching from another building, he’d be visible.
Maybe they were checking her mailbox. He had no idea what lengths they were willing to go to.
Should he send flowers with a rendezvous note? But what was to stop the feds from showing up at the meeting place?
The problem was, he didn’t know enough about her habits to go wait for her at a place she might turn up. He racked his brain until it finally occurred to him that every rich Texas woman would have at least one habit.
Accordingly, he phoned Nieman-Marcus, said he needed to talk about his bill, and was referred to a Donald McCullough. He then went to the store itself (to get around the caller ID problem) and, by means of a simple ruse or two, actually managed to make a call from the credit department. He was rewarded with the ubiquitous voice mail. Good. The real Rosemarie would probably have just blundered in and interrupted.
“This is Donald McCullough at Nieman-Marcus,” he told the robot. “I’m returning your call about your bill. Four p.m. at my office will be quite convenient. See you tomorrow.”
She would know his voice, but how she’d respond, he couldn’t say. What he would do in her shoes would be to go to McCullough’s office, look around for the caller, wait around a bit and leave if they didn’t show up.
If she did that he could catch her at the bottom of the escalator on the next floor down. Of course, she might decide to turn him in, but he was willing to take the chance. He knew enough about her to make her extremely cautious when dealing with him. Besides, the two of them loved each other. Always had.
Feeling cocky the next day, he waited a few blocks from her house, on the route he knew she’d have to take, and the sight of her driving by in her big sleek white Lexus made him happier than anything had in months. In fact, it made him feel like a million dollars. Bulletproof. Absolutely on top of the world.
He decided to abandon the charade of waiting by the down escalator and in fact caught her as she was coming in the door and planted a big one on her just as she opened her mouth to say his birth name: “Earl Jackson! What the devil do you think you’re doing?” He could just hear her saying his first name, the one he’d had when he married her, in that phony British accent of hers, but anything to keep his name quiet.
“Rosemarie. You’re looking pretty.”
“Well, you look like hell.”
* * *
Rosemarie Owens let him take her arm and stroll her around the store, pretending now and then to admire an expensive bauble. Running wasn’t going to help anything. She figured he probably wanted money; she could just give him some and send him on his way. “The whole world’s chasin’ me,” he said. “— or haven’t you heard?”
Mmm hmm. Definitely money.
She said, “Earl, that wasn’t nice what you did to me— having me kidnapped that time.”
“Well, the guy let you go, didn’t he? I wouldn’t let anything happen to you.”
She was silent, for once at a loss for words. What kind of man had you kidnapped and didn’t even say he was sorry?
“Now, Rosemarie, we may have both done a few things— regarding each other— that we regret…”
“Like getting married, you mean?” They had gotten married when she was fifteen, he sixteen. She was Daniel’s mother.
“You hurt me, baby. You really hurt me.”
She turned to him, smiling, and hugged his neck. “Oh,
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