Read Online While Other People Sleep by Marcia Muller - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Marcia Muller
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drove his white Dodge Neon straight to Plum Alley but, strangely, did not enter the garage of his building. Instead he backed into a parking space next to the retaining wall at the end of the block and sat there. I continued along Montgomery, found nowhere to leave the van, U-turned in front of Julius’ Castle, and drove back on the higher section of the street. A car was just exiting Plum Alley. I sped up, made another U, and entered the alley; the vacated parking space was halfway down the street, behind a Dumpster that would block the van from Ted's line of sight—if he was still in his car.
I got out of the van and crept through the shadows between the parked cars and buildings for a closer look. Yes, I could see Ted's head, backlit by the lights of the waterfront. He appeared to be watching his own building. From behind a utility wagon I watched him as several people entered and left, each causing him to straighten and take notice. He didn't seem concerned with others in the vicinity, however: a man who pulled in to the space next to him bumped his car door into the Neon, and Ted didn't even turn his head; a woman allowed her German shepherd to pee on the car's bumper, and he didn't roll down his window to protest. If he hadn't moved from time to time, I'd have feared him dead. Finally I went back to the van to wait.
The night grew cold and overcast; I wished I had some coffee and a sandwich. And soon images began to haunt me: An open bottle of Deer Hill Chardonnay and a glass under the warm lamplight in my living room. Cold fluorescent light touching the silvery corkscrew where it lay on my kitchen chopping block. An empty plastic compact that had contained birth control pills on the fluffy green mat in my bathroom. Rumpled bedclothes and a half-open closet door—
Stop it, McCone!
I breathed in deeply and thought I caught the scent of Dark Secrets perfume, but no one was there but me.
The rain started around eight-thirty. Light mist turned into a torrent, smacking down on the van's roof. I leaned against the door, listening to the downpour. I don't like surveillances; they're one of the most boring aspects of my work. And I especially didn't like this one, because over and over my thoughts drifted to the woman who had invaded my home.
Had her primary purpose been to trash it? Maybe, maybe not.
Reconstruct her actions. That might tell you.
Okay, she's been watching the place, sees Hy and me leave. She picks the lock, quickly, so the neighbors won't notice. That means she's as good with a set of picks as I am, and I'm very good. She checks the parlor, the guest room, the home office. She lights a fire, goes to the kitchen, helps herself to some wine. Sits down and has a couple of glasses.
All right, at this point what's she thinking?
That she's getting to know me. She may even be pretending she
is
me. Cozy, relaxing in my own easy chair. But then something sets her off. Something that makes her flush those pills, strip my bed. She does damage to things that're associated with sex.
Is that it? No, sex had nothing to do with her stuffing the cat into the crawl space.
The cat …
Where was Allie on Sunday night? Out, like Ralph. They wouldn't come in when Hy and I wanted to leave, sensed something unusual was going on and got upset, so we said the hell with them. So how did Allie get in?
Now,
here's
a scenario: The woman makes her way back to the bedroom. Allie's at the glass door, wanting in. The woman's now deep into her role-playing; she lets Allie—
her
cat—in and tries to pick her up, to cuddle her.
And Allie, of course, is the most standoffish cat on the face of the earth. She won't let anybody but Hy or me hold her, barely tolerates Michelle Curley, the kid next door who lets her in and feeds her when I'm away from home. Sulks or panics when company comes, depending on who it is. So what's she going to do when a total stranger tries to handle her?
Struggle. Hiss. Scratch her.
And what's this
I got out of the van and crept through the shadows between the parked cars and buildings for a closer look. Yes, I could see Ted's head, backlit by the lights of the waterfront. He appeared to be watching his own building. From behind a utility wagon I watched him as several people entered and left, each causing him to straighten and take notice. He didn't seem concerned with others in the vicinity, however: a man who pulled in to the space next to him bumped his car door into the Neon, and Ted didn't even turn his head; a woman allowed her German shepherd to pee on the car's bumper, and he didn't roll down his window to protest. If he hadn't moved from time to time, I'd have feared him dead. Finally I went back to the van to wait.
The night grew cold and overcast; I wished I had some coffee and a sandwich. And soon images began to haunt me: An open bottle of Deer Hill Chardonnay and a glass under the warm lamplight in my living room. Cold fluorescent light touching the silvery corkscrew where it lay on my kitchen chopping block. An empty plastic compact that had contained birth control pills on the fluffy green mat in my bathroom. Rumpled bedclothes and a half-open closet door—
Stop it, McCone!
I breathed in deeply and thought I caught the scent of Dark Secrets perfume, but no one was there but me.
The rain started around eight-thirty. Light mist turned into a torrent, smacking down on the van's roof. I leaned against the door, listening to the downpour. I don't like surveillances; they're one of the most boring aspects of my work. And I especially didn't like this one, because over and over my thoughts drifted to the woman who had invaded my home.
Had her primary purpose been to trash it? Maybe, maybe not.
Reconstruct her actions. That might tell you.
Okay, she's been watching the place, sees Hy and me leave. She picks the lock, quickly, so the neighbors won't notice. That means she's as good with a set of picks as I am, and I'm very good. She checks the parlor, the guest room, the home office. She lights a fire, goes to the kitchen, helps herself to some wine. Sits down and has a couple of glasses.
All right, at this point what's she thinking?
That she's getting to know me. She may even be pretending she
is
me. Cozy, relaxing in my own easy chair. But then something sets her off. Something that makes her flush those pills, strip my bed. She does damage to things that're associated with sex.
Is that it? No, sex had nothing to do with her stuffing the cat into the crawl space.
The cat …
Where was Allie on Sunday night? Out, like Ralph. They wouldn't come in when Hy and I wanted to leave, sensed something unusual was going on and got upset, so we said the hell with them. So how did Allie get in?
Now,
here's
a scenario: The woman makes her way back to the bedroom. Allie's at the glass door, wanting in. The woman's now deep into her role-playing; she lets Allie—
her
cat—in and tries to pick her up, to cuddle her.
And Allie, of course, is the most standoffish cat on the face of the earth. She won't let anybody but Hy or me hold her, barely tolerates Michelle Curley, the kid next door who lets her in and feeds her when I'm away from home. Sulks or panics when company comes, depending on who it is. So what's she going to do when a total stranger tries to handle her?
Struggle. Hiss. Scratch her.
And what's this
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