Westerley stood up and came around from behind his desk. “Come with me to the other room and familiarize yourself with that computer,” he said. “I’ll send Bobi home to make a pie, and then go see your Aunt Edna. When I get back, I’ll tell you what I need.”
Mathew stood up, grinning. “I wonder what Aunt Edna would think if she knew we were partners in crime.”
Westerley didn’t smile. “You’re going to have to learn, Mathew, not to pull my chain.”
But Westerley knew Mathew wasn’t exactly joking. He recognized the expression in the young nerd’s face, the ironically dumb staring look in his eyes. Hero worship. Maybe it was the way the porno thing was handled. Maybe the uniform. Maybe the gun.
Westerley shook his head. Terrific. I’m the idol of a kid smarter than I am.
Link kissed Beth on the cheek when he came home. She tried not to react too obviously, but she wondered if he’d noticed her resistance, the slight drawing away and stiffening of her body.
If he did, he gave no indication. He sighed contentedly, like a man glad to be home, and carried his blue nylon suitcase into the bedroom. It was a roomy piece of luggage, a suit carrier that had lots of zippered pockets. It could be folded twice, and somehow managed to qualify as a carry-on and fit in an overhead compartment.
Beth followed him into the bedroom and watched him unpack.
“Add to your collection?” she asked.
He smiled as he tossed a pair of socks onto the laundry pile. “Not my personal one, no. But I picked up some valuable antebellum coins for the company.” She noticed, not for the first time in the past few years, that Link had even begun to talk in a slightly different way, as if he were more educated. Not so much like the uncomplicated country guy she’d met years ago in a roadhouse with a parking lot full of pickup trucks.
Of course, he might simply have cleaned up his English to go with his suit-and-tie job.
“They should be pleased.”
“They usually are, Beth. That’s why they keep me busy traveling. It looks like I’ll have to be gone next weekend, too. Big numismatic convention in Denver.”
“Nowhere near New York,” Beth said.
Link stopped what he was doing and stared at her. “Why would you say that?”
“I don’t know. You go to New York a lot, don’t you?”
“Hardly ever. That place is too hectic, far as I’m concerned.”
She shrugged. “Well, Denver next time.”
He stopped unpacking and walked over to her. She stood very still as he gave her a hug.
“You don’t think I like being away so often, do you?” he asked.
“I know you like to travel.”
“Sure, I do. It’s the being-away part I don’t like. We’re doing okay with me in this job, and later on I can transfer to something that doesn’t involve so much travel. Or maybe even get another job altogether.”
Beth made herself rest her head against his shoulder. “You’re right, of course.”
He kissed her forehead, as if that would make everything better, then went back to continue unpacking. “Heard anything from Eddie?”
“He sent an e-mail. I saved it for you. He needs money.”
Link grinned. “Don’t we all?”
He’d finished placing his blue oxford shirt, and most of the other clothes he’d worn during his trip, on a pile on the floor. Beth moved around the bed and scooped up the wadded clothes, using the shirt as a makeshift sack. “I’ll put these in the washer.”
“Thanks, hon.”
“You might want to wear some of them on your Denver trip.”
“Might,” he agreed, grinning at her. “I’ll check the e-mail, then grab a beer and sit out on the porch while the washer runs. Let me know when there’s enough water pressure for me to take a shower.”
“Sounds like a plan,” Beth said.
These days, everything sounded like a plan.
77
New York, the present
The blue-eyed guy could mambo. Jane Nixon had to give him that.
He never seemed to get tired. They’d been out on the dance floor at Salsa Caliente for almost half an hour. She got to rest a bit during a merengue, but not much.
He was wearing her out, and nobody would say Jane wasn’t in shape.
She spent most of her time at Davida’s restaurant down in the Village, on her feet and moving as she waited tables. Most of her money she spent on dance lessons, and dancing here at Salsa Caliente or at Move On. Both clubs were only blocks from her apartment, easy walks. Since she’d taken up dancing six months ago, she’d lost ten pounds, and her slender body had acquired muscular definition.
But the blue-eyed guy was too much.
She stopped dancing and stepped back, breathing hard. The backs of her legs ached. She actually said, “Whew!”
“You okay?” he asked, looking her in the eye. He was on the tall side and built like a museum statue, if you could imagine a statue dressed in pleated black slacks and a bright red tight T-shirt with Salsa spelled out in sequins across the chest.
“Tired, is all,” Jane said, smiling.
He walked with her back to a table where he’d been sitting with half a dozen of his friends. They were all up dancing now. The blue-eyed guy raised a hand to get the attention of a waiter and ordered them both Jack Daniel’s and water. Each knew what the other drank, yet they’d never asked each other their names. They were here to dance, that was all.
“I’m all in,” Jane said, after downing half her drink. “Time to go home and collapse.”
He smiled at her. “We could collapse together.”
“All I know about you,” Jane said, “is you’re a terrific dancer.”
“That isn’t enough?”
She laughed. “Maybe someday.” She glanced at her watch.
“I’m Martin,” he said, pronouncing it Mar teen. He raked his fingers through his sweat-damp blond hair.
Jane laughed harder. “You sure look Latin.”
“Gerhardt Martin,” he said.
“Yeah, so am I.”
She patted the back of his sweaty hand and stood up to leave.
“Gonna be dancing tomorrow night?” he asked.
“Yeah.”
“Maybe that’ll be the someday. You know?”
She grinned. “See you, Gerhardt.”
“See you right back, Gerhardt.” He raised his glass to her as she walked away along the edge of the dance floor.
She’d checked her purse when she’d come in. After claiming it and glancing through it pretending to look for a tissue, but actually making sure nothing was missing, she went out into the lingering heat.
The streets were almost deserted, but she didn’t have far to go. There was just about enough strength left in her legs to make it up the steps to her third-floor walk-up apartment.
She’d keyed the dead bolt and opened the door when she sensed movement behind her. There was no time to react. A hand shoved her between her shoulder blades and she went stumbling into the dimly lit apartment.
Jane had been raised in a tough area of Detroit and was no pushover. She didn’t lose her head, and in an instant she was adrenaline fueled. Jane the dancer became Jane the fighter.
She heard the snick of the dead bolt. He was locking them in, not rushing, assuming she’d be disoriented and
