Dark Lover

Mr. X smiled. 'Glad you could make yourself available.'

'Yeah, well, my mother is a pain in my ass.' Loser was trying to be cool, punching the curse words hard.

'You shouldn't talk about her like that.'

Loser had a moment's confusion as he was forced to recalibrate his tough-guy act. 'Ah, she wants me home by eleven. It's a weeknight, and I gotta go to work in the morning.'

'We'll make sure you're back by then.'

'Where are we going?'

'To the other side of town. There's someone I want you to meet.'

A little later Mr. X pulled into a long, curving driveway that wound among spotlit specimen trees and ancient- looking marble sculptures. There were boxwood topiaries on the grounds, too, standing like decorations on a green marzipan cake. A camel, an elephant, a bear. The clipping had been done by an expert, so there was no question as to what each one was.

Talk about upkeep, Mr. X thought.

'Wow.' Loser gave his neck a workout looking left and right. 'What's this? A park? Look, at that! It's a lion. You know, I think I want to be a vet. I think that would be cool. You know, saving animals.'

Loser had been in the car for less than twenty minutes, and Mr. X was ready to see the last of him. The guy was like lint in food: an irritation that made you want to spit.

And not only because he said you know constantly.

They came around a turn, and a great brick mansion was revealed.

Billy Riddle was out front, leaning against a white column. His blue jeans hung low on his hips, flashing the waistband of his underwear, and he was working a set of keys in his hand, whipping them around on a string. He straightened when he caught sight of the Hummer, a smile pulling at the bandage on his nose.

Loser shifted in the seat like he'd been set up.

Billy headed for the front passenger door, moving his muscular body with ease. When he saw Loser sitting there, he glowered, nailing the other guy with a vicious stare. Loser undipped the seat belt and reached for the handle.

'No,' Mr. X said. 'Billy will sit behind you.'

Loser settled back against the seat, picking his lip.

When Loser didn't vacate shotgun, Billy yanked open the rear door and slid in. He met Mr. X's eyes in the mirror, and the hostility changed to respect.

'Sensei.'

'Billy, how are you this evening?'

'Good.'

'Fine, fine. Do me a favor and pull your pants up.'

Billy jacked his waistband as his eyes shifted to the back of Loser's head. He looked as if he wanted to drill a hole in it, and going by Loser's twitchy fingers, the other guy knew it.

Mr. X smiled.

Chemistry is everything, he thought.

Chapter Twelve

Beth leaned back in her chair, stretching her arms out. Her computer screen glowed.

Boy, the Internet was handy.

According to the title search she'd performed online, 816 Wallace Avenue was owned by a man named Fritz Perlmutter. He'd bought the property in 1978 for a little over $200,000. When she'd Googled the Perlmutter name, she'd found a number of people with F as a first initial, but none of them lived in Caldwell. After checking some of the government databases and coming up with nothing worth a damn, she had Tony do some hacking.

It turned out Fritz was a clean-living, law-abiding kind of guy. His credit report sparkled. He'd never had any trouble with the IRS or the police. Never been married, either. And he was a member of the private client group of the local bank, which meant he had plenty of money. But that was about all Tony could find.

Doing the math, she figured the fine and upstanding Mr. Perlmutter must be in his seventies.

Why the hell would someone like him hang out with her midnight marauder?

Maybe the address wasn't legit.

Now there'd be a shocker. Guy dressed in black leather and dripping with weapons giving out false info? You don't say.

Still, 816 Wallace and Fritz Perlmutter was all she had to go on.

Going through the Caldwell Courier Journal's archives, she'd found a couple of articles on the house. The mansion was on the National Register of Historic Places, as a fantastic example of the Federal style, and there were some stories and op-eds about the work that had been done on it immediately after Mr. Perlmutter had taken possession. Evidently the local historical association had been dying to get inside the house for years to see what had changed, but Mr. Perlmutter had declined all requests. In the letters to the editor, the simmering frustration of the history buffs had been mixed with grudging approval at the accuracy of the exterior restorations.

As she reread an op-ed, Beth popped a Turns in her mouth and crunched it into a powder that filled the creases in her molars. Her stomach was sour again. And she was hungry. Great combination.

Maybe it was frustration. Essentially, she knew nothing more than she had when she started.

And the cell phone number the man had given her? U.n-traceable.

In the information vacuum, she was even more determined to stay away from Wallace Avenue. And feeling the echo of a need to go to confession.

She checked the time. Almost seven o'clock.

Given her hunger, she decided to go eat. Better to skip Our Lady and take nourishment of the physical variety.

Leaning to one side, she looked around the wall of her cubicle. Tony was already gone.

She really didn't want to be alone.

On a crazy impulse she picked up the phone and dialed the station. 'Ricky? It's Beth. Is Detective O'Neal around? Okay, thanks. No, no message. No, I-Please don't page him. It's nothing important.'

Just as well. Hard-ass was not really the uncomplicated company she was looking for.

She stared down at her watch, getting lost in the second hand's crawl around the dial. The evening hours stretched ahead of her like an obstacle course, the hours to be dodged and surmounted.

Hopefully with speed.

Maybe she'd grab some food and go see a movie afterward. Anything to delay going back to her apartment. Come to think of it, she should probably stay at a motel somewhere.

In the event that man came looking for her again.

She'd just logged off her computer when her phone rang. She picked it up on the second ring.

'Heard you were looking for me.'

Butch O'Neal's voice was a gravel pit, she thought. In a good way.

'Urn. Yeah.' She pushed her hair back over her shoulder. 'You still free for dinner?'

His laugh was a low rumble. 'I'll be in front of the paper in fifteen.'

He hung up before she could slide in a properly nonchalant, this-is-just-about-food comment.

After sundown Wrath walked into the kitchen, carrying the silver tray with the remnants of his meal on it. Typical of Darius, everything was the best of the best here, too. Industrial stainless-steel appliances. Plenty of cupboards and granite counter space. Lots of windows.

Too many lights.

Fritz was at the sink, scrubbing at something. He looked over his shoulder. 'Master, you didn't need to bring that back.'