the place like she owned it. He turned out to be in a corner cubical with windows on both sides, hovered over a drafting table and marking a drawing in red pencil.
“Got your food,” Waverly said.
He took the bag, set it down and said, “There’s something wrong with this. What is it?”
Waterfield was right, there was something wrong.
What it was, though, eluded her.
Waterfield broke the silence. “I’m thinking that maybe the windows are maybe just a tad too small. Another possibility is that it might be better if the front stairs had a broader footprint, extending another ten feet to each side. This area up here on the upper corner might be a bit too plain but I’m not sure how to jazz it up without making it too busy.”
He pulled the sausage out, took a bite and chewed as he watched her face.
Waverly looked for what was wrong.
It wasn’t coming to her.
She pulled the change out of her pocket and handed it over. “Murphy said that was the last Italian he had and he saved it for you. He said you give him a 50-cent tip when he does that.”
Sean wrinkled his face as if bitten.
“Got me,” he said.
“What do you mean?”
“Murphy, he got me,” Waterfield said. “We have a little bet going. He’s winning.”
“So he was leading me on?”
Waterfield smiled.
“Yeah, but don’t worry about it,” he said. “Tell me what’s wrong with this design.”
Waverly refocused on it.
Then she said, “I guess the thing I don’t understand is that if it’s a museum of modern art, why does it look like something ancient instead of something modern?”
Waterfield hesitated.
Then he said, “It’s in the same era as the other art buildings on the same grounds. It’s meant to match.”
“There’s no law that says it has to, right?”
“If you mean zoning laws the answer is
Waverly shrugged.
“In that case you’re asking the wrong person,” she said. “I would have made it modern.”
Waterfield popped the cap off the RC, took a long noisy swallow and looked out the window as if staring at everything and nothing.
The window was open.
A pigeon landed on the ledge and strutted with an eye on Waterfield’s sandwich. He broke off a piece of bread and held it in his hand.
The bird hesitated.
Then it darted in, bagged the prize and flew off.
The corner of Waterfield’s mouth turned up ever so slightly.
“You’re a dangerous woman,” he said.
The words took Waverly by surprise.
“How am I dangerous?”
“You’re dangerous because you’ve only been here five minutes and you’ve already set this project back two months.”
“I did?”
“Yes, you did. And thank you for that.” He kissed her on the cheek. “I want to take you to supper tonight.”
She smiled.
“We could go to Murphy’s and stiff him on the tip,” she said. “Get even.”
“Do you see what I mean about you being a dangerous woman?”
She shrugged.
“I won’t deny it.”
18
The two dead bikers posed a problem, and so did the third one-the live one-for that matter. River didn’t want to be a person of interest in the killings even though everything he did was in self-defense. He didn’t want the cops snooping around in one part of his life where they might accidentally stumble on another part. Equally important, he didn’t want to be associated with that particular corner of the universe. He still wanted to use the graveyard tonight and needed to keep his name a hundred miles away from it.
The biker woman could ruin everything.
She could go to the cops.
Ordinarily he wouldn’t be too concerned about it, but he’d punched her in the face and killed her boyfriend. She might seek revenge any way she could.
More to the point, she might bring a gang back to hunt him down.
He could eliminate that problem by killing her.
Instead he decided to keep her close until he could get a better read.
As they walked back to the road he said, “You got a name?”
She did.
“Tatt.”
“I’m not talking about that,” River said. “I’m talking about a real name.”
“That is a real name,” she said.
River shook his head.
“I’m not calling you Tatt,” he said. “From now on until you answer my question, your name’s Susan.”
“What’s it matter? You’re going to kill me anyway.”
“I’ll be honest,” River said. “That’s going to be up to you.”
The next hour was busy. They drove the choppers three miles down the road and into the terrain on the opposite side of the road where they couldn’t be seen from the asphalt in a hundred years.
No one saw them.
They walked back.
A few cars passed and a few startled heads turned at the sight of people out in the middle of nowhere on foot, but no one stopped.
Now they needed to bury the bodies.
That was a problem.
River opened the trunk and found nothing even remotely capable of digging except perhaps a tire iron.
He closed the lid, opened the passenger door for the woman and said, “Get in.”
