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 Tums 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.