Eric Stahl sat and drank water.
Tap water in a half-gallon Sprite bottle. He’d brought it from home.
Watching Kevin Drummond’s apartment on Rossmore.
He’d arrived before sunrise, checked out the rear of the building. Treading cat-light on old sneakers sure not to squeak.
No sign of Kevin Drummond’s car.
No surprise.
He found himself a good spot, catercornered from the dingy brick building. Nice oblique angle; he could study the entrance without straining his head, a passerby would have no idea what he was after.
Not that a passerby would be likely to notice. Plenty of vehicles on the block, and Stahl had brought his personal wheels: a beige Chevy van with windows tinted way beyond the legal limit.
All the comforts of… during the first hour, a blue jay had swooped and cast a shadow across the building. Since then, very few signs of life.
Seven hours twenty-two minutes of watching.
Torture for someone else; Stahl was as close to content as he could be.
Sit. Drink bottled water. Sit. Stare.
Put the pictures out of your head.
Keep it clear, keep everything clear.