Jill looked longingly at the fireplace. With autumn setting in, it was nearly time for a fire. But she hadn't bought any logs yet, nor cleaned out the grates.
Tomorrow, she thought. Tomorrow.
Her argument with Eric finally starting to fadeit took her a long time to calm down once she'd been angeredshe went into the kitchen for a glass of Chablis.
She'd spent a good share of last year's photography profits having custom-cabinets installed. At that time, she'd still had dreams of marrying Mitch Ayers. Following the divorce, Mitch would be poor. This would be a perfect place for them to start a marriage.
Or so she'd thought.
Now, reaching into the open refrigerator for the bottle of wine, she forcefully willed Mitch from her mind.
She wasn't dishonest with herself: she knew she wasn't over him completely yet. But one day she would be and when she waswell, maybe she'd meet somebody even nicer who wanted to move in here.
Somebody who actually would move in.
Not run back to his wife.
She carried the wine goblet into the living room. She enjoyed the eclectic nature of the furnishings in therethe antique fireplace mantel contrasting with the shining hardwood floors and off-white sofa.
She put on a Kenny G CD and strolled over to the window for her peek out at the street below. She'd always liked the excitement of this particular thoroughfare: it reminded her of her high-school days. She'd done a lot of cruising up and down streets in the company of boys determined to despoil her. But
She smiled. In college, it got even crazier, though it was still kind of funny. All that spluttering of Donald's. All his protesting. All his bring-down-the-Government talk. And all the while living on a big fat inheritance.
Then she saw him.
Across the street.
Looking up here.
She didn't have a detailed look at him but she was sure he was the man in the blue Volvo.
She wished she'd heard from Marcy Browne, the private investigator. Wished she knew who this man was for sure. And what he wanted.
What if he wasn't a TV tabloid reporter?
What if he were something far more ominous?
She let the drape fall and walked back to the fireplace mantel. Now that he knew she was aware of him, maybe he'd leave. Maybe he'd get scared that she'd call the police.
She sipped her Chablis. Her heart was pounding and she resented being upset again. Eric was enough for one day. She didn't need this, too.
She charged across the room to the window, swept back the drape and glared out into the night.
Gone.
He was gone.
She let the drape fall again and walked across to the hutch where the phone rested.
She consulted the number she'd written on her phone pad this afternoon.
'Marcy?'
'Uh-huh?'
'This is Jill Coffey.'
'Oh, hi. Excuse all the pig noises. I just ran over to McDonald's and bought myself a little dinner.'
'That's finego right on eating. I just wondered if you'd gotten any information yet on the Volvo.'
'Not so far. I'm waiting for Nate to call me back.'
'Nate?'
'Yeah. Cop friend I have. He's going to run the number for me.'
'Oh.'
'But he got stuck doing something else for his boss first. He says he'll run it soon as he can. You sound kind of nervous.'
'I am. He was across the street just a few minutes ago.'
'Guy in the Volvo?'
'Uh-huh. Except this time I didn't see the Volvo. This time he seemed to be on foot.'
'Maybe you should call the cops.'
'Not yet. I'm going to give it a little more time.'
'I'll get back to you as soon as I can. Damn.'
'What's wrong?'
'I just knocked over my malt. Spilled it all over the desk.'
'I'm sorry.'
That was when the bell at the bottom of the stairs rang, the stairs that led to her apartment.
'You hear that?'
'Your doorbell?' Marcy Browne said.
'Yes.'
'You have any way of knowing who it is?'
'Not till I get down to the door and look through the eyehole.'
'Maybe you better call the police.'
'I can do better than that.'
'How?'
'I've got a. 38. I'm going to get it and go downstairs.'
'You want to leave the phone off the hook so I can hear what happens?'
'That's a good idea. I'll be back soon.'
She rushed into the bedroom, searched in the second drawer of her night-stand, and found the. 38.
She went to the front door, opened it and went down the stairs. In the dark.
Now her heart was really hammering.
She kept flashing on the man in the Volvo.
Maybe he had a gun, too. Maybe he'd shoot her right through the door.
The hall was narrow and dusty. She sneezed. Great. Fine time to sneeze. You're supposed to feel independent and strong with the cold gray metal of a gun in your hand and then you go screw it up by sneezing.
She reached the small vestibule.
Walked to the door.
Peered out the safety eye.
It took a moment for her eye to adjust in the darkness, then she made a small gasping sound.
It was a man she'd seen across the street just a few minutes ago, but it wasn't the man in the Volvo.
It was Mitch Ayers.