A String of Beads (Jane Whitefield, #8)(34)
Anything after that could have been thought out, a conscious decision. She had taken the flowers, and walked away from him to the kitchen. She was easily old enough and experienced enough to know he would be watching her, his eyes naturally taking in the shine of her golden hair, the graceful white shoulders, the narrow waist, the rounded hips and bottom. She had walked very appealingly, swaying a little from side to side. Could that have been anything but intentional? Women, alone among all creatures, practiced their walks. And then, when she had leaned herself against the counter her ass had been pushed outward, her lower back and midriff bared by the stretch to reach up into the cupboard. The pose had shown him parts of her ivory skin that most people never saw. Could any of that not have been choreographed? She had been trying to entice him.
He considered the possibilities. Maybe she was simply one of those women who wanted all men to see how beautiful she was, and found it pleasant to know they were feeling the pain and sadness of not being able to touch her. But Chelsea wasn’t flirting with all men. She wasn’t even going out anywhere to be where men could see her. She wasn’t going to work or visiting or shopping. She was only displaying herself to Dan Crane. So why was she doing that? She pointed out today that Nick had only been dead a few weeks, and that explained why she didn’t want to go out with another man. Maybe she didn’t want people—other women, really—to be critical of her for getting over Nick too quickly. Or maybe she really didn’t feel any interest in other men yet. That couldn’t be right, though. If she felt that way, she wouldn’t be flirting with him. She seemed to draw him in, then push him away. She had used the flowers as an excuse to say nice things about him and kiss him, and then shut him down when he had asked her to have a simple lunch in a public place.
Another idea began to form in his mind. What had she shown that she liked? She had liked Nick Bauermeister. Who was he? He was a big, muscular, dumb guy who had the manners of an ape and treated her as though he owned her and she wasn’t especially valuable. In the few times when he had seen them together, Nick had paid no attention to her for long periods, talking mostly to the other guys. On one night he remembered her reminding Nick that she had to work the next morning, and asking if he could please take her home so she could get some sleep. He had laughed, told her to go get him another beer, and slapped her on the ass when she had left to get it. Crane had heard somewhere that women loved men who had confidence and took charge. They pretended that men who were concerned about their preferences, and sensitive, and asked permission for everything, were the only ones who were behaving acceptably. But they never fell in love with them. They practically stood in line to throw themselves at men like Nick.
Crane drove to his storage facility, stopped at the gate, pressed the button and took a ticket, then pulled the Range Rover forward as the barrier rose to admit him. He parked between the two electric golf carts plugged in and charging beside the office, and stepped to the door. The office was the only two-story building on the property. The bottom level held special storage bays like closets, where customers stored things they were especially worried about. Two men occupied the office twenty-four hours a day, so there was an added layer of protection. He opened the door and climbed the staircase. One of the things he liked about the storage business was that it didn’t require many people. He had only a dozen men working for him. All of them worked on his break-in crews, and also worked shifts here, renting out storage bays and watching the place. He didn’t have a secretary or bookkeeper, salespeople, or any other office workers. He handled his own books, and let his ads and website do his selling. Whoever was on duty answered the phone.
He reached the second floor, where the office was. He could see Harriman was the one sitting at the desk watching the long, narrow storage buildings through the office windows. There were also eight television screens showing what the security cameras aimed up and down the drives between the storage buildings could see, but those were most useful for looking closely at things too far from the windows. Harriman had heard Crane climbing the stairs, and now he glanced over his shoulder to see him. “Hey, Dan.”
“Hi. Anything up?”
“My friend Carl is in the Erie County lockup for ninety days. He had his girlfriend in court to say he beat her again.”
“Carl. Which one is he?”
“Carl Ralston. The biker. You remember the big guy, a little overweight, with the tattoos up both arms?”
“Uh, yeah,” said Crane. “Will he actually do it?”
Harriman said, “I’m thinking Carl Ralston is the most likely to succeed. He’s been in jail a few times, and he knows the routines. Like when the guards are likely to toss a guy’s cell to look for stuff, and where the blind spots of the cameras are.”
Crane shrugged. “It doesn’t add up to much unless he’s willing to actually kill the guy who shot Nick.”
“If he gets a decent chance at him, he’ll do it. He’s not going to shank him in front of a guard, but he’s killed people before. He’s one of the few guys around who will get a benefit for doing it. The bikers he hangs out with will respect him for it. Respect matters to bikers.”
“I suppose it would,” said Crane. “And you told him what it pays?”
“I told him twenty-five thousand.” Harriman suddenly looked worried. “That was right, wasn’t it? I really don’t want to wait until he’s done it and then tell him different.”