Mean Streak(66)

He’d seen Rebecca only that once, when she came out onto the porch to get her mail. He never caught sight of her daughter, Sarah.

Munching on peanuts saved from his flight, he’d watched the house through the dinner hour and into the rest of the evening. Night fell. Through the fogged windshield, he’d kept surveillance on the house until all the lights inside were out, then he’d stayed for another hour. Nothing happened. No tall brute sneaked into the house under cover of darkness. Drat the luck.

On his return trip to the hotel, he’d picked up a heart-attack-in-a-sack at a fast-food drive-through. He’d eaten the meal while catching up on e-mails, then went to bed.

Now he was back, anxious to see what the day would bring.

At seven forty-two, the garage door came up and the minivan was backed out. The door went down. The van came in his direction and drove past. In the passenger seat was a preteen girl, texting on her cell phone. The driver was a blur through the rain-streaked windows, but the white hair was unmistakably Rebecca’s.

He waited until they had rounded the corner and then followed, keeping several cars between them.

After a short drive, Sarah was dropped off at a parochial middle school. The girl stopped texting long enough to lean across the console and kiss her mother’s cheek before getting out.

From there, Rebecca drove to a Starbucks. She went inside with her laptop tucked under her arm. A few minutes later, he saw her sit down at a table near a window. Observing from a parking lot across the street, his mouth watered for a hot cappuccino, but he didn’t want to chance going into the store and being recognized by her.

She remained engrossed in whatever was on her laptop. No one joined her at the table. A few minutes to nine o’clock, she left, taking a coffee with her.

The town center reminded Jack of New England villages. Trendy shops and restaurants occupied older buildings that had been attractively renovated. Rebecca Watson’s shop was one such enterprise.

At nine thirty, she flipped the OPEN sign on the glass door of Bagatelle.

Jack called Wes Greer. After exchanging good mornings and giving each other recaps of the previous day, he asked if Wes had obtained the information he’d requested.

“She does all right with the shop,” his colleague reported. “Especially in the summer months during tourist season. It slows down this time of year, but she enjoys a brisk holiday season. And June’s good.”

“What happens in June?”

“People get married.”

“Huh. What does she sell?”

“Stationery, glassware and china, gifts. Like that. Stuff your wife clutters up the apartment with.”

Jack wouldn’t know. He didn’t have a wife.

Not for lack of trying. Although his ex-fiancée would dispute the effort he’d put into nurturing the relationship. Vehemently. You’re not even trying to make this work, Jack. If I left, it would take days for you to realize I was gone.

It had taken three.

Before hanging up, Jack asked, “Anything else shaking?”

“Pretty quiet. How’s the weather out there?”

“It sucks.”

Despite the rain, Bagatelle did a respectable weekday business. All except one of the customers were women, and the sole male who went into the store wasn’t the one Jack sought.

By twelve thirty, his bladder was bursting and he was hungry. He pulled his jacket up over his head and dashed to a deli he’d made note of earlier. He ordered a sandwich, then went into the bathroom and peed a quart, at least. He returned to the car with his food and drink. After eating, because of yesterday’s long flight and short night, he struggled to stay awake as the afternoon progressed.

For stimulation, he opened the file and reviewed material he already knew by heart.

Physical description: six-four, two hundred and twenty-five pounds, dark hair, blue eyes, crescent scar above left eyebrow, one tattoo on lower abdomen. DOB: February 3, 1976. POB: Winston-Salem, North Carolina. Education: Bachelor of Science degree, Constructional Engineering, Virginia Tech. Military Service: Army. Criminal history—

Jack glanced up in time to see the subject’s only known relative flip the sign on the door to her shop. She’d waited until straight up five o’clock to close, although she hadn’t had a customer in more than an hour. She was as disciplined as her brother.

Jack let several vehicles go past before he pulled out into traffic behind her. He followed her home, not turning the corner onto her street for a good five minutes after she had. He drove past the house. The garage door was down. She hadn’t come out to get her mail yet. There was a magazine sticking out the top of it.

He drove to the end of the block and parked under the conifer, put his camera within reach, and yawned broadly as he settled in for another hours-long vigil.

It lasted only a couple of minutes.

Rebecca came out onto the porch, but she didn’t stop at the mailbox. Instead she popped open an umbrella, strode down the front walkway, stepped off the curb, and—

Oh shit!

She marched down the middle of the street straight toward him, and she was steamed.





Chapter 22



I don’t know.”

The semicircle of faces around Emory’s hospital bed registered varying degrees of the same expression—disbelief. Jeff’s was tinged with consternation. Drs. Butler and James exuded a sympathetic bedside manner. The two detectives regarded her with skepticism.