Overkill(42)

That choked her up. She had all the compassion in the world for Rebecca Pratt, but she’d been incredibly stupid not to value this man while she had him. “I’ll be waiting to hear from you.”

“Rain is still in the forecast. Drive safely.”

“I will.”

He took a step closer. “Goodbye kiss?”

“Zach—”

“I know, I know. I hate it like hell, but I know.”

She relented, saying softly, “On the cheek.”

He took an end of her scarf in each hand and wound them around a couple of turns, then pulled her up and forward. He pressed his lips to her cheek, held there, and exhaled a warm breath. Then he stepped back and unwound the scarf from his hands.

Without another word, he started off down the trail.





Chapter 18





Even as a child, if he was ever caught doing what other people considered to be wrong, Eban would use a passive-aggressive tactic: behave as though he had every right to be where he was, doing whatever he was doing.

He hadn’t known the psychological term for this method of escaping punishment; he knew only that it was effective. Much more so than stealth, which was indicative of shame, and shame was an alien concept to him. His specialness exempted him from censure and correction.

Tonight, his undertaking wasn’t without risks. The odds of getting caught were greater than those of getting away with it, but he wasn’t too worried about it. If ever put on the spot, he was cracking good at worming his way out with a glib explanation. In the unlikely event that failed, his dad’s name and checkbook were reliable fallbacks.

Because of an overflowing commode in one of the library’s bathrooms, Theo hadn’t come through with information on Kathryn Lennon. He had spent most of his workday mopping up, but had promised to try again tomorrow.

Rather than be bested by the soiled Pamper that had clogged the toilet, Eban had decided to screw the delay and see for himself what this Lennon bitch was about.

He’d arm-twisted her home address out of Theo, which he’d sent to Eban in a text. What an idiot. If Theo had been to prison, he would know to avoid texting anything you didn’t want announced to the world. A single text could be one’s undoing.

He’d borrowed Frida’s car for the venture. “Because it looks like rain, and I don’t want to expose my new baby to the elements.”

Not wanting to drive the Porsche in bad weather was a credible reason. But his primary one was that Frida’s mid-priced Chevy would blend into traffic and be much harder to tail.

Did they—whoever they were—really think he wouldn’t spot the surveillance? Hysterical. Last night as he’d left Theo’s townhouse, he’d had to curb the impulse to wave at the guy in the nondescript sedan parked two doors down.

Frida had handed over her car key without a quibble, asking only that he be back no later than ten o’clock. He gave her a couple hundred dollars for the overtime and timed his departure with when she usually left for the day. The sedan didn’t follow as he drove out of the gate at dusk and set out for Kathryn Lennon’s neighborhood.

Her address was on a street lined with charming houses with shutters and flower beds and the Stars and Stripes hanging from their eaves. He drove past her house, then rounded the block and parked in front of a vacant house that was for sale. In a casual, strolling pace, he walked around the corner, halfway along her block, then straight up the brick walkway to her front door.

He didn’t look around to see if any of her neighbors were observing him. In under thirty seconds, he’d picked the lock with tools and skills he’d been taught in prison. It was like performing a magic trick, and he’d always been fascinated by sleight of hand.

He let himself in and fully expected a home alarm to go off. But nothing happened, so, unless it was a silent alarm, which was a possibility, his intrusion had gone undetected. Nevertheless, he gave himself only ten minutes to explore. That was the average time for alarm monitors to respond and dispatch the police.

Prison was more educational than Harvard or Princeton.

During the allotted ten minutes, he wanted to learn as much as he could about the state prosecutor who was operating under the delusion that she would keep him locked behind bars for the rest of his natural life.

“Guess again,” he whispered as he paused in the small foyer to slip off his shoes. The glow of a streetlight coming through the windows provided enough illumination for him to see his way around.

In stocking feet, he entered the living room. It was furnished in a style more contemporary than the exterior of the house would indicate. He’d expected chintz and bric-a-brac, but from what he could tell in the semi-darkness, the tones were neutral, the decor tasteful and understated.

Theo would approve. She had an expansive bookcase, the shelves loaded with reading material that ranged from dull-looking literary novels to steamy romances. Hmm. Eban wondered which she read most often.

He moved from that room into the kitchen and was a bit surprised by it as well. She had state-of-the-art appliances, but none of the clutter characteristic of an industrious cook. The sink was empty, a dish towel folded over the edge of it. A ceramic bowl of blooming orchids occupied the center of the island. He pinched off one of the white blooms, sniffed it, then put it in his pocket.

“You’re very neat, Kathryn. But not a chef.”