And Now She's Gone(63)
Dominick Rader was also looking at Mr. Hook. He turned back to her and asked, “That guy following you?”
“It’s fine. I know him.” Tears were now stinging her eyes. “It’s because of the business my husband’s in—gangsters and gamblers and gamers, oh my.” She tried on a smile. Her mouth lifted—it worked. “I should go.”
Dominick moved closer to her and, in a low voice, said, “I’m gonna put my business card over in the aisle with the tampons. Bottom shelf, beneath the first box of Tampax. You take it, okay? Call me any time, Natalie. For anything. You understand?”
She nodded.
He squeezed her arm, and that made her sad, because she’d looked forward to his hug again, to his lips against her skin. But he knew better than to kiss and hug her again—he’d done it too much already. He didn’t want to complicate her life any more than he already had.
So they said their good-byes. Then he trundled off to feminine hygiene and she (and Mr. Hook) wandered over to cleaning supplies. She dropped laundry detergent into the cart.
Mr. Hook grabbed dishwasher soap.
I don’t need the card. I know his number. Her father had made her memorize it.
In the next aisle, she pulled a pack of toilet paper into her cart.
I should get the card but …
Mr. Hook studied trash bags.
How will I get the card and then hide it?
After wandering and debating about whether she should pluck the card from its spot or not, she headed over to feminine hygiene.
That aisle was kryptonite for men like Mr. Hook.
There, on the bottom shelf, was the first box of Tampax. She grabbed that box—not that she needed tampons, after peeing on a stick yesterday, not that she’d need any type of … rescue? Not with that stick’s plus sign. It would be better now with that plus sign. Still, she plucked Nick’s card from the shelf.
Nick Rader
RADER CONSULTING
Good decision. He’d changed his phone number from the one she knew backwards and forward. Beneath these new phone and pager numbers, he had written her a note.
Anytime, Nat, and I’ll be there.
SHE FOUND NEW DIRECTION
33
As she left Isabel’s unit, Gray saw that the English bulldog with the cauliflower ear had returned and that he had parked his black Chevy Malibu two cars ahead of Gray’s Camry. He sat behind the steering wheel and took pictures of Gray exiting the security gate.
Gray froze in her spot and let the gate slam behind her. With drums banging in her head, she stomped across Don Lorenzo Drive to the Malibu and said, “Hi.”
“How ya doin’?”
The interior of his car was a mess. Cups—from tiny, watercooler size to gigantic megasips—had been crammed into every holder and free space, alongside crumpled balls of foil and wax paper. The stained seats and the torn-off wedges of burger buns asserted that this car belonged to, yes, a slob, but to a slob cop, slob private investigator, or a slob thug. The man himself smelled of weak soap and sadness.
“Why are you stalking Isabel Lincoln?” Gray asked.
“I’m not.” He smiled, and Gray thought of the silver-toothed man in Moonraker.
Gray snorted. “Every time I come here, you’re here. Just like a stalker. And now I think I’m gonna call the police.”
“Waste of time. I’m a P.I. and I’m working right now. Who the hell are you?”
“I’m a P.I. and I’m working right now.”
He gave her the up-and-down, smirking at her lemony linen. “Your boss didn’t tell you to avoid bright colors? You wanna get made? I mean, you already stand out. Cute face, a bit chubby, black, and now you’re wearing freakin’ yellow?
“Come on, sunshine. They can see you from Calcutta. Some advice. If you are a P.I.? Wear black. It’s slimming and invisible.”
Gray’s cheeks warmed. “Says the ugly man parked right in front of the apartment he’s surveilling and holding a big-ass 1910 Eastman Kodak in front of his face.”
“Ha. Touché.”
“What are you P.I.-ing, not that I believe you?”
“Just trying to check on some things, but she hasn’t been around. Know where she is?” When Gray didn’t respond, he gave her that glinty smile again, then he fished in his trash and found a business card. “This is me. Your turn.”
“Stuart Ardizzone … JCI Insurance?” She went rigid—that envelope Mrs. Tompkins had handed her last week … Supposed to give this to you.… Gray handed him a business card.
He whistled, and said, “Rader,” with a lifted eyebrow. “That’s some fancy shit right there. Me and Nick work together a lot of times—insurance cheats, worker’s comp cheats, you name it. Does he know you’re wearing yellow on a stakeout?”
“I’m not on a stakeout. And why does JCI have you out here, Stuart Ardizzone?”
“Can’t say, but I’m thinking it’s related.” He tossed her card into the pile of seat trash. “So, when was the last time you saw Miss Lincoln?”
“I haven’t seen her.”
“But you just left her condo.” Ardizzone scratched his scalp, sending white flakes to join the bank of dandruff on his polo-shirted shoulders. “You know when she’s coming back?”