Murder by Candlelight (27 page)

"Mumm," Z said.

Not that Z had really been listening to
Susan. Not when he could look at her, Susan wearing what Z always
thought of as her "date" dress, because of the collar-to-hem zipper
down the front. Body-hugging, cut off at mid-thigh, the dark blue
dress was of stone-washed denim.

Silver earrings dangled from her delicate
ears.

Susan. Gorgeous as usual.

And that, essentially, was dinner.

After supper, back at her apartment, Susan
had wanted to keep talking -- now about the seance -- the apartment
reminding her of the "gathering."

Z had wanted to go to bed.

So, they'd compromised.

They'd gone to bed -- where Susan talked
about the seance.

Not the best bargain Z had
ever struck. Though sex
should
be satisfying each and every time, it really
wasn't. One thing women seemed to be
right
about was that "frame of mind"
did make a difference. It occurred to Z -- afterward -- that what
women were always calling
love
was what men called "setting the mood"; like most
man/woman insights, a revelation that did him precious little
good.

Sunday.

Sex taking more out of Z's
already-exhausted body than usual, they'd gotten out of bed in the
late afternoon, Z driving home to try to get some sleep, Z dragging
up to the door of his lonely apartment ... to find the door-hair
missing! Taking only a moment to remember he
had
trapped the hair when he'd
locked up yesterday, Z unlocked the door and entered cautiously,
becoming even
more
careful when, just inside, he picked up a foreign odor. A
smell he "filed away" for later identification.

A quick look around telling him he was
alone, Z turned on the lights to begin examining the apartment for
traces of a "foreign" presence.

Found nothing that was obviously out of
place. Which only meant that Mr. Jaguar had been careful. Knowing
the place had been searched -- no doubt in a hunt for Johnny
Dosso's spore -- gave Z an advantage, Z finding that little things
were ... wrong.

What nailed down "breaking and entering,"
though, was that smell.

Z had always admired Sherlock Holmes's
ability to "sniff out" clues, Z priding himself on doing the same,
meaning it was "put up or shut up" time.

Back to ... the smell.

Too "light" to be pipe tobacco. Ditto for
cigars. Equaled ....

Cigarette smoke.

Not from just any brand. Something ...
exotic. Foreign. The kind of perfumed smoke that matched the
expensive tastes of the owner of a Jag.

One more thing. The only
reason anyone would smoke a cigarette while tossing an apartment
was that he was really
hooked
, smoking adding complications
to a thorough toss. (On second thought, Z had to throw out his
theory about tobacco being addictive. He'd just remembered that, on
oath before a government committee, executives of tobacco companies
had solemnly declared smoking to be non-habit forming.)

Undertaking an even more careful search of
his own, Z found short "tubes" of gray-white cigarette ash in his
fireplace.

No butts ... because the man had been
careful to toss the filterless stubs in the fireplace, knowing
they'd burn up completely.

Z's conclusion about his adversary? He knew
locks. Was a careful searcher. Chain-smoker. Liked exotic
cigarettes without filters -- deductions that weren't getting Z
anywhere, though he thought Holmes would have been proud of him,
nonetheless.

The end result of search and counter-search?
Z feeling more ... alive! A sensation he'd been missing lately.

But not alive enough to skip the nap he so
desperately needed, Z under no threat at the moment.

The
second
thing to change Z's focus was
an unexpected call from Susan, Z dragging himself out of bed to
find his nap had taken him past sundown.

"Z, it's Susan," Z knowing
instantly something was wrong. He'd heard this tone before. Too
high. Too thin. Susan's little girl voice. Her
scared
little girl voice.

"Tell me."

"It's probably nothing. But I just went to
QuikTrip to get a couple of things."

"Yeah."

"When I was driving there,
I just happened to look in my rear view mirror and saw this
expensive car behind me. When I came
out
of QuikTrip, there it was again,
but parked around back. In the shadows where employees park. I got
in my car and drove down Oak, only to look back and see the same
car."

"Blue?"

"Yes, blue." Susan was so
upset it didn't occur to her to ask how Z knew the car's color.
"Anyway, I pulled off Oak, down the Bircane road. When I turned in
to the park, I looked back in time to get a quick flash of what had
to be the same car going past. Except -- and this is the scary part
--
this
time, the
car was driving without lights!"

"Yeah." Z had gotten so used to seeing a
spot of blue behind him, he'd become dulled to possible danger to
himself or to anyone else. (Similar to the way bright, quick birds
can be crept up on by slowly crawling tree snakes.)

"And I remembered the other time, when that
man you were chasing slipped into my apartment, and ...."

"I know about this." But it's nothing to be
worried about.

"Didn't think you'd be involved. No reason
you should be. It won't come to anything. But just in case, I think
I better put you somewhere."

"
Not
at the Whore House Inn!" Susan
could get testy about the Happy Hollow, Z hiding
her
there,
once.

"OK. You got a girlfriend you can stay
with?"

"I think ...."

"Call her. Meanwhile, keep your door locked.
I'm on my way."

"Do you think that's necessary, Z?"

"No."

"Then ...?"

"I'm on my way."

It was while driving to Susan's house that Z
began to feel the glow of anger. When he was young, he'd had a bad
temper; the kind that flared up unexpectedly; a blind anger that
had made Z dangerous to anyone around him. But he'd conquered that.
He almost never lost his temper anymore. And ... wasn't about to do
so now. A temper like his, interfered with thought. With planning.
It was just that he could feel a familiar heat begin to build,
somewhere behind his eyes.

With the punk now bothering Susan, it was
clear Z had to do something; what that "something" might be, to be
delayed until Susan was safely tucked away.

From Z's house to Susan's parking lot, he'd
seen no sign of a blue car.

So far so good.

Leaving the Cavalier,
darting through the breeze way and around the building, Z rapped on
Susan's
way
-
too
-
thin
plywood door. Said, "Z."

Obviously poised right behind it, Susan
snatched open the door, Susan -- changed into "traveling" jeans and
t-shirt -- doing an unsuccessful job of looking calm.

A detective's girl had its drawbacks; he'd
never tried to fool Susan about that.

"Glad you're here."

"Ready?"

"Ready."

Susan had packed a bag, a
big enough case to sustain a
man
on African safari. Packed with enough "stuff" to
last a
woman
for
a day or two -- long enough to ensure Susan's safety.

Straining up the suitcase, Z led Susan to
his car. Packed her inside. Levered the over-sized case in the
trunk.

"Where?" Z asked, sliding into the driver's
seat.

"On North Main. At forty-second. Twelve
twenty."

Starting the car,
employing safe driving techniques by
carefully
looking both ways before
pulling out of the lot, Z turned left, then cranked right on Oak --
Oak, one of the Northland's brightly lighted arterials. No way the
Jag could hide on Oak in diminished, early evening
traffic.

After that, they drove in
silence, Susan worried enough to be unaware Z was making
unnecessary turns, even doubling back to be
certain
they were in the
clear.

"Tell me," she finally said.

"Nothing much."

"That's what you always say."

"Got a guy following me."

"Why?"

"To find Johnny Dosso."

"Your mob friend? Why would he ...?"

"I got Johnny stashed. He ran into a
problem."

"I
knew
he was going to get you into
trouble one day!" When frightened, Susan could get hyper. "One of
your
major
faults
is loyalty to your friends!" Susan sighed. "But, I guess, I have to
admit that your loyalty is one of the things I love about
you."

Thinking about just
how
loyal
he'd
been to Susan, Z winced. "I
do
love you," she continued softly, "even though
you're such a dope."

Because of Susan's fear, Z was hearing the
truth: THE TRUTH, deserving to be on the "endangered species list"
as much as any cuddly animal.

Could be a dope, OK. But
not
all
the time.
For what the "threat" to Susan had done was convince Z of something
he'd begun to doubt; that he truly
did
love Susan. He might get
irritated at her now and then. He didn't pretend to understand her.
But he loved her -- and
this
was a surprise -- loved her with something
more
than
passion.

"Yeah," Z said.

Arriving at the address
Susan gave him, Z let Susan out; lugged her suitcase to the porch
of a moldering white duplex; retreated to the curb and stayed there
until Susan was safely inside the house -- the
sober
seance friend answering the
door, thank God!

After that, Z moved the car down the street,
parallel-parking it between a station wagon and a long bed truck,
squeezing the Cavalier into what proved to be the perfect hunkering
place.

Killing his lights, he waited for more than
an hour; just in case a blue car happened by.

Then, drove home -- where
one
more
thing
happened, this time, something that made him feel
better
about Susan's
safety.

Hiking up the back walk, Z caught a glimpse
of the distinctive rear end of the Jag, parked down the front
street.

With the Jag
shadowing
Z's
house again, Susan was in the clear. At least for
tonight.

Every dog said to have its
day, it was now
Z's
turns to make
certain
Susan was safe on
every
night!

And he knew how.

The time had come for Mr. Cavalier to have a
"talk" with Mr. Jaguar.

Z continuing to his door, keying himself
inside, snapping on the lights as usual, he "worked" the fireplace
to get his case from its hiding place.

Snapping off the living room light, going to
the bedroom, flipping on the back light, he put on his black
outfit.

Leaving the bedroom light on -- Z wanting
the possibility of activity in his apartment to keep the punk where
he was for the moment -- Z eased open his darkened front door and,
satchel in hand, slipped outside, Z just another shape among the
many shifting shadows of the night.

Backtracking, Z entered the garage to toss
his valise on the passenger's seat and slip into his car. Holding
the car's door open, releasing the emergency brake, putting the
shift lever in neutral, he stuck his leg out of the car; with
considerable strain on his bad knee, back-peddled the little
machine out of the garage and into the alley, after that, turning
the wheel to line it up with the alley's ruts.

Straightening the wheel, climbing out to
push on the doorframe, his other hand inside on the steering wheel,
Z kept the car moving until it was stopped by a cross-rut in the
eroded gravel alley, two houses down.

There, still with the lights off, he got in
and cranked up the little engine; used just enough revs to move the
car the rest of the way down the coal black alley to the side
street.

Far enough away by this time to be beyond
even the accidental sight line of the parked Jag, Z circled the
block, building speed on the back side so he could turn off the
engine and coast along the dark street flanking the front of his
apartment house, Z drifting to a quiet stop behind a parked car
half a block behind the lurking Jag.

It was only a question of time, now, before
Z would be shadowing the shadower.

* * * * *

Chapter 16

His windows rolled down to take advantage of
the night's seventy-five degrees, it took Z another four hours of
Cavalier-sitting in the slumbering neighborhood before the man in
the Jag decided to give it up for the night. (Maybe he figured Z
had gone to sleep, leaving the bedroom light on.) Whatever the
reason, Z's first signal that the man was taking off was the
full-throated rumble of the Jag's big engine, the sound
reverberating before gradually fading into the night.

A cautious man, the
Jaguar's driver. Edging off without his headlights, Z playing the
same game by starting the Cavalier to do
his
lights-off best to follow the
fleeing shadow of the powerful sports car.