Mistaken for the Mob. Ginny Aiken
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up like that again! You just cost me ten years of my life.”
Her friend gaped. “What is wrong with you? I’ve never heard you speak like that before.”
Maryanne’s tremors grew so great that she collapsed back into her chair. The bags slid down her arm and fell to the floor.
“I think he’s here,” she whispered.
“Who’s here?”
She saw concern in Trudy’s eyes. “The Uni-Comp tech with the icy-cold eyes—that J.Z. Prophet guy.”
“You really think so?”
Maryanne nodded, unable to say more.
“Where did you see him? Did you call security? What are you going to do?”
“I don’t know what I’m going to do. I can’t even think straight. And of course I didn’t get a chance to call security. I just saw him a moment ago, right before you came up.”
“Show me. Where is he?”
With her eyes shut tight, Maryanne pointed in the direction of the lingerie store, reluctant to again feel J.Z. Prophet’s anger. But when Trudy didn’t say a thing, Maryanne looked up at her friend.
With worried brown eyes, Trudy looked from the lingerie store to Maryanne and back again. “Are you sure you’re okay?” she asked. “I’ve never known you to be so paranoid.”
“Aside from that guy scaring me half out of my wits, of course, I’m fine.”
Trudy kept silent for long moments. Maryanne looked up at her friend. A frown on her forehead, Trudy said, “There’s no one there.”
Maryanne stood, used the table for support and slowly turned to look across the expanse. As Trudy had said, no one stood by the window draped in frivolous, pastel-lace frills; no one leaned in that distinctive way against the pillar at its side; no one glared at her right then.
“He’s gone,” she said, not reassured. “For now.”
“What do you mean?”
Maryanne met her friend’s worried gaze. “Everywhere I go, I feel someone watching me. I can’t shake the feeling. And somehow, I’m sure I’m going to see him again. I just don’t know when or where. Or why.”
THREE
“You’re nuts,” Dan told J.Z.
“Why? Because I know she’s pulling a fast one?”
“No. Because, man, you’ve taken a long walk down the diving board and gone off the deep end this time. You’ve let something personal get in the way of your work. Will you just look at her? I doubt she’s ever even killed a fly.”
J.Z. looked at Maryanne Wellborn as she smiled at and hugged other worshippers on her way down the church steps.
“That,” he said to his partner, “is what she wants us to believe. I’ll admit she’s good—very good.”
When J.Z. had first seen the librarian, she’d worn a boring baggy tan skirt and brown-and-white checked shirt. The next time, she’d sported garments in a gloomy shade of gray. Today, for Sunday School and the worship service, she had on a dingy-taupe dress that hung to about an inch above her ankles. A narrow brown belt caught the shapeless thing at her waist.
“Even if you can’t,” he added, “I can see right through her.”
Dan tapped J.Z.’s shoulder with a fist. “Then you must have X-ray vision. I don’t think there’s anything here. I’ve a feeling she’s just what she looks like, a serious librarian with more on her mind than the latest fashions.”
After a pause, Dan went on. “Don’t take it wrong, okay? I’m worried about you. You’re not yourself. I mean, you almost blew it at the library, and then at the mall. All that after you promised you’d be careful.”
J.Z. went to argue, but Dan held up a hand.
“She’s not dumb, you know. You shouldn’t have talked Zelda into letting you take her place. You have to keep a professional distance.”
“You forget I’m the senior agent here.”
“But you’re acting like a rookie with a bone to pick. Unless you want to blow a case we’ve worked for months, you’d better get a hold of yourself.”
“So what do you have to say about the lab findings? Those were her fingerprints on Laundromat’s IV-fluids stand. They match the ones we lifted from her desk.”
Dan shrugged. “She’s in and out of that nursing home with her library cart and to visit her father all the time. Who knows when she might have touched the thing? For an innocent reason, I mean.”
J.Z. snorted. “They have sick people there, Dan. All that equipment is cleaned and disinfected and sanitized—all the time. It’d be pretty hard for fingerprints to survive that kind of scouring.”
“Hey, there’s always a first time for everything.”
So as not to continue the argument, J.Z. ground his teeth. He followed Maryanne’s progress toward her plain little Ford, and took note of how she patted the tight bun at the back of her neck.
He didn’t buy the story she was selling. No woman would choose to hide her hair like that without a reason.
Many years ago, his father had mastered the art of the innocuous appearance. The plain black suits, black ties, white shirts and black shoes he’d worn were the male equivalent of Maryanne’s dowdy wardrobe. Her bun was the perfect counterpart to Obadiah’s unremarkable barbershop cut.
He had to give the devil his, or in this case her, due—Maryanne Wellborn had her cover down pat, just like his father had. But J.Z. wasn’t about to let the illusion of respectability get in the way of his mission. He hadn’t gone over the edge; he just knew the difference between a trick and reality.
Everywhere the librarian went he’d be sure to follow. He would keep the pressure on her until she cracked. Sooner or later, she’d talk. And then he’d bust her, Olive Oyl disguise notwithstanding.
Maryanne ran into her father’s suite, out of breath. “I’m so sorry I’m late. The Sunday School Council meeting after the service dragged on forever.”
“Gimme a hug,” Stan said. “And in about an hour I’ll be the one griping about endless meetings. The Residents’ Senate has an agenda fatter than the Federal budget for today’s meeting.”
“Oh.” She plopped onto his bed. “Well, then, I guess I’d better be going. I’ll come back later…maybe after dinner.”
Stan caught her fingers. “Don’t you dare leave me to the mercy of that bunch of geezers.”
“Dad! How can you call them something so ugly? Besides, you’re one of them, aren’t you?”
“Yup. And that’s why I can call us anything I please. We’re geezers, all right. Just you come and listen to us. I know you’ll agree before the pecking party’s over.”
Since her father rarely asked of anything, Maryanne didn’t have the heart to turn him down. “Okay. I’ll stay. But only if you promise I won’t fall asleep during this senate thing.”
Stan winked and pushed the forward button on his wheelchair. “I can promise you fireworks, Cookie. Besides, I still have some of my birthday cake in the fridge. Come back here with me after the shoot-out’s over, and we can make a serious dent in it.”
Maryanne frowned. “How’s your blood sugar?”
“Bah!” Stan waved and rolled ahead. “I’m sick and tired of all that poking and bleeding. Can’t a man have himself a piece of cake without it turning into a big deal?”
“Oh, Daddy.”