“Or to walk into other people’s homes just because the front door isn’t locked. Hell, Linda, I leave my doors unlocked most of the time. So do a lot of other folks around here.”
“Well, they shouldn’t. You shouldn’t! Who can tell when some awful person might decide to walk in?” She realized what she’d just said at the same moment it registered with Tag. He grinned, and she grinned. “I think I’m losing it,” she said with a shake of her head, and headed up the stairs again.
Tag watched until she reached the second floor and went into her bedroom. He wasn’t completely comfortable with her attitude toward a stranger walking into her house, but he had to admire her spunk. She wasn’t a coward, that was certain. Of course, a woman living alone didn’t dare cringe in fright at every little thing. She’d drive herself batty if every noise and shadow scared her.
He liked Linda Fioretti, he thought again. He liked her more than any woman he’d ever known on such short acquaintance. She was a pleasure to look at, intelligent, independent and talented. Yes, really talented. Her paintings were incredible. Samantha might be a good artist someday. She loved to draw and color pictures. If she had a teacher who knew art the way Linda did…?
“That’s a darn good idea,” Tag said under his breath as, whistling and, pleased with himself, he returned to the kitchen and his bucket of paint.
The sun beating through the panels of glass of the telephone booth was so unbearable that Alfred Wallinski, aka Al Wallinski, aka Al Malone, had to leave the door open while he talked. Alfred’s favorite alias was Max Malone, just because it sounded tough and together and perfect for a guy with his natural abilities. He wouldn’t waste that great name on this crappy little job, though; he was saving it for the day when he’d finally made the grade and ranked as one of Paul Fioretti’s pals. It would happen very soon, Alfred was sure, if he could just finish up in this ungodly wilderness and get back to Los Angeles.
“Paul, I got into her apartment today, but there was a guy there and I had to beat a hasty retreat.”
“You’re always beating a hasty retreat,” Paul said disgustedly. “Alfred, if you can’t handle one simple little job, why don’t you just say so? I can’t believe you’ve been in that town for weeks and still don’t have the book. What in hell’s wrong with you? Was your mother a jackass? ’Cause you sure are.”
“Ma was no jackass,” Alfred said huffily, defending his mother’s honor. “And I ain’t either. I’ll get the book. You got no idea how crappy this town is. I can’t just up and leave my motel room whenever I feel like it. Someone’s always around, and when I finally do give everyone the slip and get near her apartment, there’re people there, too. I know every bush and tree on this damn street, ’cause I’ve hidden behind every one of ’em. And before you get too mad at me, answer me this. Have you ever come face-to-face with a bull or a bear on a dark night?”
“Oh, for hell’s sake. Don’t expect me to believe bears are wandering the streets of that town. Bears live in the woods.”
“What d’ya think is all around the place? Woods, Paul. Trees by the thousands. And a bull is just as bad as a bear, anyway. I’ve seen plenty of them.”
“You’ve probably seen milk cows, you dolt.”
“Well, what about those other animals, the deer and the moose? And those owls hooting in every tree after dark? I tell you, Paul, it’d scare you, too.”
“Don’t count on it. Listen to me. You get into my ex-wife’s apartment, find that little book with the brown cover and get your butt and the journal back here. I know she still has it because she would rather burn in hell than throw out a book. She probably unpacked her zillion books without even noticing that one, so it’s on a bookshelf somewhere in that apartment. Stop your damn sniveling about bears and owls and get the job done. I’m tired of your whining. I want results, and I want them now!”
“I’ll get the job done, Paul, I swear it.”
“See that you do. The next time you call, I had better hear that the journal is in your hands!”
“It will be.”
In his office at the back of his restaurant, Fioretti’s, Paul slammed down the receiver. He never should have trusted Alfred Wallinski with this job, which was even more crucial to Paul’s good health than he’d told the little worm before sending him off to Montana. That journal contained enough information about his illegal bookmaking ring that if it ever fell into the wrong hands and Paul’s partners got wind of it, he’d be pushing up daisies faster than he could say “Alfred Wallinski.”
Beads of perspiration broke out on his forehead. This was the worst mess he’d ever gotten himself into. What in God’s name had made him think he had cleverly figured out the ultimate hiding place for the journal? He’d been positive that Linda had so many books she would never notice the addition of one thin, nondescript volume. And she hadn’t. But then everything had gone upside down.
“Stupid, stupid, stupid,” Paul mumbled, recalling the day he had rushed to their house to discover strangers living there. She’d sold the house! He’d left in a daze, calling himself names, calling her names, cursing the night she’d told him that she could no longer tolerate his dishonesty, his adultery or his disgusting friends. Their marriage was over, Linda had coldly said, and then she’d asked him to move out.
He’d been shocked to near speechlessness. How had she found out those things about him? He’d always been so careful. She had no proof, he’d decided. She was just in a mood. Thinking that she would come to her senses with a little time, he had taken his clothes and left her alone to think things over.
Well, she’d meant everything she’d said, and she had rushed to Nevada for a quickie divorce. He’d been stunned to receive his copy of the divorce decree, and that was when he’d driven like a madman to what he had still considered “their” house. Linda was gone.
And so were her books.
He’d panicked. Hell, who wouldn’t have? And he’d racked his brain to come up with some guy he could trust with a life-and-death mission. It had been another blow to realize he had no real friends, no one in whom he could confide something so serious without worrying the story would be bandied about until it reached the wrong ears. And then he’d thought of Alfred Wallinski, not a friend but a guy who hung around the fringes of Paul’s crowd with a hopeful look in his eyes. He wanted to be part of the group so badly the poor slob was like a homeless puppy, doing everything he could to be noticed.
Alfred was, sadly, the best that Paul had been able to come up with, and he’d sent Alfred to the old neighborhood to ask around about Linda. To Paul’s surprise she hadn’t kept her whereabouts a secret, and Alfred had discovered in one day that she had moved to Rumor, Montana. Alfred had been so proud of the good job he’d done that he’d told Paul all about it with tears in his eyes. Paul had been touched by the man’s apparent sense of loyalty and decided on the spot that Alfred deserved a real break. “You, my friend, are going to Montana for me,” he’d said, and then watched the little guy wilt.
“I ain’t never been out of L.A.,” Alfred had said in a shaky voice.
“Hell, man, you’ll love Montana. I’d love to go there myself, but I couldn’t do what you could. Linda’s never set eyes on you. You’ll be able to get in and out of her place the first time she’s not at home.” Paul had explained what Alfred would be looking for. “You’ll be back in L.A. in a week.”
“Yeah, probably,” Alfred had said weakly.
But it wasn’t going the way it should have, the way Paul had figured it would. Thinking of Alfred’s idiotic fear of animals—probably of his own damn shadow, too, the little wimp—he slammed the top of his desk with his fist. That fool is probably hiding in his motel room instead of watching Linda’s place! This should have been over and done with weeks ago.
Paul