switched her phone to vibrate, closed it and tucked it back in her pocket. About twenty rolls of toilet paper were stacked up against the wall. He clearly did not intend to visit the grocery store any time soon.
Two towels, both brown, hung over a plastic rod
A stool sat in the bath-shower and a generic bottle of shampoo-conditioner rested on its side on the floor of the tub.
A bar of white soap rested in a small purple dish.
Nothing good here, she surmised looking around. After the initial casing she realized that the bathroom was very dirty. Scary black stuff stained the tile grout and gray soap scum coated the tub. She didn’t even want to look at the toilet.
Maggie checked her watch. Gordon should be done by now. She pulled out the front door, saw the red flag up on the mailbox and smiled.
Good old Gordon. This was why she put up with his inappropriate comments and tendency to whine—the man was an efficiency genius.
After grabbing the iPod and check stub, she replaced the electronics in his drawer—trying not to notice the worn magazine with the beautiful brunette on the cover. Then she put the pay stub back in its envelope and licked the corners of the flap—spots that most postal machines missed sealing the adhesive—closed it then stacked it among the rest of his ignored mail.
She paused, listening for him, but the house was still silent.
Excellent, she mentally cooed and as quietly as possible she slid open the patio door and stepped out onto the wooden deck. The ravine butted up against the patio, giving the house an extraordinary level of seclusion, which wasn’t so good considering someone wanted to kill him.
She noted a sliding glass door that led from his office to the deck. A giant hunk of dog pressed tight against the glass and Gomez sat at a desk beyond the slumbering animal, Gomez’s back to the door and view.
She turned the other way to be out of sight should he suddenly decide to look out his window and saw the garage nestled among the trees of the ravine.
She checked her watch then jogged across the burned grass toward the building. The door creaked hideously as she opened it, revealing the musky near-emptiness of the shabby garage.
Empty but for a motorcycle, parked in the center.
She whistled between her teeth and approached the Ducati Multistrada 1100 S. It was like finding the Mona Lisa in someone’s basement.
That is a hell of a bike, she thought circling it, admiring its lines, its lovely power and feline grace. The 1100 S was a very expensive, elite racing bike. She shook her head sadly. Gomez probably couldn’t even drive it anymore. And that was a shame because, of any bike, this one deserved to be ridden well and often.
Oh, man…I could, she thought with near hunger for the chance. Her fingers practically twitched with the sudden urge to straddle it just once.
She and Patrick used to race Nighthawks. The year of her high school graduation they drove up the coast on their bikes, camping and drinking too much beer along the way.
Thinking of Patrick, his smile beneath his beat-up helmet, was enough to kill her distraction.
She turned, noted the brand-new washer and dryer in the corner and left the garage.
Halfway across the lawn her pocket began to vibrate and she pulled out her phone.
Sooner or later you’re going to have to clean, the text message read. I’ll be thinking of you. Gordon.
Her partner thought he was hilarious.
But he was right. She was hired to do a job and she’d never get a chance to finish her real job if she didn’t get her hands dirty.
Maggie smiled, thinking of his note, his wish not to be disturbed and she walked to his office door and knocked. Loud.
There was a scuffle. A dog’s bark. Something hit a wall or the patio window. And finally, a few moments later the door eased open.
A dog’s snout pushed out into the crack and Gomez’s hand cupped it and jerked it out of the way. “Get lost,” he muttered. Maggie’s eyebrows climbed.
“Are you talking to me?” she asked.
“No.” Gomez laughed and then pulled the door open wide enough for her to see him. He faced her and, in some deep place, she braced for her first glimpse of the man, wondering if her memory had somehow made him worse or better than reality. But the sunlight hit the scar tissue and the deep blue of his eyes and Maggie realized he looked the same as she’d remembered.
Startling. In several different ways. His eyes met hers and a tingling rush of blood whooshed up her spine. Her neck went hot. Just the kind of reaction she was trying to control.
“What do you need?” he asked. Not rude, but not polite, either.
“Nothing.” She shrugged. “I just wanted to let you know I was here, in case you heard me banging around or something.”
“Great.”
He smiled.
She smiled.
“Okay,” he said, stepping away from the door as if he’d like to shut it.
She waved and stepped back into the darker shadows of the hall. He closed the door, cutting off the light.
What a weird guy, she thought.
JESUS, CALEB. Do you have to be so weird?
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