Wolfe Watching
Joan Hohl
Contents
One
She was a breath stopper.
Eric Wolfe inhaled and watched the young woman exit the house and stride along the flagged path to the sidewalk, hang a left, then head right toward where he was making a pretense of working on his bike in the driveway of the residence three properties down from her own.
The honey blonde wasn’t very big; she was really quite petite, but every inch of her was packed with feminine dynamite.
Her delicate features fit perfectly in her heart-shaped face. Brown eyebrows gently arched over dark brown eyes fringed by incredibly long eyelashes, lending an overall appearance of wide-eyed innocence.
Right.
Eric’s mouth slanted at a cynical angle.
Her name was Christina Marianna Kranas. Her friends called her Tina. She appeared to be something of a contradiction. She rarely, if ever, dated one-on-one, and yet she very obviously enjoyed her nights out and a good time. And she had lots of male, as well as female, friends.
Eric wasn’t one of them. He was a neighbor, a relatively new and temporary neighbor. But Eric knew just about all there was to know about her.
Born and raised in Philadelphia, Christina Kranas was twenty-six years and four months old. She had married in haste at the advanced age of twenty-one. It hadn’t worked. The man had a criminal record—he had been collared and booked numerous times—but he had never served time. There had never been enough hard evidence to prosecute with any hope of getting a conviction. Christina had claimed she didn’t know about his scrapes with the law.
Eric was reserving judgment on her claim.
The marriage had quickly disintegrated, barely lasting eighteen months. The union had been childless. Christina had been granted a divorce almost four years ago.
Eric was less than impressed, since the man continued to pay periodic visits to her...and his best friend, who just happened to own and live in the house across the street, the house Eric had under observation.
Too convenient by far.
Her former husband was a good-looking guy named Glen Reber. Christina had assumed her maiden name upon receiving her divorce decree.
She had also assumed the responsibility for the mortgage on the small ranch-style house on the quiet street in the middle-income section located on the very edge of Philadelphia’s city limits. She owned and operated a classy-looking florist shop in center city.
Christina stood exactly five-foot-two-and-three-quarter-inches tall. She maintained a weight of ninety-eight-and-one-half pounds—discounting nor mal monthly fluctuations. She wore a size 32B bra, size 5A shoes, and a size 3 petite dress, depending on the maker and quality of the garment. Her ring size was also a 5.
Eric knew all Christina’s vital statistics because he had made it his business to know; committing to memory every factor gleaned about a possible suspect was part of his job.
He took his job very seriously; he always had, and even more so since the death of his father at the hands of a strung-out cocaine dealer during a drug bust three years ago.
At present, Christina was striding along in low-heeled size 5 shoes, making for the bus stop at the corner, because her car had been in a repair shop for three days to meet State inspection standards. And his presence in the driveway at this precise time of the morning was not a mere coincidence.
Eric ran an encompassing, if unobtrusive, glance over Christina’s enticing form as she drew closer to him. Her outfit was both casual and smart looking. She had great taste. The observation was not a new one for him. He had reached the conclusion about her style at first sight of her, which had occurred nearly a week ago, on the very day he moved into the bachelor apartment above the garage attached to the three-bedroom house.
Eric had also concluded that watching Tina was the one pleasurable side benefit of the unpleasant business associated with being an undercover police officer.
Eric was good at his chosen profession; he knew he was, in all probability, good at it because he liked being a cop. It ran in the family. Generations of Wolfe men had served the law, in one form or another. The third of four sons, all in law enforcement, Eric was the only one who had followed his father into the force in Philadelphia.
He had volunteered for undercover work in the narcotics division after his father was gunned down in the line of duty.
Only, in this instance, Eric was working under his own auspices; he was officially on vacation. He had requested leave time after receiving a tip from one of his informants, a tip that had fired his anger.
The informant had told Eric that the latest word on the street was that there were dealers—ostensibly an ordinary middle-class couple—doing business out of their home in this quiet community minutes away from center city.
While important, that information alone had not been the catalyst that motivated Eric. It was the informant’s claim that the couple had been the suppliers to the man who had shot Eric’s father that had been the factor in determining his actions.
Eric wanted vengeance—and he wasn’t inclined toward having his methods questioned by the department. Fully aware that he could be summarily dismissed from the force if he screwed up, he had decided to take vacation leave in order to play a hunch.
Since the hunch and the subsequent idea of taking up residence in the neighborhood were his, to all intents and purposes he was
