skills were limited to coffee, scrambled eggs and packaged macaroni and cheese, so she didn’t require much in the way of gear. Into the fridge went the items from the cooler she’d brought from home, to save her from throwing the stuff out when she went back to her apartment. Then she unpacked the bag of items she’d picked up at the grocery store around the corner on her way here; she couldn’t order in every night. Well, she could, but not without drawing more attention from the neighbors than she wanted.
Lastly she took her two-inch Smith & Wesson revolver out of its case, along with a trim holster with a belt clip and an ankle holster. She’d spent yesterday sharpening her skills with the small weapon. Anything larger than the small gun would be harder to hide from Gamble, and she didn’t want to have to worry about it.
When she was done unpacking, she went back into the living room. She’d already seen that the windows on the north side of the house were the best spot to watch Gamble’s home. And smiled to see that Josh had already arranged to have the rather ornate floral draperies left by the previous owners replaced with pleated shades that allowed in sunlight from outside yet were semitransparent from inside, so she could see at least motion if not details without raising them.
Upstairs, the master bedroom had a window seat alcove that looked out on that same side. She suspected most of her in-house time would be spent there, since she could see the windows on the side and back of Gamble’s house, plus both the front and back yards. The yards themselves were an almost scary sight; gardening, it was clear, was not on the man’s list of priorities.
Which could be a good thing for her, she thought. A way to get closer. She’d have to watch for a chance.
She was glad the lower bank of windows around the window seat bay opened. She needed to be able to hear the slightest noises from next door. She preferred to sleep with windows open, anyway, especially in spring and summer, but in this case she’d have to even if it was cold out. Not that she’d be sleeping all that much at night, and when she did, it would be with one ear open. She’d have to catch up during the day when Gamble was safely tucked away at Redstone.
Speaking of her target, she thought, it was time to get moving on that front. She went to the kitchen, grabbed her favorite coffee mug, and headed for the door. It was old and corny, yes, but it also happened to be true. She was out of sugar.
She had to go down to the sidewalk then up the walkway to the house; there was no way she could cut through the overgrown honeysuckle that grew along the property lines between the houses. It had to be at least six feet tall and incredibly thick. That, she thought, could be a problem if she needed to get over there in a hurry. All the more reason to pursue that, she thought.
She paused for a moment before knocking on the front door. First impressions counted, and never more than in this kind of work. She debated between sheepish, shy or harried, decided on a combination of the first two, with a touch of flighty blonde just to see if it would work.
She knocked. Waited. Knocked again. Finally the door swung open.
Samantha Beckett took her first close-up look at Ian Gamble and immediately abandoned her plan. There was nothing naive or absentminded about those vivid green eyes, and the wire-rimmed glasses he wore did nothing to mask an intelligence that fairly crackled. His hair was lighter than she’d thought, almost a sandy blond on top, but it was as thick and shiny as it had seemed from a distance.
He was tall, she realized. At five foot nine herself, she noticed that. He didn’t tower over her, but if she looked straight ahead she was looking at his nose, not his forehead as often was the case. And he was lean, not pudgy, as she’d half expected someone who spent their days in a lab to be.
I’ve got to work on my preconceptions, she told herself. And, she added silently as she realized he was looking at her rather quizzically, I’d better say something here.
“Hi,” she said.
Well, now that was clever. Get it together here, Beckett. You’ve done this before, what’s your problem?
She tried again. “I’m Samantha. Samantha Harrison.” She and Josh had agreed that while it was very unlikely, there was just enough chance Gamble might stumble across her name or someone else who’d seen it in connection with Redstone to make a cover name wise. So as she usually did, she used her mother’s maiden name. “I just moved in next door.”
After a moment of hesitation that made her wonder, he nodded. “I saw.”
At least he didn’t try to deny he’d been watching, she thought. After the way he’d jerked back when she’d sensed his gaze and looked over at his window, she’d half expected that.
“I know this sounds like an old joke, but I really am out of sugar, and if I don’t have it for my morning coffee, it gets pretty ugly. I’d really like to avoid another run to the market if I can. I’m kind of beat.”
His mouth quirked slightly. At first she thought it was in amusement, but then she got the oddest feeling it was in self-consciousness. Or embarrassment.
“You moved alone?”
In another man she might have thought this a not-too-subtle way to find out if she was married or otherwise attached. But there was nothing of subterfuge in his eyes, and she realized on a sudden flash of insight that he was uncomfortable because he hadn’t offered to help her.
“Just me, but all I had to do was my clothes and personal stuff, so it wasn’t bad.” She gestured with the mug. “Except I was out of sugar and didn’t realize it until I unpacked the coffeemaker.”
“Oh,” he said, as if suddenly remembering why she was here. “Uh, sure, I’ve got some sugar.”
“Thanks,” she said, handing him her mug.
He took it, then hesitated, and she wondered if he would just leave her standing on the porch while he went to the kitchen. That wouldn’t do; she needed to see the inside of the house. She knew the layout, thanks to Redstone’s research department, who had miraculously dug up the original plans from when the tract had been built twenty-five years ago, but she needed to see how he had it set up, to know where he worked, slept, watched TV, whatever he did.
At the last second he pulled the door open. “Come on in.”
“Thanks.”
She stepped in after him, but instead of following him toward the back of the house, where the kitchen was, she stayed near the door. At least, until he was out of sight. Then she swiftly went to the windows that faced her new residence; first thing she needed to know was what he could see. Her living room was on almost a direct line with his, so that was out for stealth. She noted that he’d have to lean out to look past his chimney to see her bedroom window; another point for it being the prime observation post. She turned back to the interior.
She’d noticed the chaos, but only peripherally in her focus on the windows. What was supposed to be the living room clearly was serving as his office. Judging from everything he had here, none of the bedrooms would have been big enough. Two computers, a door-size table piled with papers, a lower table covered with what looked like computer printouts, and two huge bookcases crammed with books, notebooks and pieces of equipment whose function she could only guess at.
On a normal surveillance, she’d be looking for places to plant bugs or cameras. But Josh had been quite clear on that; Ian was one of them, an innocent victim of his work at Redstone, and he was to be protected, not treated like some kind of suspect.
She
