As for the duffle’s contents, Erika knew what was in his little carry-on. She had watched as he had taken the autoloaders and the snub-nosed shotgun from the safe back at the garage—and he’d been sure to pack up plenty of ammunition, too. The way she hadn’t reacted to that amount of metal had made him sad: She had to have seen a lot to be that calm. Then again, she dealt with death every day in her job, didn’t she.
Three stone steps up, and she was picking up the purse. He braced himself for her to rifle through it out here in the open. She didn’t. She linked her arm into the straps, and lickety-split, unlocked the dead bolt and cranked the knob. They were inside in the blink of an eye and she locked up just as quick.
Although honestly, how safe were they anywhere? From the shadows, that was. From Devina, as well.
While Erika put the bag down on the coffee table and started to go through it, he glanced around. The layout was as he expected, this living area opening to a kitchen in the back that had an alcove you could eat in. A staircase ran up the solid common wall behind him, and he could see two open doorways on the second floor.
The furnishings were not fancy, but looked really comfortable, even though nothing particularly matched. It was as if Erika had collected the couch and chairs and the side tables piece by piece, to plug holes in function, rather than to coordinate colors.
Oddly, there were no pictures or photographs anywhere, not on the walls, not on the mantelpiece over the electric fireplace, not on the built-in shelves on either side of that hearth.
If you looked past the lack of harmony in the decor, it was like the showcase model of the development, an anonymous, clean stage set occupied by no one but a salesperson.
He tilted into the bow front window behind the couch and parted the closed drapes. Outside, there were ten other buildings along the dead-ended road, each one bifurcated, the scale of things modest, the couple of cars parked outside of the garages sedans or trucks that were less than five years old. If he had to guess, the structures had been built in the eighties, so that things were old, but kept up well.
“It’s all here.” She looked over her shoulder at him. “My gun, my cell phone, even my badge. But how did it get back here—”
He let the curtains fall back into place. “My friends took care of things.”
“What do you mean, ‘took care of things.’？”
“You know, made sure there was nothing left behind before they called in the scene at the bookshop.”
“Called in to who? Nine-one-one?”
When he nodded, she shook her head, but not like she was disagreeing with him. More like she felt as though her thoughts were fuzzy or she’d missed something.
“Why would they do that?” she mumbled.
“Why wouldn’t they? It’s human business.”
“Human… business.” Closing her eyes, she said to herself, “I need a beer.”
Balz followed her into the kitchen that took up the rear of the townhouse. The color scheme was cream and yellow, the wallpaper all sunflowers with green leaves, the linoleum a speckled saffron color, everything faded but in good condition. Likewise, the appliances were older but clean, and the countertops were Formica, not the granite you saw so much of in newer places.
Dated. All of it was dated, probably even the original stuff. But it was also a place where he instantly relaxed, although that probably had to do with Erika rather than anything in the environment itself.
On that note, he went over to the little circular table in the alcove and sat on a chair that he was mostly sure would hold his weight. A wicker light fixture on a chain hung down low, and centered under it was a napkin holder that was empty.
“I don’t keep a lot of food around,” she announced as she headed for the fridge. “Fortunately, I have four bottles of Miller Lite.”
She got two of them out and came over to him. After she handed him his, she twisted the top off the other one and took a long sip. Then another. As she sat down, he just wanted to stare at her, but considering he’d looked at her for most of the trip over here in that old Honda, it was probably better to play it cool.
Cool-er.
Cool… ish.
“So you’re telling me,” she said after she took another draw off the glass bottle, “that if I call dispatch, they’re going to report that a body at that address has been phoned in already.”
“Yup.”
“Do you people do that a lot around here?”
He shrugged and opened his beer. “It’s not the first time.”