What an incredible night, Ben thought, driving away. His headlights flashed on the front porch, and Ben saw someone standing in a dark corner beside the door. He looked in his rearview mirror. He couldn’t see anyone. A trick of the light? If not, how long had the person been there? Is that who Brancusci saw?
He turned his car around and flashed his brights on the front of the house. There was no one there, now.
Ben made a U-turn and headed home. He rolled up the car window, trying to shake off a distinct chill.
PART THREE
If Bees Are Few
33
“SUCCESS!” CHRISTINA ANNOUNCED. SHE held her yellow legal pad over her head triumphantly. “We’re lucky the entry on that ledger was for such an odd amount. If it had been an even four or five hundred, I’d have a thousand possible locations for you. As it is, I have one.”
“One what?” Ben asked, looking up from the brief he was writing.
“One apartment. Well, two floors of an apartment complex, to be exact. The Malador Apartments, the tall round building just south of downtown. They have three sizes of apartments—efficiencies, one-bedrooms, and two-bedrooms. And the monthly rent for a one-bedroom apartment is—yes, you guessed it—exactly four hundred and seventeen dollars and forty-six cents, tax and bills included.”
“Incredible!” Ben said. “You’re a gem and a half, Christina.”
“Well, yes,” she said, fluttering her eyelids.
“I suppose we can’t be certain the payment was for an apartment rental. Even if Brancusci is right about it being some kind of real estate payment, it might be for a private home or even undeveloped real estate.”
“I don’t think so. If Sanguine was setting up some kind of pied-à-terre on the sly, he’d want as much anonymity as possible. An apartment complex would be ideal. He could send one of his many minions over to rent the place, then just drop the rent check in the mail once a month. But the pièce de résistance is the amount of the monthly rental, Ben. It’s an exact match.”
“That’s got to be it,” Ben said. “At any rate, it’s definitely our best lead. Let’s go.”
Ben and Christina sat in the front seat of Ben’s Honda, parked halfway down the street from the Malador apartment building. On the way, they had stopped at Christina’s apartment so she could change into less eye-catching clothes. An ordinary blue jeans skirt and a white blouse. No leotards.
Ben filled her in on everything he had learned during his last visit to Sanguine. She particularly enjoyed the news about the new double-duty locks on the front doors of the office building. Once Christina was up-to-date, they began to plan their strategic assault on the Malador Apartments.
“Why me?” Christina exclaimed. “I thought we were a team.”
“We are a team, but it’s your turn to run with the ball. It will seem more credible coming from a woman. And besides, I have to stay free for the follow-up. I can’t do that if they’ve already seen me claiming to be a pollster.” He ran through his mental checklist to see if he could come up with any more excuses. “And what if I got caught? I could be disbarred. Legal assistants can’t be disbarred.”
“No, but we can be fired, imprisoned, ridiculed, and impoverished.” She took the clipboard from the backseat. “Yes, I can see it now. It is better that I go.”
Ben smiled.
Christina brushed her golden-red hair away from her face. “Maybe I should change clothes again.”
“Stop stalling. You look fine. Very professional. Just tell them you’re with the city of Tulsa. You’re taking a survey of apartment dwellers on behalf of the Chamber of Commerce in order to formulate plans for a large-scale downtown renovation project lah-dee-dah-dee-dah.” He paused. “And Christina. Lay off the French.”
“Got it,” she said. She pushed open the car door, then stopped. “Shouldn’t I have a badge or ID?”
“Will you get out of here already?” Ben shoved her out of the car. “Don’t worry, you’ll be great.”
“Great,” she muttered, closing the car door. “You’d better be damned appreciative when this is over.”
“I will be. Honest.”
“Hmmmph.” Christina rearranged her clothes, placed the clipboard under her arm, and began marching down the street.
“Why do I agree to do these things?” Christina muttered to herself as she rode the elevator to the seventh floor. I’m a thirtysomething adult divorcée, not a stupid college kid. I’m too old and too smart to be playing cops and robbers. As if breaking and entering and nearly being caught wasn’t enough. As if I didn’t do him any favors in that sleazoid bar where we both could’ve been killed.
The elevator doors parted. Christina canceled her interior monologue and tried to concentrate on the task at hand. She stared at the door to apartment 701. Well, she thought, I suppose this beats doing document productions in Shreveport.
Almost immediately after she knocked, the door swung open. A short, wide man in a white T-shirt bearing the logo of a domestic beer company stood beyond the portal. He shamelessly surveyed Christina from top to bottom.
“Yeah?” he grunted.
Christina felt a flush of heat rush through her body. “Hello, sir. My name is Christina Crockett and I’m with the City of Commerce taking a survey for the Chamber of Horrors. I mean—” Christina’s hand passed across her forehead. “Oh, God, let me try that again.”
The man in the doorway stared at her. He took one hand off the doorjamb and rubbed his stubbled chin.
“You know it’s always harder to pick up again after lunch,” Christina said. “I’ve got to stop eating Mexican.” She laughed self-consciously. God, what a nightmare.
“I wouldn’t know,” the man said. “I work nights. After work, I usually just grab a coupla beers and crash.”
“Oh, really,” Christina said, scribbling meaningless shapes on her clipboard. “That’s very interesting. What kind of work are you in?”
“Security watchman over at the Williams Center. For now, anyway. It’s not what I really wanna do, but times are kinda tough. What’s it to you?”
Christina smiled reassuringly. “Just something I need to know for this survey. Tell me, do you live alone?”
He snorted. “Don’t I wish. Yeah, other than my wife, three brats, and a brother-in-law—yeah, I live alone.”
“I see, I see.” More furious scribbling on her clipboard.
“I tell you what, Miz Crock, or whatever, none of ’em gonna be home for at least an hour. You wanna step in for a bit?” His eyebrows danced suspiciously. “I got some beer in the fridge.”
“Oh, I don’t think so.”
“I could get some grass, if you’re into that.”
More self-conscious laughter. “Oh, thanks, thanks, but no …” You’ll pay for this, Ben, she swore silently. “Now, I’m going to read you a list of major businesses headquartered in the Tulsa area, and in order to gauge the effectiveness of their promotional campaigns, I’d like you to tell me if you’re familiar with them. All right, how about … uh …” Come on, Christina, she thought, don’t blank out now. “Uh…the Williams Companies?”
“I said, I work at the Williams Center. You think I’m some kinda moron?”
“Oh, no, no. Far be it for me … How about the Bama Pie Company?”
“They make those little bitty pecan pies, right? I like those. Damn wife never brings those home anymore. Moron wife.”