Five minutes later, we were back on the street.
"Any nibbles?" I asked.
"Hard to say. Seemed sympathetic."
"How could he not be? I knew what you were doing and I still felt bad for you. A perfect play. The right pitch. The right tone. Just an ordinary guy who loves his wife and wants her to be happy. If Soukis is involved, I bet you'll be getting a call."
"Doesn't matter. Just a side play. Main point – "
" – was getting an inside view of the setup and security. The biggest obstacle will be getting through that street-level door, where anyone can see us breaking in. The only windows are up front, and the fire escape is there, which is just as risky – if not more so – than coming through the front door. But we'll come up with something, and after that door is open, it'll be a cakewalk. I'll give you the details over dinner."
I swung around the corner, my fingers grazing the streetlamp. "I was thinking steak before our stakeout, if that's still something you like."
"Always"
"Good. I saw a place a few blocks over. We should probably drive, with your foot – "
"I'm fine. Warm enough. We'll walk."
I nattered on about Jack's great performance for the first block before stopping myself. "Sorry. I really don't need any more sugar today, do I?"
"Things are going well. You're happy. Nothing wrong with that."
"Thanks. Oh, and for a more tangible thank-you, I picked up something at the mall."
From my purse, I pulled a pack of his special brand of cigarettes. His eyes lit up, probably the same way mine had when he'd handed me candy this morning.
He reached for it.
"Not so fast," I said. "It comes with a price. You'll get them after the stakeout, and I'll get a story. You still haven't told me how you hurt your foot."
He nodded, gaze swinging to look down the road. My cheeks heated and I thrust the package at him. "I'm kidding. Like I said, it's a thank-you for – "
He didn't take it. "I'll tell you. Said I would."
"You don't have to if it's – "
"Tonight. After the stakeout. Cigarette and a story. Gotta warn you, though. Not very interesting. Just damned stupid. And embarrassing."
"Those are the best kind. If even you can screw up now and then, there's still hope for me."
Chapter Thirty-five
We had a great dinner. Jack once told me that growing up he'd dreamed of being rich enough someday to have steak every night. He'd tried it, following his first job, and gave up after a few weeks, but a steak house is still his restaurant of choice.
So finding one was a way to put him into a good mood, relaxed, even voluble… or what passed for voluble with Jack. After a quick rundown of the security – couched in terms appropriate for a public setting – conversation turned to the more personal… or what passed for personal with Jack. He told me a story about an old job – also modified for the setting and containing no information to identify the target, location, or even time period, but entertaining nonetheless.
We had dessert at a patisserie three doors from the coffee shop where we'd staked out the Byrony Agency. We went in at 10:30 p.m., which seemed late for dessert, but I'd noticed earlier that the place was open until midnight, presumably to catch the postshow crowd from the theater down the road. Before the show got out, the place was nearly empty, and we easily got a window seat.
I ordered a chocolate torte. Jack got apple pie. I teased him about that – faced with a display of elaborate desserts, he picked something he could have any night at the lodge. When it arrived, he seemed a little annoyed by the attempts to fancy it up with caramel crackles, whipped cream, and chocolate drizzles. After a few bites, he pronounced it decent enough, but not as good as Emma's… and he left the broken crackles and blob of cream on the side.
As the shop started to fill with the theater crowd, two women entered the Byrony Agency. Cleaning staff. By 11:45, as we were settling the bill, they were already leaving, being either superefficient or figuring, with the empty office, no one would know how long they'd stayed.
We took our time. The staff, unlike the cleaners, seemed in no rush to get home, and when we left at 12:10, they'd done no more than dim the lights as a subtle hint to the remaining diners.
As I stepped onto the sidewalk, my gaze scanned the opposite side of the street. Dark and quiet.
"Fuck."
I followed Jack's glare to a homeless guy on the coffee shop steps.
"He's just catching the stragglers from the show," I murmured. "When the shop clears and closes, he'll leave. We can't move until then anyway."
We tucked ourselves into an alley. Twenty minutes later, the last of the dessert shop staff locked the door, the click echoing. Through the reflection in a store window, I watched the homeless man stand, stretch… then retreat farther into the alcove and curl up in its shadows.
"Fuck," I said.
Jack grunted his agreement.
We waited, hoping he was just resting or that a passing cop would roust him. But the man stayed in his corner, the sidewalk stayed empty, and the street saw a car only every few minutes.
"If he's asleep, maybe we can…" I shook my head. We couldn't risk it.
We waited until a distant church bell rang twice, and my nose and toes had gone numb. Then Jack shook his head and motioned me toward the car. We weren't getting into the Byrony Agency tonight.
"Three hours to Evelyn's," Jack said as we climbed in. "This time of night? Probably less."
"You don't need to come up with distractions for me, Jack. Yes, I'm disappointed, but we knew this wouldn't be an easy break-in. We'll try again tomorrow night, with backup plans for dealing with the guy, if that's his regular spot. If we're lucky, we'll have Quinn. I'm sure he can play cop and send him on his way."
"Wasn't a distraction. Just saving time. Getting it over with. Unless you're tired…"
"Even if I was, I don't think I'd sleep."
"Good." He opened the door and got out. "Take first shift. Head to 94 west."
There was no rush so we stopped for washroom breaks, leg stretches, and coffee runs, taking turns at the wheel. I'll admit I'd hoped one of those stops would be a cigarette break, so I could hear Jack's story. I wasn't as interested in knowing how he'd broken his foot as in the simple fact of his telling me, trusting me enough to share a story that was, as he said, embarrassing. But he didn't suggest it, and I started to feel a little silly about our deal, maybe even rude, asking for a personal story before I gave him the cigarettes. So at the last driver switch, thirty minutes from Fort Wayne, I opened the hatch and slid the pack from my bag to his.
We arrived at Evelyn's just before six. Jack parked at the usual strip mall around the corner. If it seemed like we'd stay longer than a couple of hours, he'd move the car to her garage.
As we climbed her steps, I asked what time she expected us.
"Doesn't."
"She doesn't know we're coming? We're showing up, unannounced, on her doorstep at six in the morning? That's not very nice."
"Yeah."
I laughed. He knocked, then waited ten seconds and knocked again.
After another minute came the faint sound of footsteps on the stairs. Now she needed to check who it was. There wasn't a peephole. In this neighborhood, populated with upper-middle-class retirees, I'm sure there were lots of peepholes. But Evelyn would never get one installed for fear she'd be mistaken for something a lot worse than a cautious retired criminaclass="underline" a nervous little old lady. And, besides, peepholes? This was the twenty-first century. For Evelyn, nothing short of a wireless, motion-detecting, autotracking closed-circuit camera would do.
Locks sounded. I counted off all three, then waited for a sharp command to the dogs. It came, followed by the scrabble of their claws on the stairs as they headed back up to bed.