Part 27 (2/2)
The following morning I went to Avis and then drove out 441 again and cruised past the house. Parked fifty yards down the street in a cul-de-sac by the sand trap was an Orange Meadow Estates Security patrol car with two men in the front seat. They wore gun- metal-gray uniforms with red piping on the epaulets. They were looking for the white Chevy I'd driven the morning before. But I had traded it in for a maroon Toyota.
Wherever he went now, he'd be looking for me. He might even see me if I wasn't there.
Just games. The kind that grown men seldom play unless they're desperate.
A plaque on her desk said: SUZANNE BYERS. I walked in from the heat of University Boulevard, wiped my forehead with a sigh of grat.i.tude for the cool indoor air, sat down at her desk, and said, ”Ms. Byers, my name is Ted Klauber. I'm a psychologist from Jacksonville. I'm about to relocate here in the Gainesville area, and I'm looking for a house to buy. I hoped you could help me.”
”You've come to the right place, Mr. Klauber,” she said cheerfully.
A few minutes later she got around to asking me why I'd come to this office and why I'd selected her.
”Impulse,” I said. ”I saw you from the street, from my car, and I said to myself, why not Suzanne? She needs the business as well as anyone else who was recommended to me. And here I am.”
It was false enough to put her on her guard and make her doubt me just a little, which is what I wanted. But of course she had to treat me like a potential customer. I showed enthusiasm, my shoes were s.h.i.+ned, and I had an air of affluence. The recession had created a soft market in real estate.
Before we reached the first house I had told her the story of my life, some of it based on truth and-despite my mother's admonition that if you don't lie you never have to remember what you've said- some of it whatever popped into my mind. She also told a version of her life story: born in Michigan, secretarial school, marriage, later became a computer programmer, divorced and moved south to Florida ten years ago.
”No children?”
”Two. They're grown. Both graduated FSU.”
”That's hard to believe. What's your secret, Suzanne?”
She smiled with satisfaction.
”Ah! There's a man in your life,” I said.
”Yes, as a matter of fact, there is.”
”Let me see if I can guess. He's in his early fifties. He's virile, naturally. Independent. Not rich but reasonably well off. Divorced, no children.”
”That's very good!” she exclaimed.
”Thank you.”
”Have you been spying on me?”
”Tell me about him,” I said.
”Well, Ted, I'm not sure I want to. Or ought to.”
It occurred to me then that she thought I was making a covert pa.s.s at her.
”There's a woman in my life too,” I said. ”She does colonic irrigation and iridology in Jacksonville. She's an ex-cop.”
”An ex-cop? Really? That's funny.”
”Why? Is your boyfriend an ex-cop too?”
”Yes. And also from Jacksonville. He was in the Homicide Division.”
”How about that? So was my girlfriend. Maybe your friend knows her.”
”He was there a long time ago.”
”What's his name?”
”Floyd,” she said, and she glanced quickly at me-she was behind the wheel of her Cherokee and trying to find a house number-to see my expression.
”That's his first name or last name?”
”Floyd is his last name.”
Good. I was bothering her. ”What's he do now?” I asked.
”I don't really think I should tell you.”
”Cops usually go into private security work,” I said.
”Do they?”
”Yes, they do. If they get lucky.”
We visited two more houses, and I told Suzanne Byers they weren't quite right. One was too large, the other too small. ”I'll call you in a few days. Maybe between now and then you'll dig up what I'm looking for.”
”Where are you staying, Ted?”
”I haven't decided yet.”
”You'll be here awhile?”
”A few more days. I'll call you.”
I was at the University Motel on University Boulevard, under my own name. Not hard to find, if you were a well-connected ex-cop and had a good reason to hunt. Suzanne would give him one. And a description of me.
He was well connected, and he was quick.
That evening I left my motel room and drove to a steak house on the edge of town, where I ate a filet mignon and a baked potato with sour cream. After dinner I drove past the condo where Suzanne Byers lived. That hadn't been difficult to locate; she was in the telephone book. When I came opposite her unit I slowed as if I were scanning the windows for signs of occupancy. I had no idea whether she was there or not, and I didn't care.
I headed south on 441 to Orange Meadow Estates.
That night at Orange Meadow there was no security patrol car parked in front of Floyd Nickerson's home. But there was a Volvo curving through the streets behind me at a varying distance. I'd thought so when I left the motel, but I wasn't sure until now.
The Volvo speeded up, pa.s.sed me, then swerved to cut me off. I touched the brakes.
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