The Way You Look Tonight (16 page)

In less than ten minutes the receptionist looked at her brightly. ‘Ms Mitchell said she's ready to see you now. Back down the hall, third office on the right.'

Barbara tapped on the door before entering. Roberta sat behind a beautifully crafted walnut desk. An attractive black woman who looked much younger than her fifty years, she smiled broadly at Barbara and stood up. ‘Barbara Levine! I haven't seen you for over a year. Are you finally going to move out of that spartan apartment and into a decent house?'

‘I'm afraid not. At least not now.'

‘People like you make my business tough.'

‘From the looks of things, I'd say you're doing very well.'

‘I've had bad years, but I've always managed to stay afloat. Now, what can I do for you?'

‘I need some information.'

‘All right. Would you like some coffee first?'

‘I'd love some.'

As Roberta walked to an automatic coffee maker, Barbara admired her forest-green wool suit, brightened with a topaz silk scarf flung with expert carelessness around her neck. I could never wear a scarf like that with such aplomb, Barbara thought. The best I can manage is a pair of button earrings. ‘Cream? Sugar?' Roberta asked.

‘Cream.'

Roberta fixed the coffee and handed it to her in a gold-rimmed china cup. No styrofoam here, Barbara thought.

Roberta sat down on the edge of her desk. ‘Okay, what do you need to know?'

‘There's a house on Woodbine Court that used to be one of your listings. It's lovely – two-story, bay windows—'

‘The O'Donnell house,' Roberta said promptly.

‘Yes. I know the house was listed with you for almost three years, but your sign disappeared and the house isn't being shown any more. What's the story?'

‘Is this official business?'

‘No, but it's important to me and to a very close friend of mine who lives across the street from the house to find out something about it. I get the feeling something strange is going on over there.'

Roberta studied her. ‘I know you well enough to be sure you're not enquiring out of idle curiosity. And frankly, that house has troubled me lately, too.'

‘The house?'

‘Well, not the house. The inhabitant. Or rather, the supposed inhabitant.'

Barbara set her cup and saucer on the desk. ‘You know how to get someone's attention.'

Roberta smiled. ‘I already had your attention.'

‘So tell me what's going on.'

Roberta retreated behind her desk and sat down. ‘I was handling that house. About four months ago a man approached me wanting to rent it for six months. I told him it was for sale, not rent. He asked me to present his offer to the owners anyway. To my surprise, they accepted. Of course, the house had been on the market for quite a while, and I know the O'Donnells need the money, but one of the man's stipulations was that the house not be shown during his occupancy. I advised against the deal, but the O'Donnells insisted. So the house was rented in September.'

‘Roberta, there's no sign of anyone living in that house.'

‘I
know
. That's what troubles me. Who would rent a house like that and not live in it? It didn't go cheaply, I can tell you that.'

Barbara leaned forward. ‘What was the man's name.'

Roberta hesitated. ‘Edward J. King.'

‘Do you know what he does for a living?'

‘He said he was self-employed. I was dubious. I wanted to do a credit check on him, but when he paid the whole six months rent in
advance
, the O'Donnells were overjoyed and stopped me. They said he might end up buying the house and they didn't want him offended by a credit check.'

‘How could he be offended? Isn't a credit check just good business practise?'

‘Yes, but the O'Donnells aren't very savvy about business procedures. Actually, they remind me of two thirteen-year-olds.'

‘How did Edward King pay?'

‘With a check drawn on an account in a Charleston bank.' Roberta cocked her head. ‘Barbara, what's going on in that house? Is he using the place to deal drugs?'

‘If so, he's got a scanty clientele. My friend has never seen
anyone
around that house.'

‘Then what is it?'

‘An elderly lady who lives across the street and my friend's five-year-old daughter both saw something last night. From what they described, I think they saw someone on the second floor of that house.'

‘If it's Mr King, he has every right to be there.'

‘My friend's husband has been missing for a couple of days. Her little girl saw only what she says was a
thing
with big silver eyes. The old lady says she saw my friend's husband looking at her and he had glowing eyes.'

‘Are you trying to tell me a ghost story?'

‘No. I think they saw light reflecting off binoculars.'

Roberta leaned back in her chair. ‘Do you think it was the missing husband? Or did I simply rent the house to some pervert who's using it as an observatory?'

‘I have no idea, but I want to know about this Mr King. Tell me about him.'

Roberta looked disquieted. ‘I had a bad feeling about him. It wasn't anything he said or did, it was just this sense that there was something
wrong
about him. Have you ever had that feeling about someone?'

‘Many times. What did he look like?'

‘I remember him because I felt so uneasy around him for no apparent reason.' Roberta closed her eyes, concentrating. ‘He was tall, around six feet, and slender. He was dressed well but not expensively. He had dark brown hair, and a mustache. He wore glasses with dark-tinted lenses. I'd guess him to be in his late thirties or early forties. Nothing unusual.'

Barbara fumbled in her purse for a Polaroid photograph of her, Evan, Deborah, and Steve taken the previous summer. She held it out to Roberta. ‘Do you see Edward King here?'

Roberta held the picture under a desk lamp in her already bright office. She bit her lip. ‘I can't be sure, but with dark glasses, darker hair, and a mustache, it very well could be.'

One

Artie Lieber sat on the side of his bed, drawing a deep breath, holding it until he counted to ten, then releasing it. Long ago a doctor had told him this would help the hyperventilation he experienced in times of stress. He was feeling stress now. A
lot
of stress.

He'd been unable to stop himself from driving past the Robinson house again that morning, but the cops watching the place in an unmarked car parked in a driveway had spotted him. He knew they were cops. He could
smell
cops. The one on the passenger's side had sat up and peered closely at his car. He'd panicked, certain they were going to pull out and pursue him. It had been all he could do not to push his foot down on the accelerator and drive like hell. He'd controlled himself, though, maintaining fifteen miles an hour until he emerged from the cul-de-sac, but he couldn't control his eyes, which flashed continually to the rearview mirror. The cops hadn't followed, but in spite of the cold weather Artie was sweating profusely and huffing like a steam engine by the time he reached his shoddy hotel.

Well, that's it, he thought, taking his fifth deep breath. That was the third time he'd cruised slowly past the Robinson house since Steve's disappearance and they'd gotten suspicious. They were probably running a check on the car right now. They'd sure gotten a good look at the license plate. Of course, he'd switched it with another car's, but they'd figure the whole thing out soon enough. He'd left the old white Buick Regal in a parking lot four blocks away and knew he'd have to steal another car that night. That would be relatively easy. He couldn't believe the number of people who carelessly left the keys in their cars. But what if the cops had gotten a good look at him? He poured a shot of vodka and downed it. Well, what if they
had
seen him clearly? He'd grown a beard during the last month and he was wearing that stupid cap that came down over his ears. He'd never liked covering up his thick dark hair with hats of any kind, but this one had served a purpose in helping disguise him.

Still, today's encounter had been way too close, he thought, pouring another shot of vodka. He would have to curb the nearly irresistible impulse that drew him to the Robinson house. He'd been spying for a week, but it was time to stop. The cops were already looking for him – they had to be, now that Robinson was missing. He hadn't reported to his probation officer on Monday as scheduled, and he'd been spotted in Charleston. So he should go to the police, not let them find him. ‘I'll explain everything,' he told his reflection in the wavery mirror. ‘I'm a good liar – they'll believe me.' But as he stared into his own burning eyes, he knew he was kidding himself. He couldn't go to the police with some lame story about why he'd been in Charleston. And he couldn't leave. Not yet.

Two

The children were still playing in the basement when the doorbell rang. Deborah answered it and found Agent Wylie standing on the porch. She stiffened as his cool blue eyes bored into hers. ‘Mrs Robinson, I need to talk with you. May I come in?'

Wordlessly, Deborah stood back and motioned the FBI agent inside. As they entered the living room, Joe looked up from a magazine. ‘Wylie? What's up?'

‘I'd like to speak with Mrs Robinson alone.'

‘Mr Wylie, can't Joe stay?' Deborah asked, her nerves beginning to quiver. This could only mean bad news.

‘I'd rather he left.'

‘All right, Wylie,' Joe said, tossing down the magazine, his eyes rebellious. ‘Have it your way, but she'll tell me everything you've said as soon as you leave.'

‘That's up to her,' Wylie responded tonelessly.

He stood, intractable and unsmiling. Joe shrugged and left the room. Deborah sat down on the couch. ‘What's wrong, Mr Wylie? Have you found Steve?'

Wylie sat on a chair across from her. ‘No, but we've learned something important. We've searched your bank accounts.'

‘Our bank accounts?'

He nodded, withdrew a small notebook from his pocket and flipped it open. He glanced at it, then said, ‘You have one thousand and thirty-three dollars and forty-five cents in your checking account. Does that sound accurate?'

‘I don't know our balance to the dollar, but yes, it sounds about right. How is that important?'

‘It isn't.' He paused. ‘But this is. Your savings account reads “Steven J. Robinson
or
Deborah A. Robinson”. The
or
instead of an
and
means you don't need both signatures to make a withdrawal.'

‘I know that,' Deborah said, fighting for patience. ‘What's your point?'

‘My point is that as of closing time on Friday the account balance was seven thousand and twenty-three dollars and fifty-one cents.' He looked at her. ‘On Saturday your husband withdrew six thousand dollars.'

Deborah stared at him. ‘Six
thousand
?'

‘That's right.'

‘It
can't
be right.'

‘I'm afraid it is. Didn't you know anything about the withdrawal?'

‘No,' she said faintly.

‘So it wasn't for home repair or anything of that nature?'

‘No. We were going to remodel the storeroom this summer, but we didn't have any other jobs planned, especially at this time of year.' Deborah let the significance of Wylie's announcement sink in, but asked anyway, ‘What can this mean?'

‘It appears your husband withdrew the money because he needed a lot of cash in a hurry.'

‘And you think it was to escape.'

‘That's what it looks like.'

Deborah twisted her wedding ring, not glancing at Wylie although she felt him watching her closely. ‘I don't care what it looks like. That's not why he withdrew the money.'

‘Then why? He didn't vanish until Sunday. Why didn't he tell you about the withdrawal? Or did he routinely keep financial matters to himself?'

‘Sometimes.' Wylie's eyes were fastened on her, and she remembered Joe telling her not to reveal any doubts she had about Steve in front of the FBI. ‘What I mean is, he didn't account to me for every dollar he spent. But any sizable expenditure we discussed. I don't know why he didn't tell me about withdrawing the money. All I know is that he must have had a good reason, and it
wasn't
to help him run away. My husband wouldn't do such a thing.'

‘You're sure about that.'

‘Absolutely.'

Wylie closed his notebook. ‘Well, at least you know you have six thousand dollars less to live on than you thought.'

Deborah couldn't tell if he was being flippant or if this was another ploy to gauge her reaction. ‘We'll manage,' she said shortly. ‘We'll manage until Steve gets home.'

After Agent Wylie left, Deborah stood in the front hall, shaken and worried. She'd adamantly told the FBI agent that her husband would not empty a bank account and run. But until last night, she would never have believed he would allow a teenaged girl to lie in order to provide him with an alibi. Now she wondered if she could be sure of anything her husband of seven years would or would not do.

Three

‘I have a secret,' Kim announced as Deborah buttoned her pajama top.

‘Are you going to tell me what it is?' Deborah asked.

‘Nope.'

Brian looked sulky. ‘She won't even tell me.'

‘Can you give me a hint, honey?' Deborah persisted absently as she poured cough syrup into a teaspoon.

‘I hate that stuff,' Kim said. ‘Brian doesn't have to take it.'

‘Brian doesn't have a cough.' Kim swallowed the dose of syrup and grimaced ferociously.

‘Oh, come on, Kimberly. It isn't that bad.'

‘Is too.'

‘Make her tell the secret,' Brian said.

‘If Kim has a secret, we'll just let her keep it.'

Kimberly looked disappointed. ‘I might tell tomorrow.'

Deborah winked at Brian. ‘Suit yourself,' she said nonchalantly.

‘It's a good secret,' Kim insisted as she got into bed and Deborah pulled the blanket up to her chin. ‘A
real
good secret.'

‘I'm sure it is, honey.' She kissed Kim on the forehead and watched Brian climb the ladder to the top bunk. He'd decided two months ago he was too old for kisses, so humoring him, Deborah merely ruffled his hair. ‘I'm going to leave the door open again tonight so I can hear Kim if she starts coughing. Now you get a good night's sleep.' She looked at Scarlett settling on to her dog bed. ‘All three of you.'

When she came downstairs, she found Joe opening the door for Evan and Barbara. ‘I saw you pulling up,' he said.

Barbara shrugged out of her coat. ‘We meant to get here sooner, but we went out to eat and the service was incredibly slow. Evan wanted to leave the restaurant.'

Deborah noticed that Evan looked tired and irritable, a crease fixed between his eyebrows. She wondered how much of his bad humor was caused by Barbara spending so much time away from him.

‘Any news today?' he asked as Deborah ushered everyone into the living room.

She and Joe exchanged a look. ‘Yes, there was. Agent Wylie from the FBI was here. It seems that on Saturday morning Steve withdrew six thousand dollars from our bank account. He nearly wiped it out.'

‘Oh my God,' Barbara breathed. ‘That's terrible! It looks like he took the money so he could run.'

‘That's what Wylie said. And I'm not sure he believes I knew nothing about it. Maybe it would have been better for Steve if I'd lied and said I did know about it – that he spent the money on something.'

‘No, you shouldn't have lied,' Evan said vehemently. ‘Wylie would want to know what it was spent on, and then you'd trip on another lie and make things look even worse. But that doesn't mean Steve
didn't
withdraw the money for something besides an escape.'

‘Such as?' Joe asked.

‘Such as an extravagant Christmas present.'

‘On the Sunday before he vanished he said he couldn't go to the mall with us because he had to attend to a surprise for Christmas,' Deborah told him. ‘But I didn't believe him then and I still don't. It was an excuse. And I can guarantee you, Evan, he didn't spend almost our entire savings account on a Christmas gift. What else is there?'

‘Maybe he decided to pay off his car.'

‘At a time when he's got more trouble coming at him than he can handle, including a possible lawyer's fee if he's arrested and indicted, he decides to pay off his
car
?' Joe asked incredulously. ‘I don't think so.'

Evan shot him a scalding look, but acquiesced to Joe's logic with a curt nod. ‘Deborah, can you think of
anything
else he might have used the money for?'

‘No. Absolutely nothing.'

‘Damn,' Evan muttered. ‘This
is
bad. Really bad.'

After a moment of silence, Barbara said slowly, ‘As much as I hate to suggest it, maybe he did run. Maybe the enormity of all this just got to him and he bolted.'

‘A couple of days ago I would have told you that was impossible,' Deborah said. ‘Now I don't know.'

Someone knocked lightly on the front door. Deborah answered. Pete Griffin stood in the front porch with grocery bags in both arms. ‘I didn't ring the bell because I thought the children might be asleep. But I saw how you were scrambling around for refreshments last night and I realized in all the turmoil of the last few days you probably hadn't gotten a chance to go to the grocery store, so I brought you some supplies.'

‘Oh, Pete, that was so sweet of you!' Deborah exclaimed.

‘There's more in the car. Maybe Joe could help me.'

‘I'm on my way,' Joe said, pulling on his jacket.

Fifteen minutes later, after Deborah had put away five bags of groceries, smiling when she saw that Pete had included herbal tea and artificial sweetner, she joined the others in the living room. Barbara was telling Pete about Mrs Dillman.

‘Good lord, who would do such a thing to an elderly lady?' Pete exclaimed. ‘When I think of someone hurting my grandmother that way, I feel sick. Is she conscious yet?'

‘Not as of two hours ago,' Deborah said. ‘She may never regain consciousness, Pete. The doctor didn't seem to hold out much hope for her.'

Pete frowned. ‘So she won't be able to say who attacked her.'

‘Well, even if she
does
regain consciousness, she may not be able to tell us much. Her mind isn't very clear. Last night she was convinced Steve was spying on her and he wasn't standing on the ground.'

‘She may not have been wrong, at least about someone spying but not standing on the ground,' Barbara said excitedly. ‘I couldn't get what she and Kimberly both claimed to have seen out of my mind. And then it came to me. The person watching them
wasn't
on the ground. They saw him from a second-story window.'

‘We thought of that, but no window in this house looks into Mrs Dillman's bedroom,' Deborah said.

‘Not
this
house. The O'Donnell house. It's two stories, directly across the street from Mrs Dillman's, and you said Mrs Dillman's bedroom is at the front of the house, just like Kim and Brian's is at the front of yours. An upstairs window in the O'Donnell house would have a direct view into Mrs Dillman's bedroom. The view would be at more of a slant into Kim and Brian's bedroom. Binoculars could have reflected the glow of a street light, which made the lenses look like two big silver eyes.'

‘But that house is vacant,' Deborah argued.

‘Wrong. I did some checking today. You mentioned to me that the real estate sign had vanished from the lawn some time ago. I know the woman who owns the real estate firm that was handling the house and I went to see her today. She said the owners were desperate and decided to rent the house. The sign was taken down four months ago because the house was leased for six months to a man named Edward King.'