Unexpected Outcome. Dawn Stewardson
stairs and waited, not breathing, until the sounds reached the bottom. Then he strode to the end of the hall and did his best to look surprised when he saw her.
“Working late your first day?” he said.
She smiled. “Trying to impress people.”
Opening the door, he ushered her ahead of him, saying, “Which way do you go?”
“North.”
“Ah, me, too.”
“Oh?”
“I’m not on my way home,” he quickly added, remembering he’d told her where he lived. And Murray Hill was more east than north.
“But why don’t I give you a ride. My car’s parked just behind the building.”
“Well, thanks, but I’d rather walk.” She pointed to the sneakers she’d changed into. “I’m all set.”
He nodded. “You’re sure I can’t tempt you, though? It’s still awfully hot.”
“Even so, walking’s the only exercise I get.”
“Ah. Then I guess I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“I guess.” She gave him another smile before heading down the street, leaving him muttering.
Now what did he do? Follow her?
He wasn’t a man who did that, either. And when the idea had occurred to him, earlier, he’d rejected it. But how else was he going to find out what he wanted to know?
He took a few steps toward the narrow passage that led back to the alley—then stopped.
It was rush hour. She’d be walking faster than the traffic was moving.
On the other hand, his car had air, he was wearing a suit and the temperature had to be in the nineties.
But the bottom line was that he didn’t want to lose her. So he removed his jacket, slung it over his shoulder and started off after her on foot.
CHAPTER FIVE
THE FRIEND DANA HAD SUBLET her apartment from always used to describe the building as old but well maintained.
It was a phrase she recalled every time she was standing on the front steps, unable to get the door unlocked on the first try. Or the second.
Not that this was a bad building. Its Chelsea location allowed her to walk just about everywhere. And with only three stories, it was small enough that her neighbors weren’t just anonymous faces. Most of them were even pleasant.
But no matter how many times the super “worked his magic,” as he liked to put it, this lock began acting up again after only a week or two.
If a mugger ever came along while she was struggling with it…
The thought prompted her to carefully scan the street.
The cars that were parked nose-to-bumper along the curb all seemed empty. There were a couple of men carrying briefcases, on their way home from work, a woman walking an oversize dog, and the resident dealer slouched against the building two down from hers, talking on a cell phone while he waited for his next customer.
Nothing at all out of the ordinary, which meant her intuition must be playing tricks.
Twice, on the way home, it had warned her to look back the way she’d come. But when she had, she hadn’t spotted anyone following her.
So what had given her the creepy feeling that someone was?
She’d probably never know, and there wasn’t much use in worrying about it when she had a more pressing concern.
She eased the key into its slot once more, thinking how ironic it was that she now had both a door at Four Corners she couldn’t lock and one at home she couldn’t unlock.
She gave the key a little jiggle before turning it this time, and voilà! Her effort was rewarded with a solid click.
Once in the foyer, she carefully closed the door behind her. Then she passed by the elevator, which was too unreliable to be trusted, and climbed the stairs to her third-floor apartment.
Inside, Dr. Watson greeted her with his customary enthusiasm, meowing loudly while trying to wrap his body entirely around her ankles.
“Hi, Doc,” she said, sliding the dead bolts before setting down her briefcase and picking him up for a cuddle.
The cat, and his name, had come courtesy of her father. One winter night, he and his partner had been checking out a possible break-in on Delancey. They’d returned to the squad car to find Dr. Watson huddled near it, a half-starved kitten that would have lost his ears to frostbite if they hadn’t taken him straight to a twenty-four-hour veterinary clinic.
That had been only a few weeks after she’d gotten her P.I. license, and her father had brought Doc straight from the clinic to her, saying that since she’d decided she wanted to be Sherlock Holmes she’d better have a Dr. Watson.
“We’ll do dinner in a while,” she assured him, putting him back down. “It’s early yet.
“Fish Delight. Worth waiting for,” she promised as he impatiently twitched his tail.
When she headed into the bedroom, both answering machine lights were blinking. She looked at the caller ID display on the Dana Mayfield, OD consultant, line first.
One call, and it had come from Four Corners. Someone there had been checking up on her.
Feeling a little unsettled, she pressed the play button. There was no message, just a hang up. But somebody was clearly suspicious—at the very least. And the obvious suspect was her note writer.
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