Least Wanted (Sam McRae Mystery 2)

The October weather had taken an abrupt turn toward winter. Clouds scudded across the sky, plunging the landscape into patches of shadow and light. I counted a few cars but saw no sign of life. I assumed people were out hiking or biking the trails. The breeze kicked up, causing dry brown leaves to spring to life and rattle across the lot. Cracking the window for air, I sneezed. Leaf mold and the smoke from burning firewood tickled my nostrils.

At 12:20, Narsh pulled into the lot in a beat-up maroon compact. If he saw me, he never let on. I slumped in the seat. He backed into a spot across and a couple of spaces down from me

. Loud rap music thumped from the car.

Five minutes later, a late model Saturn, light-blue, crept up beside Narsh’s car, drivers’ sides facing each other like cop cars. I saw the Saturn’s window roll down and caught a glimpse of a doughy-faced guy with glasses. Narsh and he had a short, intense conversation, after which Narsh handed him a brown envelope. My view was somewhat obstructed, but I snapped a few pictures with my digital camera before the Saturn’s window closed.

Narsh left. As the Saturn backed out, I started my car. By the time the Saturn had turned onto Paint Branch, I was rolling. I followed the Saturn as he made a left at Kenilworth Avenue, reaching the intersection as the light turned yellow. Maintaining a distance of several car lengths between us, I followed the car up the ramp at the Greenbelt Road interchange and took a left, toward Beltway Plaza Mall.

The Saturn hung a right onto Cherrywood Lane and turned into a parking lot in the Spring Hill Lake apartment complex. I knew it well, having lived there as a student at the University of Maryland.

The car pulled into a spot. I kept an eye on it and cruised slowly past the lot’s entrance. Two guys got out—the driver, short and soft-looking, with long brown hair and black-rimmed glasses, and the passenger, tall and gaunt, with curly red hair and pale skin.

I pulled over, snapped a couple of shots and noted the building they entered. While waiting to see if anything else went down, I checked my office voice mail. Detective Willard had left a message. I called him.

“Yes, Ms. McRae,” he said, in his characteristic low rumble. “Detective Derry showed me that photo. I understand the man appears somewhere on the surveillance tape. Is that right?”

“That’s right,” I said. I told him what times Blondie had appeared on the tape. I also gave Willard a brief rundown on everything, including the hulk’s previous visits to Kozmik Games, the trip to Philadelphia to see Cooper and Cooper’s demise. As I spoke, I kept an eye on the building, in case one or both men decided to leave.

“Detective Derry mentioned to me that the man looked familiar,” I said. “Did he ever figure out who it was?”

“Yes, he did. Don Diezman. They called him ‘Diesel’ Don or just ‘Diesel’, when he played fullback for the Terps in the late ’80s. Was on the All-Met team in 1986. Had a shot at the pros, but he blew it by testing positive for steroids and getting busted for crack.”

Serves me right for not following college football, I thought. “Well, I wouldn’t want to be on the defensive line when he came through.”

“You might want to avoid him off the football field, if he has anything to do with Ms. Jones’s murder.”

* * * * *

I waited around, but neither of the guys came out, and I didn’t recognize anyone going in. If one left, I could follow him home. For all I knew, they could be roommates. Surveillance sucks. After about an hour, I had to piss like a Pimlico contender. When it looked like they weren’t going anywhere, I threw in the towel.

On the way home, I stopped for a bathroom break and picked up groceries. It was nearly quarter of five by the time I arrived at my apartment. There was a note on my door from FedEx, telling me I’d missed a delivery I had to sign for.

“Shit!” I said, stamping my foot. In all the excitement over the surveillance, I’d forgotten about the package from Alex Kramer. The note said there would be an attempt to redeliver on Monday. I groaned. Now I had to wait two more days to learn what Cooper had kept in that box.

When I walked in, I didn’t see Oscar. Usually he waited for me at the door, begging for dinner. As I lugged the bags into the kitchen, I spotted him crouching atop one of the cabinets.

“What’re you doing up there?” I asked, setting the bags on the floor and my purse on the counter.

“Staying outta my way, chickie-poo.”

I whirled around. There stood Blondie—aka Diesel Don. He peered at me, his face devoid of emotion. He stood at the entrance to the kitchen, blocking the path to the front door like the Berlin Wall.

When I’d found my voice, I asked, “How . . . how did you get in here?”

“Locks in these apartments are a goddamned joke, you know.” His tone was matter-of-fact, as if he were talking about the weather. “You really should ask the management for something better.”

I nodded, feeling stupid. He just looked at me. “We need to have a little talk. See, you’ve been asking too many questions. My employers get nervous when people do that.”

“Who employs you? I’ll try to stay out of their way.”

The hand came out of nowhere and slapped my head sideways. Then two hands shoved me back against the stove.

“Now that makes two things I don’t like about you,” he said. “You ask too many questions and you got a smart mouth.”

“I have to ask questions,” I gasped. “It’s part of my job.”

“And it’s part of my job to take care of people who ask too many questions.” He got in my face and glared at me with eyes as steely and lifeless as ball bearings. “So where does that leave us, chickie-poo?”