by Rebecca York
He cursed silently as her posture stiffened. “The way that driver was heading for you, it’s hard to believe it was an accident. Is there someone who has a grudge against you?”
She looked startled. “Of course not. At least I don’t think so.”
“Nothing like this has happened to you before?”
“Well, not like that.” She sighed. “When you first start traveling on your own with a cane, your judgment isn’t all that good. A couple of times I stepped off the curb when a car was turning. But the driver always hit the brakes. He didn’t try to run me down.”
“When was that?”
“A long time ago. I was in my teens.” She paused before going on quickly, and he saw her fists bunch in her lap. “I was blinded in an automobile accident. So I had to play catch-up to learn the skills most blind kids are taught in elementary school. I was at a rehab center in Colorado for six months before I went to college.”
“Oh.” He answered her recitation with a noncommittal syllable. She’d given him the perfect opportunity to say he already knew about the accident that had blinded her. But the deadened tone of her voice stopped him cold.
He started the engine.
She looked startled. “Where are we going?”
“Across the street.” He made a slow U-turn and brought them directly in front of the ramp leading to the building’s entrance.
“We’re right at the front door,” he told her.
She nodded gravely, then switched the subject. “Did you get a look at the driver of the truck?”
“No. I’m sorry. If I had to give any kind of detailed testimony, I’d make a lousy witness.” He cleared his throat. “I was focused on you, not him. By the time I looked up, all I saw was the back of his head.”
“But you think it was a man.”
“No. I was only making an assumption. You don’t usually see a woman driving a pickup.”
“Yes.” She raised her eyes to his, and it was hard not to believe with utter conviction that she was focusing on him.
After a moment she said, “Thank you again for what you did.”
“Sure,” he answered, as if he threw himself into the path of speeding trucks every day.
She snapped open the glass of her watch and ran her fingertips lightly over the face. “It’s late. I’ve really got to run.”
Again she opened the car door and stepped out. Only this time she didn’t have to cross the street. All she had to do was walk a few steps along the sidewalk and climb the ramp to the building entrance. At the top, she turned and gave him a cocky little wave. He waved back before he realized that, of course, she couldn’t see him. Then she was gone.
IT WOULD LOOK pretty stupid if she’d been waving to empty air, Jenny thought as she stepped into the paneled lobby. But she’d known Brisco was still there because she hadn’t heard the car pull away. And if he were there, he would have been watching her.
She wasn’t relying on some extraordinary sixth sense that had miraculously taken over for her lack of vision. That was the kind of romanticized claptrap blind people had to fight all the time. But she had plenty of reasons to believe that Ben Brisco would have been watching her with unnerving intensity.
For starters, he was a cop. He would have been watching to make sure nothing else happened to her.
She drew in a shaky breath and let it out slowly. Only Ben’s quick thinking—and his bravery—had saved her. She hadn’t been exaggerating when she’d said he’d risked his life to snatch her out of the truck’s path. The only thing she’d been able to do afterward was cling to him. She’d had the right to be afraid. But not dependent, ineffective, clinging. All the things she’d vowed she wasn’t going to be. Perhaps the worst part was that while she’d been in Detective Brisco’s arms, she’d been content to stay there as long as he wanted to hold her. Her only consolation was that she probably wouldn’t be seeing him again. So she wouldn’t have another chance to make a fool of herself.
“Jenny, what’s wrong?”
She recognized the voice of Shelly Lipman, one of the federation’s lawyers. On any other day Jenny would not have felt at a disadvantage with the sighted woman. Today she was upset that Shelly had reacted to her facial expression when she hadn’t even known she was being observed.
“I’m fine,” she answered automatically.
“You look upset.”
She shrugged and prepared to deny the obvious. One of her rules was not to complain about the little things that made her day difficult—or to let people know when she was hurting. But in this instance she thought better of the prevarication. The truck was hardly a little thing. What if someone really was out on the streets trying to run down the blind—or people in wheelchairs, for that matter? If she kept quiet and somebody got hurt, she’d feel terrible.
“I had a narrow brush with a speeding truck,” Jenny allowed.
“Oh, my…are you all right?” Shelly asked.
“Just a little bit shaken up. A good Samaritan got me out of the street in time.” She decided not to explain that he was a policeman in the middle of a murder investigation. “He, uh, said the truck looked like it was deliberately trying to mow me down. You don’t know of anyone else who’s had problems like that, do you?”
“My gosh, no.”
“Well, I don’t want to alarm anyone, but if we hear about any other incidents near the building, maybe we’d better put a warning in the newsletter.”
Shelly wanted more details but Jenny adroitly sidestepped her questions. “I’ve got an appointment.” And with that she entered the waiting elevator.
AT LEAST THERE was no one around to hear him cursing, Ben thought as he stared at the blank monitor. It stared blandly back—except for a blinking cursor. So much for his bravura offer to help Diangelo with the Blaisdell woman’s computer.
In the past hour and a half all he’d done was turn on the machine and get a C prompt. He couldn’t even find a reference manual though there was some kind of bizarre helmet on the desk.
At the rear of the processor he found a metal tag with a serial number. Another plate identified the processor as a Beta test model being developed by Randolph Electronics. He called the number listed there, but the message said the technician in charge of the project was out sick. Emergency questions would be answered if the caller left a name and number. Ben complied, giving his pager, station house and home numbers and ending by stating that his business was urgent.
Then he went out to interview the other woman on the list he’d split with Diangelo. Like Jenny, Sue was horrified to learn about the murder, but had no information for him. Apparently Jenny was the only friend to whom Ms. Blaisdell had confided her computer-dating intentions.
Was Jenny dating anyone? he wondered as he walked away from yet another row house in Duke Wakefield’s neighborhood where nobody appeared to be at home. The question brought him up short, and he stopped beside a scraggly sycamore tree. Pulling off a strip of the loose bark, he crumpled it in his hand the way he’d done when he was a kid. Before this morning he hadn’t consciously thought about Jenny in years. Now she was becoming an obsession. A strange twist of fate had once again thrown her into his path. As a policeman, he’d developed a healthy respect for fate. Take the case he’d investigated six months ago, when a gunman had been shooting in a crowded mall. An old man had been killed by a random bullet. The father of three standing next to him had been untouched. It had nothing to do with whether either one of them was good or bad, rich or poor, old or young. Or whether one of them deserved to live and one to die. It was simply a random toss of the dice. And good luck for the young father.
Another toss had landed Jenny back in his life. Could you call that good luck? All he knew was that he didn’t want to let her slip away from him again—whether he deserved her or not, he added silently. But he’d have to come up with a good excuse if he wanted to interview her again. And then what? For one thing, homicide detectives didn’t end up getting socially involved with
friends of murder victims. For another, he was pretty sure that Jenny wouldn’t welcome any kind of relationship with him when she found out about their past association.
He dropped the last bit of sycamore bark on the pavement and brushed off his hand. He was heading back to his car when his beeper sounded. From the number displayed, he knew it was the Randolph technician finally returning his call. He looked at his watch. Four in the afternoon. The guy had certainly taken his sweet time. Maybe he could shake him up a bit.
On his portable phone, he called back.
“Richardson speaking,” a man answered. He sounded as if he were in pain.
“This is Detective Ben Brisco of the Baltimore City Homicide Division. Official business.”
“Homicide?” Richardson wheezed. “What’s this about?”
“A woman using one of your experimental computers. Marianne Blaisdell, has been murdered. I need to access her data files.”
“Jeez. Marianne? I just talked to her last week. What happened?”
Ben gave the same brief account of the murder he’d been repeating all day then got down to business. “Can you show me how to use her computer?”
Richardson sighed. “Listen, I’d like to help you out, but I’m home in bed with a stomach flu that, believe me, you don’t want to get.”
“Can we do it over the phone?”
“No way,” Richardson answered. “All the commands are nonstandard.”
“I got far enough to figure that out.”
Richardson gave a little snort. “You need a skilled operator to show you the ropes.”
“Isn’t there anyone else who can help me out?”
“The company president designed the equipment. But he’s in California at a conference.”
“Great.”
The technician hesitated. “Uh…we do have several other users who are completely familiar with the system. Ordinarily, information about testers is confidential, but if it’s a murder investigation…”
“It is.”
“Your best bet is a woman named Jenny Larkin.”
Ben blinked. “Who?” he said, although he was pretty sure he’d heard the name correctly.
“Jenny Larkin. She’s a computer programmer at Birth Data, Inc. She was one of our first testers. She picked up the nuances of the system faster than anyone else, and she’s given us several suggestions that have improved the machine’s performance. She’s using a test model just like Ms. Blaisdell’s.”
“Thanks.”
Ben hung up, bemused at the strange turn of events. Fate was playing with him again. But if he told himself he wasn’t glad, he’d be lying.
Chapter Four
The secretary was out when Ben came back to the Birth Data office, so there was no one to announce him. Quietly, he walked halfway across the waiting room and stood watching Jenny work. Apparently she was adding a column of numbers, which the machine called out for her in a stilted, mechanical voice.
He’d been secretly hoping that he’d somehow exaggerated this woman’s hold over him. He knew the instant he saw her that he was every bit as captivated as he’d been when he’d first come here. He liked her crystal-blue eyes and creamy skin; he liked the way her hair framed her face, and her slender but enticing curves. However, his attraction had as much to do with the conflicting mix of inner qualities that went with the appealing exterior. One moment she was the most self-possessed woman he’d ever met. The next, she was as wary as a doe sniffing the wind for predators before she stepped from her hiding place.
Fighting a rush of tangled emotions, he cleared his throat to let her know he was there. “I hope the interview was a success.”
Jenny’s head jerked in his direction. “Brisco?”
“Sorry if I startled you,” he apologized. “The receptionist is away from her desk, so I just barged in.” As he spoke, he tried to read her expression. It was more guarded than this morning. When she drew in a deep breath, the doe image came back to him. She was sniffing the wind before venturing out into the meadow.
But why not? He hadn’t exactly brought her good news when he’d come here this morning, and her day hadn’t gotten any better while she was with him.
He moved toward her, watching her note his progress across the small office. As he drew to a stop in front of the desk, she swallowed.
He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “After I left you, I went to Ms. Blaisdell’s and spent two hours trying to figure out how to use her computer. Then I called the technician at Randolph Electronics. A guy named Richardson.”
“Terry Richardson,” Jenny supplied. “He’s not just a technician. He and Cameron Randolph designed the system specifically to meet the needs of blind users.”
“Well, unfortunately he’s got a stomach flu, so he couldn’t run a demo for me.” Ben moved so that he could take a look at the computer sitting on a table beside her desk. “Damn.”
She tipped her head inquiringly to the side. “What’s wrong?”
“Richardson told me you know more about the system than he does. But this isn’t the same model.”
“No. This is the machine Birth Data purchased when I came to work here. The one I’m testing for Randolph Electronics is at my house.”
“So could you show me how to use it?” He tried to make the question sound casual.
She hesitated for several moments, pushing a rubber band across her desk blotter with her finger.
“I wouldn’t bother you, but I haven’t come up with any other leads.”
“All right.”
“Tonight, if possible,” he pressed.
Her face wrinkled. “My van pool usually picks me up at five-thirty.”
“I’ll be glad to give you a ride home.”
“It’s out in Howard County—Elkridge,” she answered, as if it were somewhere west of the Cumberland Gap.
“That’s okay. We could have some dinner first,” he said, knowing the line had been in the back of his mind for hours.
She kept her face lowered. “That isn’t necessary.”
“I’d like to.”
“Why?”
He had more invested in the invitation than he wanted to admit. Yet he hadn’t expected her to question his motives. “Does a guy need a reason to take a pretty woman to dinner?”
Her fingers twisted the rubber band into a tight circle. “You and I don’t exactly have a social relationship.”
“So I’ll put it on my expense account if that’ll make you feel better.”
She caught him off guard with a low chuckle. “I guess in that case, I can’t refuse.”
He was surprised by his feeling of relief. “Good.”
She checked the time. “I’d better cancel my ride before it’s too late to reach them.”
He waited while she made the call, her fingers moving over the keypad as rapidly as if she were able to see the numbers. The conversation was short. After hanging up, she opened the bottom drawer of her desk and took out her purse.
“I should tell my boss I’m leaving a few minutes early.”
He moved to the door, where he could watch her walk rapidly down the hall to an office in the back. He saw her talking to an attractive, dark-haired woman who looked up and gave him a quick inspection. He nodded stiffly.
After the brief exchange, Jenny continued down the hall, probably to the ladies’ room. Ben turned away to look at her office, noting the large volumes with braille labels lined up on the shelves beside the window and the way every piece of paper on the desk was neatly filed. No wonder she’d been put off by the candy wrappers on the floor of his car. He’d never seen an office so neat—but how else could she keep track of things? Footsteps made him turn quickly. To his surprise, he found Jenny’s boss standing in the doorway. Up close, she looked too young to be the head honcho, yet she projected a maturity beyond her years.
She stepped into the office, studying him with more than casual interest. “I’m Erin Stone, director of Birth Data.”
The woman pitched her voice low. “Jenny told me about your coming to see her this morning. She was quite upset about her friend’s death.”
Ben matched her low tone. “I’m sorry I was the one to break the bad news.”
“We all think a lot of Jenny here,” Erin continued.
“Yes, well, she seems like a remarkable woman.”
“I wouldn’t want anything to happen to her.”
His thoughts flashed to the truck. “Neither would I.”
As they stared at each other, Ben wondered why the director of Birth Data had come down the hall to give him a personal warning. She couldn’t possibly have this kind of conversation with every male who came to see Jenny Larkin. So she’d singled him out. Could she read something in his eyes? Or was she going on Jenny’s reactions? Before he could ask her a direct question, he heard Jenny in the doorway.
“Erin? Did you need something?”
“No. I was saying hello to Detective Brisco.”
“Oh.”
“Well, I have a few things to finish up before I go home,” Erin said before departing.
Ben noted Jenny had combed her hair and put on fresh lipstick. For him? Or simply because she was eating out?
“Where do you want to go?” he asked as they headed toward the elevator.
“You pick. I don’t have dinner downtown very often.”
“Why not?” he asked, before belatedly deciding that was none of his business.
“I like to get home early.”
“I won’t keep you out too late. Do you like Italian?”
“Yes.”
“What about Guido’s, in Little Italy? It’s off the beaten track, but the food is great.”
“Sounds fine.”
He smiled and wished the gesture wasn’t lost on her, so he added “Good” in what he hoped was a warm tone. Maybe too warm, judging by the way her hand fluttered slightly.
Jenny waited until the elevator door had closed behind them before asking, “What did Erin want?”