For Your Eyes Only

by Rebecca York

  The sound of the stretcher wheels faded into the distance, and she was left with a hollow feeling that started in her chest and spread throughout her body. Brisco could have been seriously hurt. But that hadn’t stopped her from kissing him. Not just kissing him. They’d been doing a lot more than that. Things she wouldn’t dream of doing with a man she’d just met. But she had.

  Her thoughts came to an abrupt halt as footsteps retraced a path down the hall. Someone walked rapidly toward the far side of the room and she heard fabric rustle.

  “What are you doing?” she asked.

  “There’s a foot-long plaster statue on the floor,” Detective Diangelo answered. “The head’s broken off. I think it’s the weapon.”

  Her fingers dug into the arms of the chair as she imagined a hand slamming the sculpture into Brisco’s head hard enough to break the plaster. “How did he look?” she asked.

  “Look?” He sounded surprised by the question.

  “Did Brisco seem like he was going to be all right?”

  “Uh, I guess he looked pale. In pain. Angry.”

  “But you think he’s going to be okay?” she persisted.

  “Yeah,” he answered, and she knew he was just saying it to keep her calm.

  She struggled to pull herself together.

  “So Brisco contacted you this morning?” he asked in a businesslike voice. “You’re a friend of the victim. Jenny Larkin?”

  “Yes. Detective Brisco asked me to help him with Marianne’s computer after he found out I’d been trained on the same model. It’s specially equipped for the blind and visually impaired.” God, she sounded like a Randolph Electronics training film or something. “I got into the system, but I had trouble retrieving her files. Something wasn’t working correctly,” she explained in the same stilted voice.

  “We’ll leave the computer for later. Brisco didn’t fill me in on how he got hit. I don’t suppose there’s anything you can tell me?”

  She didn’t bother to set him straight about her capabilities. Besides, in this case he was right—even if it was for the wrong reasons. “We were down the hall in another room. There was a noise, and he went to investigate. I heard him grunt and fall to the floor. I mean, I assume that’s what happened. The next thing I knew, the—the assailant was, uh, coming at me.”

  “At you? Brisco didn’t mention anything about that.”

  “He doesn’t know. By that time, he was out cold.”

  “You’re okay?”

  “Yes. I—I stabbed…the assailant… with a screwdriver I found in the desk drawer. Then he ran away.”

  “What?” the detective asked, his voice taking on a note of incredulity. “He went after a hundred-and-seventy-fivepound man, but he ran away from you?”

  “I think I hit him in the face. Maybe the eye. I guess he wasn’t expecting much from a blind woman. You weren’t.”

  Diangelo made a low sound. After a few moments, he said, “I’m sorry. “

  “That’s all right” she replied, knowing she didn’t sound sincere. But the day had been too emotionally and physically draining for her to put energy into pretense. “You’re right if you’re assuming that I can’t give you much of a description. I don’t have a clue about his hair color, eyes, complexion. That sort of thing. But I do know that he smokes. He hadn’t bathed in a couple of days. He’s probably about medium height. He’s muscular and walks heavily—on his heels, I think, instead of on the balls of his feet.”

  “Did he say anything?”

  “Not until after I stabbed him. He screamed and called me a bitch. His voice was high, probably distorted by pain. He stood in the doorway studying me for a long time—” She shuddered, as she remembered the way his gaze had made her feel like insects were crawling over her skin. “At least that’s what I assume.”

  He continued to interrogate her, and she added as many details as she could. But the returns began to diminish rapidly.

  “Any questions?” he finally asked.

  She sat very still. “Was he the man who killed Marianne?” she finally whispered.

  “It’s likely. But there’s no way to be sure until we have more information.”

  She felt goose bumps rise on her skin, and rubbed her arms. He’d watched her, then he’d pounced on her. Had he started that way with Marianne?

  “I’ll give you a ride home,” Diangelo said.

  “Thanks,” she replied wearily. “Do you happen to see my cane anywhere on the floor?”

  “Right here.”

  She heard him pick it up and held out her hand. It was a relief to wrap her fingers around the familiar handle, as if she’d finally become grounded, safe.

  The cane was a symbol. Not only of security. But of what she’d been through over the past twelve years and what she’d made of her life. She’d tried to be prepared for every eventuality. The trouble was, there was no way she could have been prepared for all the things that had happened today.

  IT WAS LIKE having a license to make money, L. J. Smith thought as he leaned back in his comfortable chair and gazed through the one-way glass window of his private office at his busy little staff manning their workstations. Only no government agency had issued the license. In fact, the government didn’t even know about his sweet little operation, which meant he made his money tax-free, using the most sophisticated computer information retrieval and graphics setup available. Most had been bought on the open market for the dummy corporation he’d set up to make it look as if he was a legitimate businessman. But when he needed a piece of cutting-edge equipment that wasn’t yet for sale, he hired out the contract to an “acquisitions expert"—not to put too fine a point on the definition.

  The secure line on his desk rang, and he picked it up. “Smith speaking.”

  “I have a request for a set of Sprangerbank cards,” the voice said.

  Smith tried to hold down his irritation. “I can handle the order—but not until next week. We’re swamped.”

  “I need them sooner.”

  “I can get what you need faster if you go with Great Tortuga,” Smith suggested. “They handle the same clientele.”

  “My client is set on Spranger.”

  “Then I can’t do it right now.”

  The call concluded quickly. Smith sighed as he hung up. He hadn’t exactly been telling the truth. His inability to fill the order had nothing to do with the present volume of business. Unfortunately, Spranger’s was one of the systems protected by an encryption system he couldn’t crack. But he’d have it nailed when he got the prototype of a superhigh-performance, virtual-reality workstation being developed by Randolph Electronics. When he got his hands on that baby, he’d have access to the records not just of Spranger, but a couple of other choice houses as well.

  The Randolph prototype wasn’t exactly essential to his operation. There were still plenty of institutions he could raid. But he liked to stay out in front of the pack. For one thing, it kept his staff happy. They were all first-rate hackers who got as much pleasure from breaking into classified databases as they did from the fat fees and bonuses they earned on his payroll. He understood them, because he’d been one himself—cracking networks for fun instead of doing his boring homework when he was in high school.

  He smiled. His hacking-for-fun days had ended abruptly when he’d gotten the bright idea of seeing how far he could get with the authorization number off a stolen credit card. A lucrative career had been born. Only he didn’t do the work himself anymore. He left that to his staff.

  Minimizing his risks, he made sure none of his illegal transactions could be traced back to the East Baltimore warehouse that looked like a dump on the outside and a prestigious banking house on the inside. He was totally secure. And he’d be happy as a pig in manure if the man he’d hired to scoop up the Randolph prototype would just phone to say he’d gotten the goods.

  Chapter Six

  Tides of powerful emotion surged through Jenny until she felt battered by first one overwhelming
force and then another. She tried to cope with the aftereffects of being assaulted, but the sweet memories of making love with Brisco interrupted. Either one was enough to swamp her; together they threatened to tear her apart.

  She went back to the whirlwind of activity that had claimed her since six that morning. She’d cleaned the house and weeded the garden. Now there was nothing left to do but fill all the bird feeders.

  Drawing in a long draft of the warm spring air, she listened to the wildlife around her as she worked. A little breeze rustled the leaves of the trees. In the dogwood above her head she could hear a cardinal scolding her, its characteristic metallic call ringing through the woods. Finally, she was starting to feel a little better.

  “Okay, guys, enjoy yourselves,” she murmured as she headed back toward the ground-level deck she’d had built at the side of the house. It was one of the few exterior improvements she’d made to the old house where she’d lived with her grandmother after her parents had died. When she’d moved back, she’d set up paths with borders of rocks and garden ties to make it easier for her to get around. The last few steps before the deck were paved with wooden boards secured to the ground with metal rods, so she could tell when she needed to take a step up.

  With a little sigh, she settled into one of the Adirondack chairs and sat as still as she could, breathing in the scent of daffodils and narcissus in a nearby bed. If she didn’t move, the birds would come to feed while she was still outside. Although she couldn’t see them, she remembered what many of them looked like. The bright blue jays, the red male cardinals and the brownish females, and the dear little warblers with the brown and white stripes on the sides of their faces. Now she marked them by their characteristic sounds.

  After several minutes, a woodpecker began to drum on a tree trunk several hundred yards away. Then delicate flutters of wings announced that the smaller birds were returning to the feeder.

  She’d made her home into a place where she felt totally secure—with everything she needed or wanted. She should be completely at ease. Yet the deep peace she sought was light years beyond her grasp.

  She’d called Erin that morning to say that she might be late for work, but her friend had persuaded her to take the day off. She was trying to make the most of it.

  The bucolic scene around her faded into the background as she stroked her finger across her lips, remembering what it had been like to kiss Brisco. She’d been caught in a spiral of sensation—yet it never should have happened.

  He’d said he needed her, but whom had he needed? When she’d come back into the room, he’d thought she was somebody named Brenna. Perhaps he hadn’t even known whom he was kissing, whose breasts he was touching. She made a strangled sound in her throat. Could it have meant the same thing to him as it had to her?

  And what had it meant when he’d held her in his arms after the truck had almost run her down? Or when he’d talked so openly with her at dinner? She shook her head slowly, wishing she had enough experience to know.

  At seven-thirty she’d called Mount Olive hospital. All they’d told her about Brisco was that he was being discharged in the morning. So they’d kept him overnight, probably for observation. Surely he was all right, or they wouldn’t have sent him home.

  Her heart squeezed. He hadn’t called. He wasn’t going to call. And it was for the best, because it was a bad idea to get all wound up with thoughts of Ben Brisco. What was wrong with her? She’d stayed detached from most other men—even the ones she’d dated. None of them had touched the tender core of her. She hid her vulnerabilities too well behind her chipper exterior. No one else had made her yearn for all the things she’d convinced herself she couldn’t have and didn’t even want.

  Then Brisco had come storming into her life, swept all her certainty away, and replaced it with a treacherous longing. Tension pounded through her like the thrumming of a snare drum. She closed her eyes and tried to submerge herself once more in the warmth of the sun and the smell of the flowers. The struggle lasted for less than five minutes before the crunch of tires on the gravel drive made her sit up sharply.

  No one should be coming here at eleven-thirty on a Wednesday morning. Maybe Brisco was stopping by to tell her how he was doing. Then a more sinister thought made her cringe. What if it was the man who’d attacked her last night? He’d gotten a good look at her. Suppose he’d found out who she was and was coming here to finish what he’d started?

  She knew she was being paranoid. Still, she couldn’t turn off the wild sense of alarm.

  A car door slammed and footsteps approached. Someone walking briskly and purposefully. Not the killer’s walk, she told herself.

  Fingers gripping the edge of the chair, she waited for what seemed like an eternity, but was probably only a few seconds. “Jenny, it’s me,” a cheerful voice called out

  She should feel relieved that it was Erin. Part of her did, yet she knew her face was stiff with tension as she followed the progress of her friend along the gravel path.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked more sharply than she’d intended.

  “I brought lunch,” Erin answered easily. “You haven’t eaten yet, I hope?”

  “No.” Jenny picked up a cluster of pine needles that had fallen on the arm of the chair and began to break them into pieces.

  “I thought you could use some company.”

  “I’m fine.” She made an effort to compose her face.

  “I brought some of those thick corned-beef sandwiches from Lombard Street. And nice sour-dill pickles and blackcherry soda.”

  One of her all-time favorite lunches. Erin had gone to a lot a trouble for her. “You shouldn’t have.”

  “Sure I should. You deserve a treat. Want to eat out here?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ve got paper plates and napkins. You don’t have to do a thing.” As she spoke, she crossed to the patio table and began unpacking the supplies.

  They didn’t speak again until they had taken several bites of their lunches.

  “This is wonderful,” Jenny said.

  “But woman can not live by corned beef alone. Do you need anything else? Groceries?”

  “No. Hester Anderson took me to the store a couple of days ago.”

  “Good.” There was another long silence. Then Erin asked, “Are you really okay?”

  Jenny strove to sound unruffled. “More or less. I’m still kind of shaken up.”

  “Getting mugged will do that. Remember, I know from experience.”

  “He didn’t hurt me,” she said quickly.

  “But you’re looking over your shoulder, so to speak.”

  “Yes,” she admitted in a low voice.

  “Did Brisco call to say he was okay?” Erin suddenly changed the subject.

  “Why should he?” she shot back.

  “Because if he has half a brain in his head, and he does, he knows you’re worried.”

  “Erin, I just met him yesterday. He doesn’t have to check in with me. He was interviewing me because Marianne was killed. It was just business. He and I don’t have any kind of relationship,” she finished, having enumerated all the reasons why she shouldn’t feel the way she did.

  “He didn’t have to come back and take you to dinner.”

  “He needed help with the computer.”

  “Sure. But I saw you with him. I saw the way he looked at you. It was open, unguarded, because he knew you couldn’t see him.”

  The air seemed to vibrate around Jenny as she leaned forward. “Open—unguarded—and what else?” she asked softly.

  “He wanted to get to know you a whole lot better. And I saw the way you looked at him—although that’s probably not the right word.”

  Jenny flushed.

  “Your expression matched his.”

  “I’m probably not going to see him again,” she murmured.

  “Why not?”

  “When he finds out he was decked by a man I fought off with a screwdriver, he’s not going to
be happy.”

  “That’s his first reaction,” Erin retorted. “Give him time to think about it.”

  “You’re making too much out of it. Erin, we hardly know each other.”

  “Jenny, I’ve seen you with lots of people. Men. You tend to stay detached. You weren’t detached with Ben Brisco. And neither was he. He’ll be back because he can’t stay away from you. If he’s not man enough to act on his desires, then he’s not worth it, anyway.”

  “So you believe in love at first…sight,” Jenny whispered.

  “If that’s what’s meant to be.”

  Jenny clenched her hand so hard around the soda can that the aluminum made a buckling noise. Setting the can down, she tightly linked her fingers in her lap. She rarely discussed her personal life with anyone, but Erin was forcing things out into the open, and she found it almost impossible not to voice her fears. “Erin, I’m scared.”

  “I know you are, honey. Because you didn’t figure on a guy like Ben Brisco walking in the door.”

  In a rush of words, she went on as if her friend hadn’t spoken. “Suddenly, I have no control—over the things that are happening around me or my feelings.”

  Erin reached across the table and covered her hand. “But you have the strength to deal with it.”

  “I—don’t know.” Ben Brisco was a challenge she’d never expected.

  “Don’t cut yourself off from him because you’re frightened of getting close.”

  “Assuming I have the choice,” Jenny murmured.

  WITH THE KEY he’d obtained from the super, Ben opened the door to Duke Wakefield’s tiny apartment. The moment he stepped across the threshold he was assaulted by the stench of old garbage. It was only one sign that the occupant had apparently left in haste. Around the apartment were strewn the contents of drawers, and closets.

  Ben poked through the pile of trash in the corner, picked up an almost-empty bag of cheese popcorn crawling with ants and threw it down again with a grimace. Deciding to cut his losses, he backed out of the room. His head was throbbing, and he knew he should be home in bed instead of working the Blaisdell case. But after the fiasco of the night before, he needed to redeem himself and the only way he could do that was by catching the killer. However, it didn’t look as if that was going to happen here.