Body Copy - Michael Craven [9]
Who knows? Point is, she told him something then tried to pretend she hadn’t, then tried to scramble an answer together while possibly holding back tears.
Or maybe she was just talking normally, saying things like one of the reasons just off the cuff. And maybe that faraway look in her eye was just because she was upset, made to think about her dead uncle, right in that moment, in a way she hadn’t in a while. And now Tremaine was overthinking things.
Tremaine thinking, overthinking things? That’s what I didn’t do with Jeff . . .
Was Nina lying?
Maybe not. But maybe.
He wanted to try and find out, needed to try and find out.
26
B O D Y C O P Y
These days, a little older, a little wiser, still alive, his motto was Sometimes the best person to look into is the person who hired you. Not particularly clever; Roger Gale wouldn’t have written it. But it was true, and that’s all that mattered.
Tremaine laughed at this as he slid through the shadows, down the quiet streets, past houses with evening activity and lights on inside, with dogs barking occasionally but not obnoxiously. Nobody noticed him.
He walked right in front of 424 Rialto looking right at the front door. Great little house. Not really ranch style, but maybe California-ranch with a beach flair. Brown wood with bright blue shutters. The contrast looked good.
There was a little yard in front with a little fence that bordered the sidewalk. Once inside the fence, you walked up three steps to a great little porch with a swing.
Tremaine wanted to move in. Despite his suspicion, he liked Nina, wanted to trust her, could feel there was something real about her. He could picture himself sitting there on the swing with her having a beer, listening to some tunes, maybe rubbing Lyle’s back with his foot.
Concentrate, Tremaine. You never know with people.
He kept moving, walked right by the house, then past one more house, which was on the corner. He went right, around the corner, onto a perpendicular street. He stopped amid the shadows of a bush hanging over the high fence of Nina’s next-door neighbor. He stood, still, looked around.
No one.
He walked in the same direction he’d been going. Halfway down the block he went right, into the alley behind the block of houses on Rialto. He passed her neighbor’s, then was directly behind Nina’s house. There was a high, 27
Michael Craven
sturdy-looking gray wooden fence. He looked around.
Clear. He slowly pulled his head up over Nina’s fence and looked into her small backyard. There was a deck and a sliding glass door off the deck.
In one move he pulled himself over the fence and into her backyard. Then, quickly, he darted into the small side-alley formed by the edge of her house and the chain-link, waist-high fence that ran between her house and her neighbor’s.
He looked, carefully, into every window on the side of Nina’s house. Some lights on, but no activity. No Nina.
He looked through a window that allowed him to see the inside of the front door. No alarm. Chalk one up to luck.
He stood still for fifteen minutes, then looked in every window again. Unless she was lounging in the tub, she wasn’t home.
Lounging in the tub. He thought about that for a minute longer.
He walked over to a small door that led out to the little side-area where he stood. He looked under the mat for a key. Nothing. He tried to reach the inside doorknob through a little cat door, but couldn’t. Too tight. He ran his hand along the wooden ledge at the top of the door, nothing. Would he have to pick it? It’d been a while, but he could swing it. Then he looked up into the shadows of the little aluminum awning above the door. It was painted blue, just like the shutters, as was the wood that supported it. There was a little light from the inside the house, but it took a second for his eyes to adjust. When they did, he spied