seat. Until she does, you really need to sit down and shut up.”
The guy trembled. All he could get out was “Asshole.”
Scott turned back to his newspaper. “Yeah, you said that.”
A few seconds passed before the young man spun away from Scott and ran after his girl. When he'd gone, a woman in running shoes smiled at Scott from two seats away. She nodded at the departed irritant. “Nice guy.”
Scott shrugged. “He had an argument with his girlfriend. Just needed to blow off some steam.”
The woman's eyes narrowed. “How'd you know that? I listened to them bitch at each other for ten minutes before you came in.”
“Lucky guess.” He smiled. “Pretty obvious, if you think about it.”
She gathered up her breakfast trash. “You should do this for a living.”
“I do.”
“Okay.” She pointed out the window. “What do you make of
him
?”
Scott leaned forward to look down the sidewalk where a young man leaned against a lightpole. “What do you mean?”
“Sit back. Wait until I tell you to look.”
The student shrink smiled, settled back onto his stool, and opened the newspaper.
“Okay, now.”
Scott glanced up from the sports section and sighed. But something in the woman's expression made him look again. When he leaned forward, his vision locked into a pair of extraordinarily dark and disturbing eyes, and something—something with the horrible familiarity of a half-forgotten nightmare—seized deep in his gut.
Scott fought the temptation to look away. The young man held his gaze for just a few seconds, then turned and trotted effortlessly across heavy midday traffic.
The woman leaned over to nudge Scott. “Well?”
“I don't know.”
“What was wrong with his face? All shiny like that?”
“Scar tissue.”
“Poor thing.” She grimaced. “But what'd he have against you?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Well,
Mr.
I-do-this-for-a-living, that guy had been out there staring a hole in you since you walked in the front door.”
“Maybe he thought he knew me from somewhere.” Scott's thoughts stumbled for an explanation that would salve his own nerves. “I work at a hospital.”
“Oh.” The woman seemed satisfied. “That's probably it.”
Fifteen minutes later, Scott was back on the sidewalk. Starbucks had been on the return side of his three-mile run. Now, a half mile from home, he walked and sipped coffee and scanned newspaper headlines. Israelis and Palestinians were killing each other; LAX had been evacuated again after a baggage checker fell asleep; identity theft was the fastest-growing crime in America. The end of history was turning out to be a real bear.
He jogged up open steps to the small porch outside the door to his apartment over the Ashtons' garage. He pulled a key from inside his shirt where it hung on a string around his neck. The metal was warm against his fingertips. He leaned down to fit it into the dead bolt. Static electricity popped him hard on the ends of his fingers, and he let out a little yelp.
Smiling at the delicacy of his vocalization, he leaned back down and slid his key into the lock.
And a sound—a scraping noise—came from inside.
He tried the door. It wasn't locked. He pushed the door open and called out. “Hello?”
No one answered.
“Listen. There's a cheap stereo in the living room, and I keep my money in the bedside table. Already gave away a car this week.”
He backed carefully down the steps and jogged out onto Welder Avenue. A block down, Scott ducked into a rose arbor that arched over a neighbor's front walk. He thought of finding a phone to call the cops. Instead he waited, realizing he was more curious than angry.
It's a fact of life. People break into apartments. It was almost sad that someone had chosen his. Scott only hoped they didn't want a three-year-old computer. He needed the computer.
Six minutes passed before the intruders walked casually out of the Ashtons' driveway and turned up Welder. One, a black
Heidi Hunter, Bad Boy Team