Free Dying to Please by Linda Howard Page B

one side. She flipped it and looked again at the other side, but it was blank.
    “Does it say who sent it?”
    She shook her head. “This gives me the willies.”
    He could see there was something written on the card. “What does it say?”
    She looked up, her dark eyes plainly revealing how puzzled and disturbed she was, and handed him the card. “It says, ‘
A small token of my esteem.'
But who sent it?”

CHAPTER 7
    IT HAD REALLY BEEN SO EASY, FINDING OUT HER SCHEDULE.
He could have hired a private detective to watch the house, but he didn't want to involve a third party who might later make inconvenient connections. He drove down the street several times, looking for a place where he could park and watch; the traffic, while not heavy, was still busy enough that he knew he wouldn't be noticed. The problem was that there wasn't any place where he could park. It was a residential street, with houses on both sides, and people coming and going from those houses throughout the day.
    But all it took was time, and perseverance. Over the following days, during his hourly drive-bys, he noted when the gardeners came, and carefully jotted it down in a little notebook he'd bought especially for this; it had a buttery-soft leather cover, much more tasteful than those brightly colored cardboard covers schoolkids seemed to prefer. An older woman, whom he presumed to be the cook, came every day around ten o'clock and left at five. The arrival and departure of a maid service was also carefully noted.
    On Wednesday Sarah had left the house in the morning and hadn't returned until early evening; he had tried to follow her, but she cut over to Highway 31 and he lost her in the traffic when he was caught by a red light. Rather than drive around fruitlessly, he stopped at a pay phone and called Judge Roberts's house. The number was unlisted, but he had attained the number soon after seeing Sarah on television. He knew people who knew people, and who were always eager to do favors for him. Really, all he had to do was ask, and within a few hours he had the number.
    A woman answered the phone, and he asked for “Sarah,” thinking that using her first name would imply a familiarity that wasn't there. Or rather, that wasn't there
yet.
He felt as if he knew her already, knew her dedication and loyalty and the utter perfection of how she looked, how she acted, even the way she sounded.
    “Sarah isn't in today,” the woman said cheerfully.
    “Oh, that's right. Wait—I'm confused. Is today her off day?” He deliberately used a more casual tone and speech pattern than normal.
    “Yes, it is.”
    “Is today Wednesday? I've lost track of the days, I've been thinking all day that it's Thursday.”
    She laughed. “Sorry, but it's Wednesday.”
    “Okay, I'll call her tonight, then. Thanks.” He hung up before she could ask his name and number, and wrote down the information in tiny, precise letters: WEDNESDAY — DAY OFF.
    He felt a thrill of excitement. For his purposes she would have to be away from the house. He thought he already had most of the information he needed, but he would continue watching to be certain. That was the key to success: leave nothing to chance.
    He would have liked to have followed her around all day and seen what she did, what interests she had or what hobbies she pursued, but perhaps this was better.
    He thought of the way she had looked when she drove out of the driveway, her dark hair loose, classic dark sunglasses shielding her eyes. She gave the impression of being aloof, mysterious, and slightly exotic. She drove her SUV with quick competence, as he had known she would; that was another measure of her dedication, that she had taken defensive-driving courses. She had put herself totally at the service of that old man, who had never done anything to deserve such devotion. Why, he hadn't even earned his money, but had inherited it. Which wasn't the same as his own receipt of an inheritance, because he