Free Straw Men by Martin J Smith Page B

around his neck and looked him in the eye.
    â€œWhoever did this to Teresa Harnett, he’s still out there,” she said. “But we don’t know how he’s reacting. In a couple weeks, this becomes an open case.
We
know the cops probably won’t reinvestigate the attack. They’re afraid of proving themselves wrong. But
he
doesn’t know that. The real attacker just knows it’s all coming undone. What he thought was over isn’t really over.”
    â€œAnd it’s your fault,” Christensen said.
    Brenna nodded.
    â€œWhy can’t Milsevic see that then? Tunnel vision?”
    â€œExactly. Nailing DellaVecchio’s the goal here. Nothing else matters.”
    â€œBut what if—”
    â€œI’ve made a liar out of Teresa Harnett. I’ve made liars of the cops. How can I expect them to get excited about somebody making phony phone calls?”
    â€œBecause you’re a private citizen, just like anyone else. Because you have a right to police protection.”
    Brenna pushed away with an impatient-teacher look. “What planet did you say you’re from?”
    â€œOther options, then? State police? The FBI? Don’t they get involved whenever someone uses the phone to commit a crime?”
    Brenna walked to the window. She absently twirled the dangling plastic rod, opening and closing the miniblinds once, twice, three times. Beyond the window, only darkness instead of the streetlight’s soft glow.
    Christensen snapped off the bedside lamp. “Somebody broke the streetlight,” he said.
    Brenna turned to him. “I’ll call Milsevic again tomorrow,” she said, her voice calmer in the darkened room. “By then he’ll have heard the message. Then I’ll get a better feel for where he’s coming from.”
    â€œAnd if he’s blowing you off?”
    â€œI’ll figure something out. I left a voice-mail message for Kiger. Maybe he’ll call. If nothing else, at least we’ve alerted the Harnetts. Teresa’s the linchpin here. If this guy’s scared enough to be watching me, I’d bet he’s watching her.”
    Christensen stopped Brenna’s hand as she reached for the miniblind rod again. He rolled the blind shut tight, then laid his hand on her left cheek. “I love you, Bren.”
    She kissed him, her lips lingering on his as she spoke: “I know.”

Chapter 11
    Flasher coat. That’s what the hump-backed greaseball at Army-Navy called it, like, twelve years ago, when he laid out twenty dollars and took it home. Heavy as hell. Hung way down past his knees. Air Force blue. Looked fine. Main thing was the collar, man, big as a pair of wings. Turn it up at the back, button it at the neck, pull a Pirates cap down over your eyes. Shit, you practically disappeared. No worries, especially in this neighborhood. People just think it’s a new look. Come back in a week, see this getup all over Shadyside, cap and all. Fucking sheep.
    How long she been in there? Guess if you pay three bucks for a cup of coffee, it better take some time to make.
    Junkies were easy. Didn’t matter—crack, booze, caffeine. They all had their routines. Practically set your watch by ’em. Every morning he’d followed, three times now, she got here the same time, 8 a.m. on the nose. Left her house and drove a couple blocks, straight here, parked in the alley behind the coffeehouse. Got a takeout coffee and something to eat. Only thing he didn’t know was whether she took cream and sugar, and he wasn’t about to get that close. Wasn’t
that
invisible. From half a block away, she’d never know.
    Same thing Downtown, depending on traffic. Two mornings now he’d watched her there. She wheeled that nice ride of hers into the Oxford Centre parking garage, both times between eight-twenty and eight-thirty.
    Beautiful.
    What was taking her so long? Couldn’t see a thing through the glare