The next thing happened in a flash. A hairless man with beady eyes and a snarling snout leapt out of the bushes at her. All she saw were teeth. Incisors like knife blades. She sprinted, releasing fruit as she ran. When she looked back from the safety of Mr. Z’s car, she saw it.

A white bull terrier on a chain, its short legs pacing the perimeter. It couldn’t have gotten her, but it sure got close. She laughed hysterically. Her hands were shaking.

“Are you all right, baby?” Mr. Z caressed the back of her neck. It felt so good.

“That freaking mutt came out of nowhere!” Her fear was turning to outrage. “I lost everything!”

“Not everything.” Mr. Z reached over and picked up the one apricot that had rolled down the seat, between her thighs. He brought it to her lips. When she caught her breath, she took a bite. Juice ran down his fingers. “How is it?”

“Not worth risking life and limb for.”

Mr. Z took a bite of the fruit himself, then sucked at the rivulet of juice in the dell between his thumb and index finger. He smacked his lips.

“Oh, I think you’re being a little hard on the poor thing.”

He passed the fruit back to her and wiped his mouth on a Kleenex. With sticky fingers, he pulled down the handbrake and started steering the car with the ball of his hand. She saw now that her shirt was covered in juice splotches, evidence of her crime.

“By the way, for your future reference, that was my house,” he said, grinning. “Anytime you feel like apricots, feel free to plunder. That’s Constance. I promise you, she wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

– 8 –

– 8 –

TURF

“Let’s take a look at the master bedroom.”

The guy walked up the stairs of Raymond’s house.

“So what kind of business are you in?”

“I wrote books,” said Raymond. “Silly books, that people seemed to like.”

“Nice work if you can get it,” the guy said, and Raymond detected no sneer in there. Refreshing. The guy glanced at his clipboard. “Raymond van der Holt?”

“Yes, humbly so.”

“Never heard of you. No offense.”

“None taken.”

The guy walked ahead of Raymond, pausing in the hallway outside the bedroom.

“May I?” Before Raymond could answer, the freckled, forty-ish guy was in his bedchamber, pulling aside the bisque-colored Thai silk drapery and poking around the casement windows. He continued counting under his breath, “Thirty-three, thirty-four . . . thirty-five,” and made a note of his new tally.

“Would I really need to wire these upstairs windows?” Raymond asked. “Those little magnetic boxes you stick on them are just so hideous.”