Mask Market by Andrew Vachss Page B

wants to make sure nobody watching him can report back to HQ. I would have offered the jammer a high-five, but I suspected that would start him suspecting me. So I leaned close, whispered, “You should carry a phone, too. Just in case one of these morons ever looks around and does the math.”
    He nodded sagely. After all, I wasn’t one of Them.
    Who says therapy doesn’t work?
     
    H auser’s car was waiting just where he promised—a dark blue ten-year-old Lexus ES300 with a spare key in a magnetic box under the front fender. It had Westchester tags, with registration and insurance papers in the glove box, plus a today’s-date note on the letterhead of the magazine Hauser works for, saying that Mr. Ralph Compton was using the vehicle with his permission.
    I never felt more like a citizen.
    I didn’t remember exactly what Beryl’s father did for a living—if he’d ever actually told me—but I figured the odds on my finding someone home at the residence were good, even if it was only the maid.
    The Lexus was front-wheel drive, but I didn’t need that extra safety cushion—the roads had been precision-plowed, and it was too sunny for black ice to be a problem. I drove around until I found a reference point, then went the rest of the way on autopilot, guided by the signals from my memory.
    I get those a lot, and I always trust their truth. For most, I wish I didn’t.
    The house was a three-story mass of wood and stone that had been built to look like a carefully preserved antique. No cars in the circular drive, but the door to the detached garage was closed. The place felt like someone was home.
    I couldn’t spot a security camera, but that doesn’t mean much today, not with tiny little fiber-optic eyes everywhere. I parked at the extreme end of the drive, at an angle. Anyone who wanted the license number would have a long walk to get it. I strolled up the driveway, casual.
    A pewter sculpture of a bear’s head was centered in the copper-painted door. I saw a discreet silver button on the right jamb, pushed it, and was rewarded with a sound like wind chimes in a hurricane.
    The click of heels on hardwood told me whoever was coming to the door wasn’t the cleaning lady. I felt myself being studied. The door opened—no security chain—and a tall, too-skinny woman regarded me for a second before saying “Yes?” in a taking-no-chances voice. She was way too young to be the wife I’d never met, but maybe Preston had gotten a divorce, and picked up a trophy on his next hunt.
    “Ms. Preston? My name is—”
    “Oh,” she said, smiling. “We haven’t had anyone asking for them in quite a while.”
    “You mean they—?”
    “Moved? Yes. At least…well, we’ve owned the place for…it’ll be eight years this summer.”
    “Damn!” I said, shaking my head ruefully. “I haven’t seen Jeremy since I moved to the Coast. I just got back, so I thought I’d drive out and surprise him. That’s what I get for not staying in touch.”
    “Oh, I’m sorry,” she said, putting more sincerity into it than I expected. “I know the house was on the market for some time before we bought it. If we had known how prices were going to go through the roof, we never would have bargained back and forth for so long, but my husband…”
    “I’m the same way,” I assured her. “You wouldn’t know where they moved to, by any chance?”
    “I’m afraid not. We never met them, actually. Everything was done through brokers and lawyers. You know how that is.”
    “I do. Well, sorry to have bothered you, then.”
    “Oh, that’s all right.”
    I turned to go.
    “Mr….?”
    “Compton,” I said, turning back toward her.
    “Would you like to leave a card? I don’t think there’s much hope, but I could give the broker a call, and see if she has any information….”
    “I’d be very grateful,” I said. I took out a business card for Ralph P. Compton. It had a midtown address—I’ve got a deal with a security guard