The Cold Moon by Jeffery Deaver Page B

had fun with him. Having played the post-divorce dating game in Manhattan for a few years, she felt entitled to have some fun with another man.
    Joanne Harper, who bore a resemblance to the redhead on Sex and the City, had come here ten years earlier to become a famous artist, live in a storefront studio in the East Village and sell her paintings out of a Tribeca gallery. But the art world had other ideas. It was too harsh, too petty, too, well, un artistic. It was about being shocking or troubled or fuckable or rich.Joanne gave up on fine arts and tried graphic design for a while but was dissatisfied with that too. On a whim she took a job in an interior landscaping company in Tribeca and fell in love with the business. She decided that if she was going to starve at least she’d be hungry doing what she was passionate about.
    The joke, though, was that she became a success. She managed to open her own company a few years ago. It now included both the Broadway retail store and this—the Spring Street commercial operation, which serviced companies and organizations, providing daily flowers for offices and large arrangements for meetings, ceremonies and special events.
    She continued to add foam, greens, eucalyptus and marbles to the vases—the flowers would be added at the last minute. Joanne shivered slightly from the chill air. She glanced at the clock on the dim wall of the workshop. Not too long to wait, she reflected. Kevin had to make a couple of deliveries in the city today. He’d called this morning and told her he’d be at the retail shop in the afternoon. And, hey, if you’re not doing anything, maybe we could go for some cappuccino or something.
    Coffee the day after a date? Now that—
    Another shadow fell on the window.
    She looked up again quickly. No one. But she felt uneasy. Her eyes strayed to the front door, which she never used. Boxes were stacked up in front of it. It was locked . . . or was it?
    Joanne squinted but with the glare from the bright sun she couldn’t tell. She walked around the worktable to check.
    She tested the latch. Yes, it was locked. Joanne looked up, and gasped.
    A few feet from her, on the sidewalk outside, was a huge man, staring at her. Tall and fat, he was leaning forward and staring through the window of the workshop, shielding his eyes. He was wearing old-fashioned aviator sunglasses with mirrored lenses, a baseball cap and a cream-colored parka. Because of the glare, and the grime on the windows, he couldn’t see that she was right in front of him.
    Joanne froze. People sometimes peeked in, curious about the place, but there was an intensity about his posture, the way he hovered, that bothered her a lot. The front door wasn’t special glass; anyone with a hammer or brick could break in. And with the sparse foot traffic in this part of SoHo an assault here might go completely unnoticed.
    She backed up.
    Perhaps his eyes grew accustomed to the light or he found a bit of cleanwindow and noticed her. He jerked back, surprised. He seemed to debate something. Then he turned and disappeared.
    Stepping forward, Joanne pressed her face against the window, but she couldn’t see where he’d gone. There was something way creepy about him—the way he’d just stood there, hunched over, head cocked, hands stuffed into his pockets, staring through those weird sunglasses.
    Joanne wheeled the vases to the side and glanced outside again. No sign of the man. Still, she gave in to the temptation to leave and go to the retail store, check the morning’s receipts and chat with her clerks until Kevin arrived. She put on her coat, hesitated and left via the service door. She looked up the street. No sign of him. She started toward Broadway, west, the direction the big man had gone. She stepped into a thick beam of perfectly clear sunlight, which seemed nearly hot. The brilliance blinded her and she squinted, alarmed that she couldn’t see clearly. Joanne paused, not wanting to walk past