be if I didn’t get him the information he really needed?
Then there was the question of what to do about Melody.
If it turned out it really was the cop following her, there had to be a reason. Would a cop, especially a cop who wanted to keep a low, undercover profile, do something as stupid as stalking?
Okay, yeah, surveillance work was technically stalking, but I didn’t think buying flowers for the target of the surveillance was exactly in the How To Be A Good Undercover Cop handbook.
So if the cop hadn’t sent her the flowers or the pictures, if he wasn’t the guy calling at all hours, that left Justin Sewell, Mr. Not So Subtle, as potential creepy stalker guy, and the cop as just a guy doing his job.
Which, if he was a good undercover cop, meant he might have his own pictures of creepy stalker guy doing his thing.
The first thing for me to do was figure out a way to find out if Lewis Richards had been driving the SUV. I hadn’t seen any movement in the SUV since I’d been here, but that didn’t mean anything. I couldn’t tell through the tinted windows if anyone was even in the SUV.
I grabbed my purse and my sunglasses. I’d stashed my camera in my purse, but I didn’t need a camera for this part of the job.
The SUV was parked a row over from my car in a space in between me and the entrance to the gym. I cut through the parked cars, angling through the lot so that I’d walk next to the passenger side of the SUV. It was a bright, sunny afternoon, and with the angle the SUV was parked, the sun shining on the driver’s side would show me a silhouette of anyone sitting inside the SUV, even if I couldn’t make out a face through the tinted windows.
When I got close to the front of the SUV, I stopped and dug through my purse for my cell phone. Nobody had called me, but anyone in the SUV wouldn’t know that.
I held my cell up to my ear and pretended to have a short conversation. The pretend conversation gave me an excuse to pause for a moment before walking by the side of the SUV.
I needn’t have bothered with the charade. Unless they were stretched out flat on the floorboards, there was no one inside.
Damn. Now what?
I put my cell back in my purse. If anyone was watching, I’d look suspicious if I just turned around and went back to my car, and then sat inside without leaving.
It looked like it was time for me to get closer to the woman whose watcher I was supposed to be watching. Maybe it would give me a chance to see what the hell she was up to.
It was time for me to go to the gym.
CHAPTER 8
RIGHT TRACK FITNESS wasn’t like any gym I’d ever been in.
Not that I’d been in a lot, but over the years I’d served a few subpoenas on bodybuilder types, and it was always easier to track them down at the gym. Those places had been little more than a huge room filled with exercise machines and weight benches surrounded by mirrored walls where sweaty guys focused on the reflections of their bulging muscles and strained expressions while chanting the kind of affirmations I wouldn’t want my daughter to hear.
When I walked through the front doors of Melody’s gym, I thought I was in an upscale beauty salon and day spa.
None of the workout areas were visible from the spacious foyer. A wall faced with river rock rose two stories behind a gently curving reception counter that would have dwarfed my living room. Decorator candles burned low in groupings of three arranged in tasteful spots along the gleaming black granite countertop. Lush green plants softened the hard-edged look of the counter and gave the room a forest glade feel. A fountain burbled off to one side, and New Age music played low in the background. Light came from globes hanging on long chains from the ceiling, but it was subdued lighting.
Put a recliner in the middle of this room, give me a good book to read, and I’d be a happy camper.
A woman who looked like she’d stepped out of a fashion magazine
Then there was the question of what to do about Melody.
If it turned out it really was the cop following her, there had to be a reason. Would a cop, especially a cop who wanted to keep a low, undercover profile, do something as stupid as stalking?
Okay, yeah, surveillance work was technically stalking, but I didn’t think buying flowers for the target of the surveillance was exactly in the How To Be A Good Undercover Cop handbook.
So if the cop hadn’t sent her the flowers or the pictures, if he wasn’t the guy calling at all hours, that left Justin Sewell, Mr. Not So Subtle, as potential creepy stalker guy, and the cop as just a guy doing his job.
Which, if he was a good undercover cop, meant he might have his own pictures of creepy stalker guy doing his thing.
The first thing for me to do was figure out a way to find out if Lewis Richards had been driving the SUV. I hadn’t seen any movement in the SUV since I’d been here, but that didn’t mean anything. I couldn’t tell through the tinted windows if anyone was even in the SUV.
I grabbed my purse and my sunglasses. I’d stashed my camera in my purse, but I didn’t need a camera for this part of the job.
The SUV was parked a row over from my car in a space in between me and the entrance to the gym. I cut through the parked cars, angling through the lot so that I’d walk next to the passenger side of the SUV. It was a bright, sunny afternoon, and with the angle the SUV was parked, the sun shining on the driver’s side would show me a silhouette of anyone sitting inside the SUV, even if I couldn’t make out a face through the tinted windows.
When I got close to the front of the SUV, I stopped and dug through my purse for my cell phone. Nobody had called me, but anyone in the SUV wouldn’t know that.
I held my cell up to my ear and pretended to have a short conversation. The pretend conversation gave me an excuse to pause for a moment before walking by the side of the SUV.
I needn’t have bothered with the charade. Unless they were stretched out flat on the floorboards, there was no one inside.
Damn. Now what?
I put my cell back in my purse. If anyone was watching, I’d look suspicious if I just turned around and went back to my car, and then sat inside without leaving.
It looked like it was time for me to get closer to the woman whose watcher I was supposed to be watching. Maybe it would give me a chance to see what the hell she was up to.
It was time for me to go to the gym.
CHAPTER 8
RIGHT TRACK FITNESS wasn’t like any gym I’d ever been in.
Not that I’d been in a lot, but over the years I’d served a few subpoenas on bodybuilder types, and it was always easier to track them down at the gym. Those places had been little more than a huge room filled with exercise machines and weight benches surrounded by mirrored walls where sweaty guys focused on the reflections of their bulging muscles and strained expressions while chanting the kind of affirmations I wouldn’t want my daughter to hear.
When I walked through the front doors of Melody’s gym, I thought I was in an upscale beauty salon and day spa.
None of the workout areas were visible from the spacious foyer. A wall faced with river rock rose two stories behind a gently curving reception counter that would have dwarfed my living room. Decorator candles burned low in groupings of three arranged in tasteful spots along the gleaming black granite countertop. Lush green plants softened the hard-edged look of the counter and gave the room a forest glade feel. A fountain burbled off to one side, and New Age music played low in the background. Light came from globes hanging on long chains from the ceiling, but it was subdued lighting.
Put a recliner in the middle of this room, give me a good book to read, and I’d be a happy camper.
A woman who looked like she’d stepped out of a fashion magazine
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