Twist by John Lutz Page B

she’d stood motionless and watched the Q&A office door , but left without entering, as if she’d lost her nerve. That interested him enough that the second time, which had been a repeat of the first, he followed her. Found out her where she worked, her name and address. Began his research.
    A delivery van the size of a small house drove past, momentarily blocking his view. When it was gone, so was she.
    The man watching from the shadows knew she must have gotten up her nerve and entered the building.
    He smiled approvingly. That was what life was about, forcing yourself to open doors leading to where you were afraid to enter.

12
    T he street door made its familiar swishing sound.
    Into the office walked a petite, dishwater-blond woman with pigtails.
    Quinn was the only one at Q&A not out in the field. He watched her stand just inside the door and look around.
    My God, May!
    Only it wasn’t his former wife, May. But the resemblance was strong enough to be . . . startling.
    A younger May .
    Q&A was set up somewhat like a precinct house squad room. There were neat rows of desks rather than cubicles, so there could be a free flow of information. Only Quinn’s desk was next to a partial cubicle that could be easily rearranged for semi-privacy.
    The blond woman, who looked to be in her early twenties, quickly realized that Quinn was the only one in the spacious office and fixed her gaze on him. She was wearing jeans, brown open-toed sandals, and a sleeveless blue blouse with large white buttons. Sunglasses dangled on a cord just above her breasts. She started toward Quinn. The window light playing over her face changed, and suddenly he knew her.
    She said, “Hi, Uncle Frank.”
    Quinn stood up. “You’re Carlie! Carlie Clark!” She was the daughter of May’s sister. “You’ve grown up. Last time I saw you was when you were on your way to middle school.”
    “In California,” Carlie said.
    “Which is why it took me a few seconds to recognize you. You’re not a kid anymore, and you’re supposed to be on the other side of the continent.”
    She gave a tiny mock shiver. “Ooh! You make it seem so far away.”
    They’d never had a chance to be close, and he actually didn’t know Carlie very well. As a kid she’d taken to him for some reason, and used to call him Uncle Frank. Nobody had called him that for years, until a few minutes ago.
    She rolled a chair over from Pearl’s nearby desk and sat down in it. Quinn got a slight whiff of perfume, which he liked.
    He sat back down behind his desk.
    “I’ve only been in New York a few weeks,” she said. “Got an apartment in SoHo provided by the company.”
    “Company?”
    “Bold Designs. I’m working for them as a retail designs consultant.”
    “Wait a minute.... You’re . . .”
    She smiled. “Twenty-six,” she said.
    He studied her. Bold features. Dishwater-blond hair. Blue eyes. She didn’t actually much resemble either May, or May’s sister. He’d filled in the details with memory. And yet . . . maybe without the bangs or pigtails. “You can’t be twenty-six,” he said.
    “I wish.”
    “And a . . .”
    “Retail designer.”
    “Which is?”
    “I lay out floor plans for retail establishments, maximizing shelf space with traffic flow, providing for display and checkout experiences. I’m in New York doing a women’s boutique that will specialize in a few name brands that complement each other.”
    “Sounds interesting,” Quinn lied.
    She gave him a broad smile.
    “Really,” he said, doubling down.
    “Confession time,” she said.
    Quinn wasn’t sure exactly what she meant.
    “I didn’t just look you up because we’re family,” Carlie said. “I’m here because the police in this city seem to think I’m invisible.”
    “You should go into crime,” Quinn said.
    “You were always funny, Uncle Frank.”
    “Your aunt May didn’t think so.”
    “Guess not.” Carlie shot him a penetrating stare and suddenly looked very much like May.