Sam left the baseball bat in the car
and trotted across the street after her.
There was a drop down onto the beach followed
by steady pale sand to the water’s edge. The tide was out; the girl was thirty
yards away, her back to him, looking across the water. Not many people were
nearby. He closed the distance, making sure it was clear both ways.
She had gone to an art gallery after
the house. From his vantage point he had seen her enter, return to the car
seventeen minutes later with a young man, remove nine packages with his help
that he had a feeling were Catholic’s paintings, take them back inside and
return to her car twenty five minutes after that.
Sam had a society magazine in his
hand as he walked, folded back and back into a narrow rectangle. At the top of
the article still visible was a photograph of the woman he was following: Molly
Butler, daughter of Robert Catholic; sister of someone named Ruben Butler. It
referred to her as a shrew; it said she had made several public statements to
the effect that Jack Catholic should have inherited nothing. That made her a
potential ally.
In the photograph she looked sensual
and deeply erotic. The soft skin at the base of her cheeks slid smoothly into
her neck.
He folded it in half again, across
the width this time and slipped it inside his jacket pocket, then he slowed
right down and approached her.
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