Silent Masquerade Read online

  Mr. Gambrini was old-world charming, and his good manners and warm welcome always made her start her workday with a smile. When he left her, he went on to oversee the food preparation for the evening meal at his family’s restaurant, a few blocks from the beach. Periodically he would show up on a bike with a freezer unit on the back to make sure she had enough ice cream, or send one of his many nephews to give her a half-hour break. The nephews were less old-world, but just as charming, and all looked so alike she had no idea how many there were and which was which.

  Sometimes, on her break, she’d wander around and watch people enjoying themselves on the rides or talk to the other concessionaires. Sometimes she’d go over to the bumper cars and chat with Bill, if he wasn’t busy. When they spotted one another during the day, they’d wave and smile, and it made her feel as though they were really close, like best friends who shared everything. She looked forward to the evening meal, when they’d tell each other little stories about the day’s happenings, people who stood out in their minds for one reason or another, or events that had made the day exciting or interesting.

  When her shift was over, at eight, Mr. Gambrini, or one of those nephews, would return to take over for her. Bill finished at the same time and would be waiting in front of the bumper-car concession to walk her home.

  They ate their dinner at one of the restaurants along the route home, since by the time they finished work it seemed too late to start cooking.

  Mickey, their landlord, was the first one to inform them that they had a problem. He remarked to Bill that old Mrs. Jones on the first floor had pointed out that the Hamlins didn’t seem much like newlyweds. Bill repeated Mickey’s comments, and was obviously embarrassed by the telling.

  “How the hell do newlyweds act?” he demanded, running his hands through his hair in a way that had become endearingly familiar to Cara.

  The devilish imp in Cara raised its mischievous head and made a lewd suggestion, “Oh, you know,” she said, as nonchalantly as possible, “more like they’re in love.”

  Bill looked suspicious, bringing a laugh to the back of her throat. “What do you mean?”

  She swallowed the laugh and kept a straight face. “Well, when we’re out in public, I guess we should touch each other.”

  “Touch each other?” His voice went up an octave, and Cara looked away, hiding her face from his scrutiny.

  “Yeah, you know. Like you should touch my hair, and I could rub your back a little, and you might pat me on the butt and I might caress your face.” She reached for a glass and filled it with water from the tap. “Maybe we should stop and kiss now and then on the stairs, or when we’re in front of the building or out back at the pool.”

  “Kiss?”

  Hard to believe this guy was an educated, sophisticated man, the way he kept repeating her words, as if they were part of a foreign language.

  “That’s how married people act—especially newlyweds.”

  She swallowed some water before she risked turning to look at his face. It was flushed, and he was frowning. She almost felt sorry for him.

  But in the following days she made a point of touching him when they were out in public, and, though he seemed a bit uncomfortable, he cooperated. If anyone observed them too closely, his reticence could be chalked up to shyness. After all, there were some people who weren’t very comfortable about public displays of affection.

  Cara’s only problem was that it was becoming more and more natural to touch Bill—more something she wanted to do than just an act for the neighbors. Of course, she couldn’t let him know it, but there were times when he played the role, and put his hand on her hair or touched her cheek, that she almost purred with pleasure.

  Not only that, but sometimes his touch stayed with her for hours afterward, making her flesh hum as she went about her chores.

  Even their disagreements felt like the kind of spats that happened between two people who really cared about each other, though they didn’t have many of them.

  At the beginning of the third week, they were having dinner at the Red Dragon Chinese Restaurant when they had one of those infrequent spats.

  “It seems like the crowds get bigger every day,” Cara said as she picked up big chunks of green pepper with her chopsticks.

  Bill watched and shook his head in disgust. “Why do you order beef and peppers if you don’t like the peppers?”

  “I like the flavor,” Cara said, shoving the pile of vegetables off to the side. She popped a piece of steak into her mouth and tucked it in the corner of her cheek before asking “Doesn’t it?”

  “Doesn’t it what?”

  “Seem like the crowds are getting bigger?”

  Bill shrugged. “It’s always the same to me—noisy, crowded, and busy.”

  It hadn’t occurred to her that, like her, Bill was a fish out of water at his job. She longed to know what he’d done before he was forced to go on the run, but she knew she wasn’t allowed.

  She poked at her food. “I like to make the best of even the worst situation.”

  Bill grunted. “A job is a means of paying the rent. I don’t see the need to glamorize it.”

  “Come on, Bill, this one’s not your average humdrum job. There’s the music, and people screaming on the roller coaster and laughing on the bumper cars. Having fun. There’s the smell of the gyros frying and popcorn and cotton candy, and the ocean when the wind is up. There are all those people eating and drinking and running from ride to ride and to all the concessions, and...”

  “And life is just a bowl of cherries, and laugh and the world laughs with you,” Bill said, interrupting her, his tone tinged with sarcasm.

  Cara made a face at him. “Okay, so I’m a little more optimistic than you are.”

  “A little?” Bill drank tea from a small blue-and-white bowl. “Sometimes I get the feeling life really is just a party for you, that this is all fun and games and not about the reality the rest of the world faces every day.”

  “Bill, is it such a crime to try to like your job? Your life?” Cara pushed at her food with her chopsticks, her appetite suddenly quashed.

  Bill banged his fist on the table. Both Cara and the teapot jumped. “This isn’t your life, Cara. This is what you have instead of your real life. This is make-believe. It could be snatched from you at any moment.”

  “By whom?”

  He stared at her, plainly aghast. “Haven’t I made it clear to you that I’m in trouble? That you’re in danger if they find me and you’re anywhere nearby?”

  “Who, Bill?” All pretense of eating was forgotten. “Tell me who they are, who you’re so afraid of. If they’re a threat to me, too, don’t I have a right to know?”

  Bill swiped his hand across his mouth, then put it to his forehead, as if he’d suddenly discovered he had a headache.

  Cara noticed that his once smooth hands were beginning to show the effects of his work. His palms had started to callus, and there were stains from machinery grease that didn’t come off with plain soap and water.

  “Bill?” she said, softly.

  Bill slumped back in the booth and gave her a steady, noncommittal look. “Forget it, Cara. I’m not going to tell you anything. Nothing’s changed. It won’t help you to know any more than you do.” He sat forward and dug in his pocket for his wallet. “Are you finished? Do you want a carryout box?”

  As usual, his shutting her out made her feel numb. “Yes.” She pulled her coin purse from her bag. “It’s my turn, remember?”

  “Oh, yeah.” They were avoiding each other’s eyes now, Cara realized, as uncomfortable with each other as strangers.

  We are strangers, she reminded herself on the silent walk home.

  The silence was all the more intense for the contrasting noise around them—people pushing by to get to the park for the last two hours of entertainment, or bumping tiredly along as they returned from the boardwalk.

  At one point, someone stumbled against Cara, pushing her against Bill
. He put his arm around her to keep her from falling—an automatic gesture that shouldn’t have felt so personal, so caring.

  And then, suddenly, it felt like more. She didn’t know if it was his heartbeat or hers that thumped between them as she turned in his arms and was held tight against his chest. His mouth hovered temptingly close to hers, and she could smell his special fragrance, see the glint of desire that glowed in his eyes, feel his arms straining to hold her close. She wanted to slump against him, to let their bodies flow together, to quench the flame that burned the length of her body, from her thighs to her breasts.

  Bill stared down into Cara’s face. They were only a few feet from their own front door. He could scoop her up into his arms and carry her up to his room. He could see her as he lowered her to the bed, her eyes glowing with undisguised desire, as they were now. His hands ached to caress her silken skin, to curve around her breasts, to hold her against the heat of his own body.

  Someone bumped against Bill’s back, and he almost fell, taking Cara down with him.

  He gritted his teeth and forced himself back to reality. He righted himself and loosened his hold on Cara. “Are you all right?” he asked.

  Cara straightened and withdrew from his protective embrace. “I’m fine,” she muttered. “Thanks.”

  “Good,” Bill returned. His tone seemed surly to Cara. She wondered if they were going to go to bed in this same silence. She’d read somewhere that married couples should make up before going to bed—not let the anger carry over into the next day.

  But we’re not married, she firmly reminded herself. We’re not really even a couple.

  They arrived at their building. Cara tried the handle of the street door. “It’s already locked for the night.”

  Bill handed Cara the bag containing their dinner remains while he fumbled for the right key. His head was bent, and Cara saw there was a swirl on top of his head where his hair curled into a cowlick. It made him seem more boyish, more accessible.

  “Bill, let’s make up before we go inside,” some impulse moved her to say. She loved the apartment, didn’t want it spoiled by bad feelings. Didn’t want their closeness spoiled by bad feelings.

  He found the right key and lifted his head so that now he was looking down at her. “Make up?”

  “Yes, you know, stop being mad at one another.”

  She had her back to the door, and was facing him as she waited for him to unlock it. He studied her face in the dim light from the lamp over the door. “I’m not mad at you, Cara,” he whispered.

  She shook her head, as if to clear away a muddled thought. “I thought...” She cleared her throat, surprised to hear how hoarse she suddenly sounded.

  “I get a little crazed on the subject of my mortality,” Bill said. “I just don’t want you to get so complacent you forget to be careful, is all.”

  Cara leaned against the door and wondered if it would prevent her fall, should her knees give way, as they threatened to do at any moment.

  The kiss was fleeting—a mere suggestion of lips brushing. They stood apart, staring at one another.

  Hunger flared in a brushfire of emotion. Cara felt her body slump against Bill’s as his arms swept around to pull her to him—only the locked door kept them from falling.

  Cara wasn’t sure whether Bill pushed away first or whether she lurched free of his arms. The only thing she did know was that they were both breathing raggedly. She, herself, was wide-eyed with exhilaration mingled with fright.

  “This isn’t a show for the neighbors,” Bill said softly.

  Cara could only shake her head.

  “We’d better get inside.”

  Bill put the key in the lock, and Cara followed him into the building, aware of a shakiness in the pit of her stomach.

  Bill told himself he would not allow it to go beyond that one brief, out-of-control moment. She was delicious and available—a lethal combination for one in his predicament.

  Cara told herself she mustn’t forget their agreement.

  She rushed toward the second floor, where privacy awaited them. Cara knew they were about to lose all control, to cast aside every good reason for keeping their relationship strictly platonic.

  Bill reached the door of their apartment first. He stuck the key in the lock...and found the door unlocked.

  * * *

  THE MAN PUNCHED NUMBERS into the phone, reading them from a pocket-size notebook. It took five rings before the phone was answered.

  “It’s me. Lefebre,” he said in response to a terse male greeting.

  “It’s about time! What the hell is taking so long?”

  “I had to learn their routine, had to make sure I had time to do it.”

  “Is it done?”

  “They don’t have a phone.”

  “Come on! Everybody has a phone.”

  “Nope. No phone. But remember, they just moved in a few days ago. Maybe the phone company has a waiting list, or maybe they’re in no hurry to order one because they don’t know anyone here yet.”

  Frustration burned along the wires as the client sighed his disgust.

  “So what did you find out?”

  Lefebre was tempted to string the client along, which was a boost to his own ego—this feeling of power.

  He relented, remembering the size of the fee he was charging for this assignment. Money had a power of its own. “They have separate bedrooms.”

  “What? Are you sure?”

  “I’m pretty good at reading the signs. They’re masquerading as husband and wife, but both bedrooms are being used. There’s no crossover of clothing from one room to the other, no mingling of cosmetics or slippers or anything else to suggest either has ever stepped over the threshold into the other’s room.”

  “Okay. Now listen. I want that phone bug in place the minute they get one installed. You got that?”

  “Yes, certainly.” His irritation was palpable. He resented a client treating him like an idiot. “And what do you want me to do in the meantime?”

  “Keep to the plan. Try to find out all you can about the guy, and make sure they don’t leave their present address without you knowing.”

  “You still want a regular check-in?”

  There was a pause while the client thought that over. “Only if there’s something important to report. I don’t know if it’s going to be necessary for me to come out there, but if it is, I need you to stay put, keeping them in your sights until then.”

  Lefebre hung up and lit a cigarette before leaving the shelter of the booth. From the street he could see the big window of the couple’s apartment. There should be a light on pretty soon, he thought. They’d probably stopped for something to eat on the way home. It was what they’d done every night so far.

  When the light came on, he could head back to the motel, a couple of blocks away. He moved across the street to his accustomed place in the doorway of a now defunct beauty shop. From his place in the shadows, he could see without being spotted from their second-story window across the street.

  He worried that in his hurry to get out of their apartment he might have left some sign he’d been there. He probably hadn’t. He was too much of a professional to make a mistake. And, after all, he hadn’t even searched the place. The client had only ordered a phone bug, hadn’t told him to toss the place, or to look for anything specific.

  They were obviously underground. That was apparent, because he hadn’t been able to find a thing on Hamlin’s background so far. It was as if he’d just appeared out of thin air, making himself up as he went along.

  Lefebre tossed the cigarette end and leaned against the wall. He was used to waiting, could actually doze on his feet like a horse and come instantly awake at the least sign of change anywhere in his vicinity.

  Right now he needed to stay awake until the couple got in for the night. He passed the time by thinking about the client—a man with no name who was paying a hefty sum just to keep a surveillance going.

  He’d been
hired by phone. The call had come in the middle of the night.

  “You’ll have to leave right away. There’s a flight out at 4:00 a.m. that’ll get you to Utah before the bus gets there. You’ll get on in Utah, and no one will question it. The bus is going to San Francisco and there’ll be a rental car waiting for you there.”

  It had soon become clear that his quarry had become part of a couple. The two of them had taken all their meals together, as well as sharing a seat on the bus.

  He’d thought he’d made a mistake when they separated in San Francisco, but then they’d joined up again in front of the Museum of Natural History.

  Not for the first time, he wondered what the client was after. What was there about these people that his client would pay so much to keep tabs on them? The money had been deposited in his bank account, as promised. He’d made sure of that with a phone call to his bank the minute he got to Salt Lake. As he’d expected, the deposit had been made anonymously.

  He was about to reach for another cigarette when the light went on in their apartment.

  Good. They were in for the night. He could snatch a few hours of sleep before he went on with his research to discover what he could about Bill Hamlin.

  * * *

  BILL HELD CARA BACK with his arm and slowly opened the door. He jumped back, plastering himself against the wall, and waited. No sound came from within the apartment.

  Cautiously he moved into the doorway, gesturing to Cara to stay where she was.

  He turned on the front hall light and jumped back again. Still no sound, no movement. He eased over to his bedroom door and went through the same careful moves before entering his room. When he saw that the room was empty, he went to the closet. The briefcase was where he’d left it, pushed back against the wall, on the shelf. He took it down, unlocked it and removed the gun before continuing his search of the apartment.

  Whoever had been there was gone. When he was sure of that, he went back to his room and pushed the gun between the mattress and the box spring. Only then did he call out to let Cara know it was safe.