Night Prey Read Free

night.
     
     
     
    KOOP PAGED THROUGH the photo books, watching, waiting. He was looking at a picture of a dead movie star when his woman came around the corner, looking up at “Hobbies & Collectibles.”
    He knew her immediately. She wore a loose brown jacket, a little too long, a bit out of fashion, but neat and well tended. Her hair was short, careful, tidy. Her head was tipped back so she could look up at the top shelves, following a line of books on antiques. She was plain, without makeup, not thin or fat, not tall or short, wearing oversize glasses with tortoiseshell frames. A woman who wouldn’t be noticed by the other person in an elevator. She stood looking up at the top shelf, and Koop said, “Can I reach something for you?”
    “Oh . . . I don’t know.” She tried a small smile, but it seemed nervous. She had trouble adjusting it.
    “Well, if I can,” he said politely.
    “Thanks.” She didn’t turn away. She was waiting for something. She didn’t know how to make it happen herself.
    “I missed the reading,” Koop said. “I just finished the Rubaiyat. I thought there might be something, you know, analogous. . . .”
    And a moment later, the woman was saying, “. . . it’s Harriet. Harriet Wannemaker.”
     
     
     
    SARA JENSEN, SPREAD on her bed, twitched once.
    Koop, just about to step toward her dresser, froze. Sara had been a heavy smoker in college: her cigarette subconscious could smell the nicotine coming from Koop’s lungs, but she was too far down to wake up. She twitched again, then relaxed. Koop, heart hammering, moved closer, reached out, and almost touched her foot.
    And thought: What am I doing?
    He backed a step away, transfixed, the moonlight playing over her body.
    Gold.
    He let out his breath, turned again toward the dresser. Women keep every goddamned thing in the bedroom—or the kitchen—and Jensen was no different. The apartment had a double-locked door, had monitor cameras in the hall, had a private patrol that drove past a half-dozen times a night, occasionally stopping to snoop. She was safe, she thought. Her jewelry case, of polished black walnut, sat right there on the dressing table.
    Koop picked it up carefully with both hands, pulled it against his stomach like a fullback protecting a football. He stepped back through the door and padded back down the hall to the living room, where he placed the case on the rug and knelt beside it. He carried a small flashlight in his breast pocket. The lens was covered with black tape, with a pinhole through the tape. He turned it on, held it between his teeth. He had a needle of light, just enough to illuminate a stone or show a color without ruining his night vision.
    Sara Jensen’s jewelry case held a half-dozen velvet-lined trays. He took the trays out one at a time, and found some good things. Earrings, several pair in gold, four with stones: two with diamonds, one with emeralds, one with rubies. The stones were fair—one set of diamonds were more like chips than cut stones. Total retail, maybe five thousand. He’d get two thousand, tops.
    He found two brooches, one a circle of pearls, the other with diamonds, a gold wedding band, and an engagement ring. The diamond brooch was excellent, the best thing she owned. He would have come for that alone. The engagement stone was all right, but not great. There were two gold bracelets and a watch, a woman’s Rolex, gold and stainless steel.
    No belt.
    He put everything into a small black bag, then stood, stepping carefully around the empty trays, and went back through the bedroom. Slowly, slowly, he began opening the dresser drawers. The most likely place was the upper left drawer of the chest. The next most likely was the bottom drawer, depending on whether or not she was trying to hide it. He knew this from experience.
    He took the upper drawer first, easing it out, his hands kneading through the half-seen clothing. Nothing hard. . . .
    The belt was in the bottom left-hand drawer,