Jennifer was still asleep when Roscoe arrived early the next morning. He had a couple of tough-looking men I didn't recognize with him. "You go home and get some rest," he told me. "I want you fresh for tonight."
I had something to do before I got some rest, but I didn't tell him that. During the night, I'd come up with a plan of sorts while I prowled the house. I figured we had to do something to provoke Gleason, to make him careless. He was getting more and more violent, but I hoped we could that would force his hand and make him play the game more on our terms than his. I didn't want Jennifer to be a target any longer than she had to be.
"OK," I said. "Jennifer's still asleep, tell her I'll see her later."
Roscoe smiled. "Jennifer, huh?" he said. "I take it you two have resolved your differences."
"We're working on it," I replied. I left Jennifer's house and jogged back to my place. When I got home, I took shower, re-bandaged my wound with some difficulty, and put on a three piece suit, white shirt, and tie. Then I got some things together, packed them in a very nice attaché case my ex-wife bought me when I quit the police department. Then I got in my Jeep Grand Cherokee and headed downtown. My destination was the office of the law firm Raymond Gleason worked for. I pulled into the parking garage of the new building and cruised around until I found the block of parking spaces reserved for Gleason's firm, and found a parking space not far away. Then I settled down to wait for Gleason to arrive.
As I sat there in my car, I watched people begin to arrive for work. After a while, a red Porsche pulled into one of the law firm's parking spaces and a tall, solid-looking dark-haired man dressed in a gray pinstripe suit got out. Raymond had arrived for work.
I slipped out of my car and heard him set the car alarm on his Porsche. I headed for the elevator, arriving a few seconds before Gleason did. Fortunately, I knew him, but he didn't know me. I took a place near the back wall of the elevator while other people filed in. I got lucky again. Gleason was standing right in front of me, with his back to me.
The elevator started to rise. Gleason chatted with several of the people in the elevator as we rode up to the floor where his office was located. I knew where we were going. That, along with the description of his car and his license number were in Roscoe's report. The elevator stopped at his floor. I dropped my attaché case and, when I bent down to pick it up, I bumped against him. When I did, I stuck a piece of paper I'd made up on my computer on his back, like we did put signs on other kids' backs in school. Only this piece of paper didn't say "Kick Me." Inside, it said, "You ought to watch your back, Raymond." "Sorry," I said.
"That's OK," Gleason said, glancing at me quickly. He bustled out of the elevator with the paper stuck to his back. I could hear several of the other people in the elevator tittering as he walked away from the elevator. I rode the elevator to the next floor, got off, and grabbed an elevator going back down. By the time I got down to the parking level, the lot had pretty much cleared, which was what I'd hoped for.
I walked over to Gleason's Porsche, set my attaché case down behind it, and opened it. I slipped on a pair of latex gloves, opened the case, and took out a bundle of four highway flares I'd wired together with a cheap wind-up alarm clock. I slipped the fake bomb under the car then, being careful not to activate the car alarm, I slipped a computer-generated note under his windshield wiper. That note said, "Look under your car before you get in." Another note, attached to the fake bomb, said, "This could have been real, Raymond."
I had accomplished what I wanted to do at Raymond's office, so I got back in my car and drove out of the parking garage. I drove to a mall near the apartment building he lived in and changed into a pair of coveralls that had "Universal Cable TV Contractors" lettered on them. I exchanged my attaché case for a tool box, got back in the car and drove to the big apartment complex Jennifer's tormenter lived in. When I got there, I parked the Cherokee where it wouldn't be seen and donned a pair of dark sunglasses that hid my eyes and most of my face, then I walked to the entrance. I wasn't sure how tight the security was in the building, but it turned out I didn't have to worry. I arrived just as someone was leaving and managed to get in without any trouble.
I rode the elevator up to Raymond's floor, walked down the hallway, and found his apartment. Considering the fancy rents they charge in places like that, the locks weren't very good. It took me only a few seconds with a lock pick to get into Raymond's apartment. I slipped on another pair of latex gloves and let myself in. Once I was inside, I systematically trashed the place, overturning furniture, emptying the kitchen cabinets, smashing things. I have to admit it felt pretty good. When I had the place looking like a tornado had hit it, I cleared off the kitchen counter and laid yet another computer generated note on it. This one said, "You aren't safe here, either. We can get to you any time we want to. Back off or we'll start breaking bones."
I left Raymond's devastated apartment feeling pretty good. Raymond might be just a little upset by the things I'd done. In fact, I hoped he was. I wanted him to be upset, so upset he'd start doing stupid things. One thing was sure; he now knew he wasn't dealing with someone who played by the rules any more than he did. And the fact that I'd managed to easily invade his personal spaces had to unnerve him a little.
Having wreaked what I hoped was at least a little havoc in Raymond Gleason's life, I left his apartment building and headed home. Now I could manage to get some rest.
When I got home, I took off my clothes and took a shower, then I started for my bedroom but, when my hand wrapped around the bedroom doorknob, my doorbell rang. "Damn," I thought. "Who the hell is that?" It occurred to me it might be Kass, or possibly even Didi. As much as I enjoyed the time I spend with both of those lovely young ladies, I really wasn't in the mood to see them right now. I went into my bedroom, slipped on my bathrobe, and headed for the door.
I opened the door and found a young woman I didn't know standing there, looking nervous. She was almost as tall as I was and was full-bodied, but not in the least fat. She had large breasts that pressed out the chest of her oversized tan sweater, which hung over paint-tight black stirrup pants. Judging from what I could see she had an excellent figure. She had short brown hair and a very pretty face.
"I-I'm Lisa Miller," she said tentatively.
I introduced myself. "What can I do for you, Lisa?" I asked.
"You...you helped get Bobby Devlin arrested, didn't you?" she asked me.
I nodded. "I guess I did, why?" I asked.
"He...he screwed up my life, big time!" my unexpected visitor replied. "He got my fiancée hooked on steroids."
"It that's true, Devlin's in the right place, isn't he?" I observed.
"You sure as hell got that right!" Lisa snorted. "I hope the son of a bitch never gets out!"
I wasn't sure why my being partly responsible for Devlin's being arrested had resulted in my visit from this attractive young woman, but since she was here, I thought I should at least be hospitable. "Would you like a cup of coffee or something?" I asked.
Lisa nodded. "Yeah, I'd like that," she replied.
I went out to the kitchen, poured two cups of coffee, and carried them back into the living room. Lisa was now sitting on the sofa. I set the cups down on the coffee table in front of the sofa and sat down next to her. It was nice she wanted to thank me but I needed rest. I didn't want to seem ungrateful, but I felt as if I had to get her out of my house as soon as I could so I could get some sleep.
"What happened to your boyfriend?" I asked.
"He...he really got messed up," Lisa replied. "He...he got real out of control. He...he used to beat on me. It was the steroids, he wasn't like that before Billy got him hooked on them."
"Was he a weight lifter?" I asked.
