Blue Smoke

burn.
    Cops were so stupid. How many times had he proven that? Maybe they’d tripped him up a couple of times, but he’d been younger then. Besides, he’d learned from it. Lots of time to learn in the joint. Time to plan and imagine, read, study.
    He’d honed his computer skills inside. Nothing handier in today’s world than strong computer skills. Hacking, searching, cloning phones.
    Or finding out where a certain cop’s widow lived.
    Too bad the other one moved to Florida. He’d deal with that one of these days, but it would’ve been nice to take out both of the bastards who hauled his father away. Who pulled the man out of his own home, humiliated him.
    Humiliated both of them.
    It didn’t matter that the other cop bastard had already bought it. His widow would do just fine.
    He left the car—another Cherokee this time—a block south and walked briskly up the sidewalk like a man with things to do.
    He was still wearing jeans, but he’d changed into a blue button-down shirt, sleeves rolled up. He wore Nikes and a black O’s fielder’s cap. He carried a small backpack and a glossy white florist’s box.
    She lived alone, Mrs. Thomas bastard Umberio. Deb to her friends. Her daughter lived in Seattle, so was out of the zone for game time. Herson lived in Rockville. He’d been closer to Baltimore, Joey thought, he’d have taken the son instead of the widow. But this was a hometown show, after all.
    He knew Deb was fifty-six, taught high school math, drove a 1997 Honda Civic, went to some cunt-gym three times a week after school and closed her bedroom curtains most nights at ten.
    Probably so she could masturbate, he thought and strolled into the apartment building, chose the stairs rather than the elevator to take him to the third floor.
    There were four apartments to a floor. He’d already done his scope. Not much to worry about, and the old coots directly across the hall went out to dinner early every Wednesday night.
    Pays to do your homework, right, teacher? he thought, and knocked cheerfully on Deborah Umberio’s door.
    She opened the door, keeping the security chain in place so he caught only a slice of her. Brown hair, pointy face, careful eyes.
    “Deborah Umberio?”
    “That’s right.”
    “Got flowers for you.”
    “Flowers?” Pink came into her cheeks. Women were so predictable. “Who’s sending me flowers?”
    “Ah . . .” He turned the box as if reading a label on the side. “Sharon McMasters. Seattle?”
    “That’s my daughter. Well, what a surprise. Wait just a minute.” She shut the door, rattled the chain off, pulled it back open. “What a nice surprise,” she repeated, reaching for the box.
    He rammed his right fist into her face. As she fell backward, he nipped inside, closed the door, flipped the lock, set the chain.
    “It is, isn’t it?” he said.
    He had plenty to do. Hauling her into the bedroom, stripping her down, tying her up, gagging her. She was out cold, but he punched her again, just to keep her that way for a while longer.
    The bedroom curtains were closed a little early tonight, but he didn’t think anyone would notice. Or give a rat’s ass.

    He left her TV going. She’d had the Discovery Channel on—for God’s sake—while she worked in the kitchen.
    Looked like she’d been making herself a salad. Too lazy to cook, he decided as he poked inside her refrigerator. Well, something would be cooking soon.
    He found a bottle of white wine. Cheap shit, but sometimes you had to make do.
    He’d learned to like finer wines while working for the Carbionellis. He’d learned a hell of a lot working for the Carbionellis.
    He drank the wine with the hard-boiled eggs she’d set out for the salad. Though he had surgical gloves in his backpack, he wasn’t worried about fingerprints any longer.
    They’d moved past that part of the game.
    He riffled through her cupboards, in her freezer. He found several frozen dinners. His initial reaction was disgust, but the picture on the box of the meat loaf and mashed potatoes didn’t look half bad.
    He popped it in the oven, dumped some Italian dressing on the salad.
    While he waited, he surfed channels. Couldn’t the stupid bitch spring for more than basic cable? He kept the sound low in case some nosy neighbor came to the door and settled on Jeopardy!
    Jeopardy! ended, Wheel of Fortune began while he ate the meat loaf and potatoes.
    There was a lot to do, but plenty of time to do it. He caught the low, muffled