Night Prey

anything, nobody ever gave her what appeared to be an order. Then he noticed that when one of the white shirts wanted to talk to her, the shirt was distinctly deferential. Not a secretary.
    As he watched, he began to suspect that she was involved in something very complicated, something that wore her down. By the end of the day, she was haggard. When the white shirts and conservative dresses were standing up, stretching, laughing, talking, she was still working her headset. When she finally left, her leather briefcase was always stuffed with paper.
    On this day, she left a bit earlier than usual. He followed her through the skyway to the parking ramp, walked past her, face averted, in a crowd. At the elevator, he joined the short queue, feeling the tension in the back of his neck. He’d not done this before. He’d never been this close. . . .
    He felt her arrive behind him, kept his back to her, his face turned away. She’d ride up to the sixth floor, if she remembered where she left her car. Sometimes she forgot, and wandered through the ramp, lugging the briefcase, looking for it. He’d seen her do it. Today her car was on six, just across from the doors.
    The elevator arrived and he stepped inside, turned left, pushed seven, stepped to the back. A half-dozen other people got on with her, and he maneuvered until he was directly behind her, not eight inches away. The smell of her perfume staggered him. A small tuft of hair hung down on the back of her neck; she had a mole behind her ear—but he’d seen that before.
    The smell was the thing. The Opium . . .
    The elevator started up and a guy at the front lost his balance, took a half-step back into her. She tried to back up, her butt bumping Koop in the groin. He stood his ground and the guy in front muttered “Sorry,” and she half-turned to Koop at the same time, not looking at him, and said, “Sorry,” and then they were at six.
    Koop’s eyes were closed, holding on. He could still feel her. She’d pressed , he thought.
    She’d apparently noticed him, noticed his body under the chameleon’s shirt, and had been attracted. She’d pressed. He could still feel her ass.
    Koop got off at seven, stunned, realized he was sweating, had a ferocious hard-on. She’d done it on purpose. She knew . . . Or did she?
    Koop hurried to his truck. If he came up beside her, maybe she’d give him a signal. She was a high-class woman, she wouldn’t just come on to him. She’d do something different, none of this “Wanna fuck?” stuff. Koop fired up the truck, rolled down the ramp, around and around, making himself dizzy, the truck’s wheels screeching down the spiral. Had to stay with her.
    At the exit, there were three cars ahead of him. Jensen hadn’t come down yet . . . The first and second cars went quickly. The third was driven by an older woman, who said something to the ticket taker. The ticket taker stuck his head out the window and pointed left, then right. The woman said something else.
    A car came up from behind Koop, stopped. Not her. Then another car, lights on, down the last ramp, breaking left into the monthly-parker exit line. Jensen had an exit card. He caught a glimpse of her face as she punched the card into the automatic gate. The gate rose and she rolled past him on the left.
    “Motherfucker, what’s wrong? What’re you doing?” Koop poked his horn.
    The woman in the car ahead of him took ten seconds to turn and look behind her, then shrugged and started digging into her purse. She took forever, then finally passed a bill to the ticket taker. The ticket taker said something, and she dug into the purse again, finally producing the parking ticket. He took the ticket, gave her change, and then she said something else. . . .
    Koop beeped again, and the woman looked into her rearview mirror, finally started forward, stopped at the curb, took a slow left. Koop thrust his money and ticket at the ticket taker.
    “Keep the change,” he said.
    “Can’t do that.” The ticket taker was an idiot, some kind of goddamned faggot. Koop felt the anger crawling up his neck. In another minute . . .
    “I’m in a fuckin’ hurry,” Koop said.
    “Only take a second,” the ticket man said. He screwed around with the cash register and held out two quarters. “Here you go, in-a-fuckin’-hurry.”
    The gate went up and Koop, cursing, pushed into the street. Jensen usually took the same route home. He started after her, pushing hard, making