Private Scandals

her fingers had cramped uselessly. All she’d accomplished was to mar the pristine wallpaper.
    She couldn’t be sure if he was gone, or how long she’d been alone. Then she remembered the television and jumped like a cat on the remote.
    Still morning, she thought, her eyes filming with tears as she scanned the channels. How easy it was to time your life around the familiar schedule of daytime TV. The bright laughter of a familiar game show was both mocking and soothing.
    She’d slept through her own show, she realized, and choked back a bitter laugh.
    Where was Finn? What was he doing? Where was he looking for her?
    She rose mechanically, walked into the bathroom. Though she’d already checked once, she repeated the routine of standing on the lip of the tub, climbing onto the lid of the toilet and searching for hidden cameras.
    She had no choice but to trust Jeff that he wouldn’t pry in this room. She slid the door closed, tried not to think about the lack of a lock. And she stripped.
    She had to bite back the fear that he would come in when she was most vulnerable. She needed the cold, bracing spray to help clear her mind. She scrubbed hard, letting her thoughts focus as she soaped and rinsed, soaped and rinsed.
    He hadn’t missed a detail, she thought. Her brand of shampoo, of powder, creams. She used them all, finding some comfort in the daily routine. Wrapped in a bath sheet, she walked back into the bedroom to go through the drawers.
    She chose a sweater, trousers. Just the sort of outfit she would pick for a day of relaxing at home. Ignoring the fresh shudder, she carried the outfit, and the lacy underwear he’d provided, into the bathroom.
    Dressed, she began to pace. Pacing, she began to plan.
     
    Finn parked his car half a block down, then backtracked on foot. He walked straight to Jeff Hyatt’s front door. He didn’t bother to knock. Since he’d just hung up his car phone with Fran, he knew Jeff was in the office.
    Finn had the extra set of keys Fran had taken from Jeff’s bottom desk drawer. There were three locks. A lot of security, he mused, for a quiet neighborhood. He unbolted all three and, once inside, took the precaution of locking up again.
    He started upstairs first, clamping down on the urge to dive wildly into desk and files. Instead he searched meticulously, going through each drawer, each paper with his reporter’s eye keen for any tiny detail. He wanted a receipt, some proof that Jeff had traveled to New York and back on the day of Lew’s murder.
    The police might overlook his reporter’s instinct, but they wouldn’t overlook facts. Once they had Jeff in custody, they would sweat out of him Deanna’s whereabouts. He kept his eyes open, too, for some proof that Jeff had another house, a room, an apartment. He might be holding her there.
    He wouldn’t believe she was dead.
    The pattern so far was to kill people in public places.
    He shut the last drawer of the desk and moved to the files.
    By the time he’d finished, his palms were damp. Biting back the taste of despair, he strode from the office into Jeff’s bedroom. He’d found nothing, absolutely nothing except proof that Jeff Hyatt was an organized, dedicated employee who lived quietly and well, almost too well, within his means.
     
    While Finn searched the bedroom, Deanna paced the floor beneath him. She knew she would have only one chance, and that failure would be more than risky. It might be fatal.
     
    In the room above, Finn scanned row after row of videotapes. The man was beyond a buff, Finn mused. He was fanatical. The neat labels indicated television series, movies, news events. Over a hundred black cases lined the wall beside the television. Finn juggled the remote in his hand, deciding if he had time after searching the house, he’d screen a few to see if there was anything more personal on tape.
    He set the remote down, only a push of a button away from bringing Deanna to life on screen. He turned to the closet.
    The scent of mothballs, an old woman’s odor, tickled his nostrils. Slacks hung straight and true, jackets graced padded hangers. The shoes were stretched on trees. The photo album he found on the shelf revealed nothing but snapshots of an elderly man, sometimes alone, sometimes with Jeff beside him. His jaw seemed permanently clenched, his lips withered to a scowl. Beneath each shot was a careful notation.
    Uncle Matthew on 75th birthday. June 1983. Uncle Matthew and Jeff, Easter 1977. Uncle