“A little more dire?” she asks, her tone caustic. “Because a cheater isn’t that bad?”
“Fair enough.” I turn my gaze out toward the winding trail. The man in the blazer approaches another man. From this viewpoint, I can just make out that it’s likely Ericson.
“Get your program ready,” Blakely says, nodding toward Ericson and his acquaintance. “We need access to Ericson’s phone. Can you grab his metadata from this distance?”
I take out my phone and start the scan. “I guess let’s find out.”
While the program does the hard work, I study her profile. Blakely is soft in this light, an illusion.
I blink and refocus my thoughts. I made a mental note earlier that she appears to be right-handed. This is important. I need to confirm this, as it has bearing on the project.
“What does Mrs. Ericson have in mind for her cheating husband?” I ask.
Blakely snaps another round of pictures then, using her right hand, sets her camera inside the case. “If she knew that, she wouldn’t need me.” She stands. “Come on.”
I follow her to a large rock structure near the pond, where she instructs me to “look nonchalant” as she hikes up a narrow path to the top. Below, benches wrap the paved trail, and a family of three casts fishing line into the green pond.
As I move beside her, I set my pack down. She again takes out her camera, using the lens to zoom in on Ericson and the man, who are having a conversation near the bank of the pond. “He’s not just a cheater,” Blakely says.
I stay quiet, waiting for her to elaborate.
“He’s a deviant,” she says. “Gets his rocks off by beating and strangling prostitutes, though he hasn’t killed anyone. That I know of.”
I blow out a breath. “That seems to warrant a place at the top of your list.”
Her mouth presses into a tight line. “I don’t take jobs based on how deserving a target is of revenge. Although, if I did, yes. He’d be near the top.”
“Then, how do you select your victims?”
“I have a checklist,” she says matter-of-factly. “My original scheme for Ericson involved getting access to his company computer. But now…” She trails off, her gaze roving after Ericson as he heads toward the park exit. “Maybe there’s a better way to deliver Mrs. Daverns’ revenge.” She looks at me. “Did you get what you needed?”
I check the app and nod, satisfied.
“Good,” she says.
Our spying complete, I lean back and brace my palms against the rock, gaze cast out over the murky pond. “A better way to deliver Mrs. Daverns’ revenge such as…?”
“Such as—” She nods with her camera pointed toward the mountain of buildings looming over the park. “See The Plaza right there? Ericson’s eccentric and paranoid client resides in the penthouse. His name is Brewster. That’s where their nefarious negotiations and other degenerate happenings take place.”
I nod slowly as I take in the building. I don’t know much about New York architecture, but you don’t have to be a native to know The Plaza’s ritzy and historic reputation. “Why not just rent a room to get access?” I question.
“Sure,” Blakely says, then she turns her gaze on me. “You got thirty grand to throw away?”
My eyes widen. “I see your point.” I think for a moment. “I could get you into Ericson’s company network. I know how corporate closed networks operate, and even better if it’s a Linux system.”
She licks her lips, considering this. I’ve noticed she does this particular action when she’s weighing what she wants—a predatory response, a sexual reflex aimed to distract. I wonder if she realizes this, or if it’s a subconscious tactic.
“That would only lead to his financial ruin.” She leans back to join me against the rock.
“Is Mrs. Daverns aware of the deviant extent of her husband’s extracurricular activities?” I ask.
She shakes her head, her long layers beneath the cap drawing my gaze as they dance over her breasts. “Lenora is not aware. That’s why I first decided that getting him fired would suit her.”
“Revealing his criminal dealings and womanizing, abusive ways would do that and more,” I say. “He might serve a prison sentence, depending on how well you execute the scheme. But then his wife would discover just what a monster she married.”
I watch her closely, trying to detect each micro expression. Blakely can’t sympathize or feel badly for this woman; she doesn’t have the emotional capability. There has to be another reason as to why she would want to go after Ericson to this extreme.
“Lenora is strong,” she says, reasoning—or justifying—out loud. “Besides, revenge should be equally comparable to the crime against the victim.” She looks into my eyes. “In Ericson’s case, victims. He deserves to pay for the harm he’s caused.”
Interesting. On the surface, it appears she wants justice, but dive a little deeper into her psyche, and you’ll probably discover a desire to inflict pain. Blakely is a justice dealer. She can claim it’s about the money—and I’m sure that part doesn’t hurt—but oh, she enjoys making people suffer.
I have the urge to grab my journal and jot down a note.
The third step of the scientific method is the hypothesis. Create a theory with presumed outcomes. I’m close, but not quite there yet. Before I can develop a hypothesis, I need a couple key pieces of information.
One: To determine if her psychopathy is due to a brain injury or natural development.
The age-old question of nature versus nurture.
The ideal subject cannot have sustained damage to the frontal lobe, the area where empathy and impulse reside. A damaged cerebral cortex will skew the test results. And honestly, I’m not a doctor. After everything with Mary…I have no interest in brain surgery.
Two: Who is Blakely close to? Family, friends, business associates? How much time will go by before someone starts asking questions?
“You have no input on the matter?”
Her question jars me out of my thoughts. I push the bridge of my glasses up, refocusing my attention. “I’m not a judge or jury, Blakely,” I say. “I’ve never given much thought to crime and punishment. It doesn’t affect my daily routine. I’m not the guy to weigh this choice.”
She stares at me for a moment, then a throaty laugh bursts free. “You are such a nerdy scientist,” she says, and I’m captivated by her smile. “Well, I make those choices nearly every day, so I’m going with my gut instinct on this one. It’s never failed me before.”
“I trust you,” I say.
A heavy beat falls between us, weighted by those three simple words.
“You don’t know me well enough to trust me,” she remarks.
I shrug. “I’m getting to know you. That counts.”
Blakely says nothing. I know I’m coming across as direct and ignorant. I just hope that my attempt to lower her defenses isn’t too obvious. For this moment, I choose not to disturb the silence, just let us acclimate to each other, hopefully giving her the sense that there’s no need to force conversation.
I want to close my eyes so I can let my other senses absorb her. Beneath the smell of pond and city smog, I catch the faint scent of her perfume. Notes of coconut milk and bergamot. I want to find out the name of it. There’s a buzz at the feel of being so physically close to Blakely. The air is energized between us, heated molecules firing from her skin to mine. An electric current coaxing my body toward hers.