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.