Monica Reed, 45, tough as old leather, brilliant. She didn't need trinkets to feel special, but maybe today she would. Just as he leaned closer to read the price tag, $429 before tax, the door behind him opened again, a soft chime, but Malik barely noticed. He only registered the sudden hush. The light seemed to dim, and the room felt a degree colder.
Laura Whitmore stood near the entrance. Her posture taut, her bobbed hair framing a face set in a scrutinizing mask. She tugged at her blouse as if adjusting notches of propriety, her purse tightened at her side. She wasn't shopping, she was hunting. Malik thanked the associate, who unlocked the case and laid the necklace on a velvet pad.
Everything was perfect. He raised his head, ready to ask how much of a deposit would hold it when Laura's gaze iced over him. She took out her phone, thumb hovering over the screen. $429, Malik asked, forcing normalcy back into his voice. That's right, the associate replied.
Would you like to hold it? A $50 deposit locks it for 24 hours. Yeah, Malik said, relief mingling with pride. That sounds good. His hand dipped into his wallet.
At that moment, Laura stepped backward, one foot out the door. She exhaled into her phone. Yes, she whispered. There's a young man in a black hoodie. I think he's casing the place.
Malik paid the deposit, smiled at the clerk, and turned toward the exit, only to hear a rumble outside. Glancing through the glass, he saw two police cruisers ease to a stop by the curb, lights off, but authority loud enough. Before he could even think, two uniformed officers crossed the threshold. Their eyes swept the showroom, then fixed on Malik. One was tall with a name plate reading Davis.