That planning brought him to a boutique located among the exclusive shops lining Larimer Square.

Jack sipped from the foam cup of coffee he held and shoved his free hand deeper into his jacket. The sky was overcast and threatened more rain. The air hung thick with the scents of spring—damp earth, new buds and grass. A restlessness was in the air, a thrumming anticipation. As if there were something waiting for him, just out of reach.

And then he saw her. Eleanor Rappaport.

She was quite lovely, he had to give her that. She had long, thick hair the color of rich chocolate. Her bone structure was delicate, her carriage ethereal, her body slim and lithe. Even in the last stages of pregnancy, she walked with the grace of a dancer, her hand resting in the crook of her mother’s arm. The two of them were laughing as they came to a stop in front of Regina’s shop. Victoria’s Closet suited them both, with its old-world facade and vintage-style displays.

Jack slouched a little deeper into the bench where he sat. Pulling the brim of his baseball hat lower over his brow, he remained quiet and still, the coffee forgotten, as the women stopped, bussed each other on either cheek, then said their goodbyes.

It wasn’t until they’d parted and Eleanor had made her way nearly a block down the street that Jack stood. From the opposite side of the street, he followed her for a hundred yards to where she stopped in front of an ornate movie theater. He saw her take a ring of keys from her pocket and open the door, then enter and lock up again.

Jack stood there a few minutes more, waiting for the lights to turn on—then realized they wouldn’t be coming on. Why should they? Eleanor Rappaport didn’t need them.

Drinking the last of the coffee, he tossed the cup into the garbage and retraced his steps. It was time he had some information, personal information, about Eleanor Rappaport.

“What’s up, boss?”

Too late he noted that One-Eye had somehow followed him from the hotel and from there to Larimer Square.

“I thought you were going to sleep in?”

“You woke me up when you slammed the door.”

“Uh-huh.”

One-Eye had the grace to look sheepish, but he quickly turned the tables on Jack. “You’ve seen her again, haven’t you? That blind woman you encountered in the restaurant.”

Jack didn’t answer. He began moving quickly down the street, already thinking about his next move.

“Well?” One-Eye demanded, scrambling to catch up.

“Yes,” Jack confirmed shortly. “I saw her.”

“So what are you going to do now?”

“I’m going to rent a car.”

“What for?”

“I need to visit her landladies.”

One-Eye halted in his tracks. “Her landladies! What in heaven’s name for?”

ELEANOR STOOD IN THE SHADOWS just inside The Flick. The sensation had come again. That strange feeling of being watched. It had begun only a few minutes ago and hadn’t eased until she’d closed herself in the theater.

Who was watching her? And why?

Growling to herself in suppressed rage, she stomped into the office, reaching for the tiny cassette recorder that was left there each day. Although she’d begun classes in Braille, Eleanor hadn’t yet mastered the skill of reading the tiny bumps with the tips of her fingers, so she had been forced to find other means to circumvent the lists and books and written words she had taken for granted as a sighted person.

“Eleanor, it’s Babs.” The familiar, recorded voice spilled into the silence, filling the room with its warmth.

Barbara Worthington, the owner of The Flick, was a quick-witted, energetic woman who spent her days with her small son, Philip, and her husband, Tom, then worked during the evening hours.

Five years earlier Barbara had reopened the restored movie house under the guise of providing healthy snacks and even “healthier” movies—the films selected from a variety of classics and modern releases that Babs felt were “art.” Because of her dedication to avant-garde films, original promotional ideas, guest lecturers and community college involvement, Babs’s original idea had developed a cult following. Her devoted customers guaranteed nearly full houses for its evening shows and healthy numbers of customers for the matinees, as well.

“We’ve got a shipment of canola oil coming just after eleven. Tell them I won’t take that generic stuff they keep trying to foist on us. As far as I’m concerned, it tastes like axle grease. I want the good stuff, just as we advertise. The best they’ve got. After all, the Bell’s Angels will be coming from the Bell Retirement Villa for the two-o’clock showing of Magnificent Obsession. I can’t have any of them dropping in the aisle from a coronary because they ate the popcorn. Other than that, take care of the usual jobs—stocking counters, filling towel dispensers, whatever else needs to be done. Brian will be in to help you about ten-thirty. He’ll take care of the cleaning and check the projectors. ’Bye.”

Replacing the recorder where she’d found it, Eleanor grimaced and reached for the wraparound apron hanging on the back door. Yet another fascinating day in the world of the cinema was about to begin. She didn’t have time to think about who might be following her.

Later.

She’d think about it once she’d gone home.

ELEANOR WAS JUST CLOSING the front door to the brownstone when she heard the flap-flap of Minnie’s slippers. Minnie invariably exchanged her shoes for fur-edged mules whenever she entered the house, while Maude remained in her support oxfords until she retired for bed. Thankfully, such idiosyncrasies allowed Eleanor to tell the women apart.

“Hello, Minnie.”

There was a heartfelt sigh from the direction of Minnie’s door. “I’m so glad you’re home. I wasn’t sure you would make it in time.”

Eleanor frowned. “In time?”

Minnie took her hand, the elderly woman’s fingers slightly cold and soft as a baby’s. “These came for you.”

Eleanor ran her palm over the familiar shapes of three thick books.

“The art department from the university sent them. They said that you’d agreed to evaluate them for their art history classes.”

“You should have refused their proposal, Eleanor.” Maude’s voice chimed in from the depths of their apartment. “You’re looking much too tired lately.”

“I’m fine, Maude,” Eleanor insisted, raising her voice to be heard. But even as she uttered the words, she resisted the urge to sigh. She had agreed to do this for the university, but it had been so long since the request had been made, she’d forgotten all about the arrangement. If the truth were known, she’d been sure that they would never call. Since her father was a dean at the same university, she’d suspected that the offer was made through good-natured arm twisting and not from any real need.

“A reader will be coming at seven,” Minnie continued, “and it’s almost that now.”

Maude added, “You’ll have to hurry, dear, if you want time to run a comb through your hair.”

“A reader?” Eleanor echoed, wondering how all of these arrangements had been made without her input.

“Yes. Evidently there’s some rush. Something about purchase orders and grants and funding. I really didn’t listen too much to that part. But I did write down that a volunteer reader would be here at seven.” She patted Eleanor’s hand. “I met your reader earlier today. We had a cup of tea together and chatted for a few minutes.”

Eleanor scowled in irritation. She’d been assigned several volunteer readers from the university over the past few months. After dealing with the young students, she’d come to the conclusion that she preferred to choose her own assistants. Some of the kids sent her way could barely read themselves, others had annoying voices or distracting habits. A reader was much like a car. It needed to be test-driven before becoming a permanent part of one’s life.