The elevator arrived and he stepped inside, turned left, pushed seven, stepped to the back. A half-dozen other people got on with her, and he maneuvered until he was directly behind her, not eight inches away. The smell of her perfume staggered him. A small tuft of hair hung down on the back of her neck; she had a mole behind her ear-but he'd seen that before.

The smell was the thing. The Opium…

The elevator started up and a guy at the front lost his balance, took a half-step back into her. She tried to back up, her butt bumping Koop in the groin. He stood his ground and the guy in front muttered "Sorry," and she half-turned to Koop at the same time, not looking at him, and said, "Sorry," and then they were at six.

Koop's eyes were closed, holding on. He could still feel her. She'd pressed, he thought.

She'd apparently noticed him, noticed his body under the chameleon's shirt, and had been attracted. She'd pressed. He could still feel her ass.

Koop got off at seven, stunned, realized he was sweating, had a ferocious hard-on. She'd done it on purpose. She knew… Or did she?

Koop hurried to his truck. If he came up beside her, maybe she'd give him a signal. She was a high-class woman, she wouldn't just come on to him. She'd do something different, none of this "Wanna fuck?" stuff. Koop fired up the truck, rolled down the ramp, around and around, making himself dizzy, the truck's wheels screeching down the spiral. Had to stay with her.

At the exit, there were three cars ahead of him. Jensen hadn't come down yet… The first and second cars went quickly. The third was driven by an older woman, who said something to the ticket taker. The ticket taker stuck his head out the window and pointed left, then right. The woman said something else.

A car came up from behind Koop, stopped. Not her. Then another car, lights on, down the last ramp, breaking left into the monthly-parker exit line. Jensen had an exit card. He caught a glimpse of her face as she punched the card into the automatic gate. The gate rose and she rolled past him on the left.

"Motherfucker, what's wrong? What're you doing?" Koop poked his horn.

The woman in the car ahead of him took ten seconds to turn and look behind her, then shrugged and started digging into her purse. She took forever, then finally passed a bill to the ticket taker. The ticket taker said something, and she dug into the purse again, finally producing the parking ticket. He took the ticket, gave her change, and then she said something else…

Koop beeped again, and the woman looked into her rearview mirror, finally started forward, stopped at the curb, took a slow left. Koop thrust his money and ticket at the ticket taker.

"Keep the change," he said.

"Can't do that." The ticket taker was an idiot, some kind of goddamned faggot. Koop felt the anger crawling up his neck. In another minute…

"I'm in a fuckin' hurry," Koop said.

"Only take a second," the ticket man said. He screwed around with the cash register and held out two quarters. "Here you go, in-a-fuckin'-hurry."

The gate went up and Koop, cursing, pushed into the street. Jensen usually took the same route home. He started after her, pushing hard, making lights.

"C'mon, Sara," he said to his steering wheel. "C'mon, where are you?" He caught her a mile out. Fell in behind.

Should he pull up beside her? Would she give him a signal?

She might.

He was thinking about it when she slowed, took a right into a drugstore parking lot. Koop followed, parked at the edge of the lot. She sat inside her car for a minute, then two, looking for something in her purse. Then she swung her legs out, disappeared into the store. He thought about following, but the last time, he'd run into that kid. It was hard to watch somebody in a store unobtrusively, with all the anti-shoplifting mirrors around.

So he waited. She was ten minutes, came out with a small bag. At her car, she fumbled in her purse, fumbled some more. Koop sat up. What?

She couldn't find her keys. She started back toward the store, stopped, turned and looked thoughtfully at the car, and walked slowly back. She stooped, looked inside, then straightened, angry, talking to herself.

Keys. She'd locked her keys in the car.

He could talk to her: "What's the problem, little lady?"

But as he watched, she looked quickly around, walked to the rear of the car, bent, and ran her hand under the bumper. After a moment of groping, she came up with a black box. Spare key.

Koop stiffened. When people put spare keys on their car, they usually put in a spare house key, just in case. And if she had-and if she'd changed them since she changed her locks…

He'd have to look.

Koop went to the roof as soon as it was dark. Jensen had changed to a robe, and he watched as she read, listened to a stereo, and checked the cable movies. He was becoming familiar with her personal patterns: she never watched talk shows, never watched sitcoms. She sometimes watched game shows. She watched the news rerun on public television, late at night.

She liked ice cream, and ate it slowly, with a lot of tongue-on-the-spoon action. When she was puzzled about something, trying to make up her mind, she'd reach back and scratch the top of her ass. Sometimes she'd lie in bed with her feet straight up in the air, apparently looking past them for no reason. She'd do the same thing when she put on panty hose-she'd drop onto her back in bed, get her toes into the feet of the hose, then lift her legs over her head and pull them on. Sometimes she'd wander around the apartment while she was flossing.

Once, she apparently caught sight of her reflection in the glass of her balcony's sliding doors, and dropped into a series of poses, as though she were posing for the cover of Cosmo. She was so close, so clear, that Koop felt she was posing for him.

She went to bed at midnight, every working night. Two women friends had come around, and once, before Koop began following her home, she hadn't shown up at all until midnight. A date? The idea pissed him off, and he pushed it away.

When she went to bed-a minute of near nakedness, large breasts bobbling in the fishbowl-Koop left her, bought a bottle of Jim Beam at a liquor store, and drove home.

He barely lived in his house, a suburban ranch-style nonentity he'd rented furnished. A garden service mowed the lawn. Koop didn't cook, didn't clean, didn't do much except sleep there, watch some television, and wash his clothes. The place smelled like dust with a little bourbon on top of it. Oh, yes, he'd brought in Wannemaker. But only for an hour or two, in the basement; you could hardly smell that anymore…

The next morning, Koop was downtown before ten o'clock. He didn't like the daylight hours, but this was important. He called her at her office.

"This is Sara Jensen… Hello? Hello?"

Her voice was pitched higher than he'd expected, with an edge to it. When he didn't answer her second hello, she promptly hung up, and he was left listening to a dial tone. So she was working.

He headed for the parking ramp, spiraled up through the floors. She was usually on five, six, or seven, depending on how early she got in. Today, it was six again. He had to go to eight to find a parking place. He walked back down, checked under the bumper of her car, found the key box. He opened it as he walked away. Inside was a car key and a newly minted door key.

Shazam.

He felt like victory, going back in. Like a conqueror. Like he was home, with his woman.

Koop spent half the day at her apartment.

As soon as he got in, he opened a tool chest in front of the television. If somebody showed up, a cleaning woman, he could say he'd just finished fixing it… but nobody showed up.

He ate cereal from one of her bowls, washed the bowl, and put it back. He lounged in her front room with his shoes off, watching television. He stripped off his clothes, pulled back the bedcovers, and rolled in her slick cool sheets. Masturbated into her Kleenex.