Do No Harm

A new lock greeted David at his front door, which stood slightly ajar. When he entered his house, Ed was on all fours behind the ficus wearing a woman's halter top-nicely filled out-and a leather miniskirt. A pair of patent leather pumps sat at the edge of the carpet. Next to two Nextel phones on the counter lay a Kate Spade purse.

Ed turned toward David, revealing a faceful of makeup and a luxuriant blond wig. "Not a word, not a fucking word," he said. He spliced two wires together and attached them to a keypad.

"Darling," David said. "Your mascara is running."

Adjusting his wig, Ed stood and approached David. He moved differently-high on his toes, shoulders drawn slightly back, chin raised. Feminine. When he went undercover, he really went all out. "I was on a job. I came straight over."

"What, on Santa Monica Boulevard?"

"Bomb threat at a drag rave. I know, it sounds like a Roger Corman movie."

David laughed. "Everything under control?"

Ed shrugged. "Nothing happened. That's what I get for taking a job from worked-up queens."

"At least you got to get dressed up."

Ed's face registered that he found little humorous about the situation.

David pointed to his wig. "I think it's safe to say you can remove that now."

"Oh. Oh yeah." Ed pulled off the wig and flung it on the carpet. "I came over as soon as the cops left, so put the brakes on your commentary. Now listen, here's what we did. I switched your Schlage locks to Medeco-double-cylinder, one-inch hardened dead bolts with six-pin tumblers and brass revolving collars. I set up a triangular-patterned, infrared, dual-beam break around the perimeter of your property line. It'll give off a beep to let you know when someone's on your property."

He paused to glare at David. "Keep your eyes off my tits and pay attention. Next, we have a Radionics security system setup, run off this keypad. It employs passive infrared through the interior and at the windows, which are also outfitted with glass-shatter sensors. Delayed entry and exit is not to exceed forty seconds. If the system is breached, it'll call out on POTS-plain old telephone system-with a backup cellular dial in case someone takes out your hard line. Your code is your birthday, including the four-digit year, plus the number seven. Got it?"

David nodded.

"Your little shrub collection out front provides excellent concealment for intruders. I'd rather you went with a cleaner look."

"You do landscape design?"

Ed pulled a compact out of the purse and began vigorously removing his eye shadow. "Honey, I do it all."

"What about the phones? The cops can't get the paperwork through to trace calls for a few days. Can you get a tap on the line?"

"Yeah. As soon as I go back in time to the 1950s." Ed picked up one of the Nextels and punched in a number, shaking his head. "Nobody uses taps anymore. I have a Lucent technologist on the inside." He changed his voice to a drawl. "Yeah, hey there. Your baby brother calling. Listen, I'm trying to find mom's new phone number. Here's her old one: 310-555-4771." David's telephone number. "I'm gonna stay with her about a week… No, to be safe, I'd like to stay with her a week-twenty-four hours isn't enough time for us to catch up… Thanks, bro." He hung up and smiled at David. "Your number's red-flagged for seven days."

"Shouldn't we let the police know we've done this?"

The smile left Ed's face instantaneously. "Absolutely not. This is an inside guy I'm using. I have to keep his ass covered. We're trading legality for speed, here." Ed screwed the keypad into the wall behind the ficus and slipped into his stilettos with a pained grimace. "If Clyde calls, let me know immediately and we'll be able to trace the location he called from."

"Thank you," David said. "I… thank you."

Ed nodded at him on his way to the door. "I'll send you a bill. You'll send me a money order."

"How much?"

Ed turned, touched two manicured fingers to his lipsticked mouth, and blew David a kiss. "Honey, you don't want to know."

David retrieved the morning paper, sitting in his leather chair and reading the two front-page articles on "The Westwood Acid Thrower." He noted with amusement that they'd selected a less-than-flattering photograph of himself, captured mid-sentence during his speech at the resident meet-and-greet, to go along with Clyde's.

For the first time in several months, he turned on the television, but news updates of the manhunt cut into the programming every fifteen minutes and he finally turned it off and gazed at the blank space where his mother's de Kooning used to hang. His exhaustion was too charged to give way to sleep.

He sat quietly, snipping and removing the stitches from his healed knuckle. When the phone rang, it nearly startled him off the chair. He dashed back to his bedroom so he could record the call if necessary. After taking an instant to catch his breath, he picked up the phone with a trembling hand. It was only the dry cleaner calling to remind him he'd had clothes ready for pickup since last Monday.