HE COULDN’T remember pizza delivery girls being so cute back in his younger days when he had worked at the local pizza place. Hell, he couldn’t remember there being delivery girls back then.

He watched her hurry up the sidewalk, long blond hair trailing behind her. She had her hair in a cute ponytail—sticking out the back of her blue baseball cap, a Chicago Cubs cap. He wondered if she was a fan. Or maybe her boyfriend was. Surely she had a boyfriend somewhere.

It was too dark now to depend on the streetlights. His eyes were already stinging and a bit blurred. He slipped on the night goggles and adjusted the magnification. Yes, this was good.

He saw her check her watch as she waited on the porch. This time another man answered the door. Of course, the guy would give her that dumb-ass look of astonishment. The man fished bills out of the pockets of his sagging jeans. He was a slob, grimy with sweat stains under his armpits. And, yep, there it was, another wiseass remark about how cute she was or what he wouldn’t mind tipping her with. But again, she smiled politely, despite the color rising in her cheeks.

Just once he’d like to see her kick one of these idiots in the groin. Maybe that was a lesson he could teach her. If things worked out as he planned, he’d have plenty of time with her.

She hurried away along the sidewalk, and the cheap bastard who had tipped her only a dollar watched her ass the whole trip back to her shiny little Dodge Dart. That sight alone was worth much more than a dollar. The cheap son of a bitch. How the hell was she supposed to put herself through college on dollar tips?

He decided that women were better tippers when it came to delivery services. Maybe they felt some odd sense of guilt for not having prepared the meal themselves. Who knew? Women were complicated, fascinating creatures, and he wouldn’t change that if he could.

He replaced the goggles with dark sunglasses, simply out of habit now, and because the oncoming headlights burned his eyes. He waited for the Dodge Dart to reach the intersection before he turned around and followed. She was finished with this batch. He recognized the route back to the pizza place, Mama Mia’s on Fifty-ninth and Archer Drive. The cozy joint took up the corner of a neighborhood strip mall.

Newburgh Heights was such a friendly little suburb it gagged him. Not much of a challenge. Nor much challenge in the cute pizza delivery girl either. But this wasn’t about challenge, it was simply for show.

The girl parked behind the building and gathered up the stack of red insulators. She’d be back in a few minutes with another load to deliver.

The neon sign for Mama Mia’s included a delivery number. He flipped open the cellular phone and dialed the number while he unfolded a real-estate flyer. The description promised a four-bedroom colonial with a whirlpool bath and skylight in the master bedroom. How romantic, he mused, just as a woman barked in his ear.

“Mama Mia’s.”

“I’d like two large pepperoni pizzas delivered.”

“Phone number.”

“555-4545,” he read off the flyer.

“Name and address.”

“Heston,” he continued reading, “at 5349 Archer Drive.”

“It’ll be about twenty minutes, Mr. Heston.”

“Fine.” He snapped the phone shut. Twenty minutes would be plenty of time. He pulled on his leather driving gloves, and wiped the phone with his shirt. As he drove by the Dumpster he tossed the phone.

He headed south on Archer Drive, thinking about pizza, a moonlit bath and that cute delivery girl with the polite smile and the tight ass.