Crave (Fallen Angels #2)

Crave (Fallen Angels #2) Page 21

Grier woke up at six a.m. and knew as soon as she saw the tail end of a Three's Company episode that Isaac has left: She hadn't restarted the DVD when they'd come up to her room . . . and yup, the security system was off.

She'd obviously slept through his going.

Arching over, she checked her bedside table, thinking that maybe he'd written her a note. But the only thing he'd left behind was the scent of the shampoo and soap he'd used: the cedar-y fragrance was on one of her pillows and some of her sheets.

Getting up, she pulled on her sweatshirt and went down to the second floor. The guest room was neat as a pin, the bed made to military precision. The only sign he'd been there at all was the single towel that had been hung to dry on the rack in the bath. He'd even wiped down the glass walls of the shower so there weren't any water marks on the inside.

The man was a total ghost and she was a pathetic loser to think he'd make some gesture of good-bye.

She headed downstairs to the kitchen and stopped in the archway.

Well, turned out he had left one thing behind: On the counter was the plastic bag of cash.

"Damn it. Goddamn it."

She stood there for a time, staring not at the twenty-five grand, but at the Birkin he'd tried to clean up for her.

Eventually, she went and got the home phone. The number she dialed was one she'd memorized two years ago.

The public defender's office always had someone on call, because crime, like illness and accidents, didn't recognize any distinction between weekdays and weekends. And the guy who answered was an attorney she knew well. Although her resignation from Isaac's case was a surprise to him, when she stated that she had approximately twenty-five thousand dollars from the cage-fighting racket on her kitchen counter, he got on board PDQ.

"Jesus."

"I know. So I have to resign."

"Wait, he left that cash at your house?"

Might as well practice her stab at revisionist history. "Last night, Mr. Rothe came over here. I'd posted his bail and he wanted to pay me back--and I got the impression it was because he was thinking of running. I didn't notify the police because I thought it was my duty to talk him out of taking off and I believed that I'd dissuaded him. Except then I found what he'd left for me this morning on my back porch." She drew a deep breath, the weight of the lies not sitting well on her empty stomach. "Given the money, I feel strongly that he is going to leave the state immediately. I'm calling the police next and I'll drop the cash off at the precinct house as evidence when I go there to give a statement this morning."

"Grier--"

"Before you ask, I'm listed in the white pages, which is how Mr. Rothe found my house, and no, I didn't feel threatened at all. I asked him to come in and he did for a little while--and he left without a fuss." At least that part was the whole truth.

"Well, hell . . ."

"Yes, I do believe that covers it. I wanted you to know what I was going to do and I'll keep you posted. I don't know where this is all going, to be honest."

Ding, ding, ding, another truth.

Her colleague made a dismissive sound. "Look, you've never had a blemish on your record and you're keeping it all aboveboard. You haven't done anything wrong."

No comment on that one. No reason to ruin the veracity trend.

"You are getting independent counsel, however?" he said.

"Of course." Fool for a client and all that stuff. Just like she'd told Isaac back at the jail.

After she got off the phone with the other attorney, she was on with the cops moments later. And they, of course, fit her right into their schedule.

In hopes of bracing herself, she fired up the coffee machine--and then realized she wasn't alone.

Hanging her head, she wondered what if anything Daniel had seen the night before in the guest room.

Nothing, her brother said. I know when to leave.

Thank God, she thought to herself as she hit the power button. "I wish I could give you some of this. I loved when we could have coffee together."

It smells good.

She usually sought him out with her eyes whenever he appeared, but not this morning. She really couldn't face him, and not because she'd hooked up with someone. Well, the sex was part of it. The real driver, though, was that reckless burn; it was just too close to what had destroyed him.

Yeah, you and I are the same. We got it from Dad.

"You know, you never talk about your death," she said as the Krups machine burbled and hissed.

His voice got hard. What's done is done, and that score needs to be settled between other people.

"Score?" When he said nothing more, she gritted her teeth. "Why won't you ever answer anything? I've got a list as long as my arm of things I want to know, but all you do is deflect or evade."

The further silence had her glaring over her shoulder: Daniel was leaning against the stainless-steel refrigerator, his translucent form throwing no reflection in the buffed finish. His blue eyes, the ones that were an identical color to her own, were staring at the floor.

"I don't understand why you're here," she said. "Especially if we can't really talk about the things that matter. Like how you died and--"

This is about your life, Grier. Not mine.

"Then why did you tell me to take that soldier home," she groused.

Now Daniel smiled. Because you like him. And I think he's going to be good for you.

She was not sure about that at all. She was feeling shattered already, and she'd known him for only a day. "Do you know what he's done? Who he's trying to get away from?"

Her brother's frown was not encouraging. That I'm not talking about. But I can tell you he's not going to hurt you.

God, she was tired of being surrounded by men who had duct tape over their mouths.

"Will I see him again?"

Daniel started to fade away, which was what he did whenever she put him on the spot about something.

"Daniel," she said sharply. "Stop running out on me--"

When all she got back was a clear shot at the refrigerator door, she looked up at the ceiling and cursed. She never had any control over when he showed up or how long he stayed. And she had no idea where he was when he wasn't haunting her.

Did he hang out at the undead's equivalent of a Starbucks?

Speaking of coffee . . .

Determined to follow through on something, anything, she got a mug and the sugar bowl and went to town on the hot and steamy--all the while wondering whether caffeine was a good idea given her nerves.

At nine o'clock, she left the house with the cash and a headache that seemed to have put its feet up on her frontal lobe and had plans to stay the day. After initializing the ADT system, she stepped out, closed the door and turned the dead bolt with her key-- Frowning, she stared up at one of the two wrought-iron lanterns by the entrance. A small strip of white cloth had been wound around its base.

Pivoting on her heel, Grier looked all around and saw nothing but parked cars she recognized . . . and a neighbor walking a chocolate Lab . . . and a couple strolling arm in arm . . .

Get a grip, Grier.

She was not in a Hitchcockian world where people were followed and planes pe-bombed from midair and secret signals were left on light fixtures.

Unwinding the scrap of fabric, she shoved the thing in her coat pocket so as not to litter and went over to her Audi. As she walked off, she engaged the big alarm--even though she didn't usually do that if she wasn't in the house.

Down at the police department, she met with a detective, turned the money over, and gave a statement. Attorney-client privilege did not extend to ongoing criminal activity, so she was required to say what she knew about the fighting ring, Isaac's participation in it, and the location where she believed they would still convene out in Malden.

While time passed and she talked, she had a growing conviction that Isaac was far gone by now--and chances were good no one from Boston would find him.

She had to wonder who would, however.

Two hours later, she stepped out of the precinct and stared up at the yellow sun in the cloudless spring sky. The warmth on her face made the cold breeze feel even more frigid, and the rest of the day loomed over her.

Her car didn't take her home.

It was supposed to. She sent it in the direction of Beacon Hill with the intention of crawling back into bed and getting some more sleep.

She ended up on Tremont Street.

As she went around the block where Isaac's apartment was, naturally there was no place to dump the Audi, and it was probably a sign for her to stay away. Persistence got her into trouble, though, when a VW Bug shuffled out and left a void. After wedging in, she locked up and went over to the house.

Knocking on the front door, she hoped that the landlady was home--and never thought she'd be glad to see someone like that again--

The woman opened up and Grier made the connection she hadn't the day before: It was Mrs. Roper from Three's Company. From the fake red curls to the plastic bangles.

"You're back," was the greeting.

"I just need to get in one last time."

"Where is he?" the landlady said, blocking the way.

Ah, yes, an information tollgate, Grier thought. "He was here last night. Didn't you hear him?"

Cue Jeopardy theme. Then . . . "The man's like a ghost," Mrs. Roper-esque bitched. "Never makes a noise. Only way I know he's there is that he already paid next month's rent. He's in jail, isn't he. Are you his attorney?"

"No." She hated lying. She truly did.

"Well, I think--"

As the sound of a phone ringing cut her off, Grier was ready to kiss whoever was calling.

Except the landlady batted the air with a dismissive hand. "That's just my sister."

Great. "Will you take me upstairs, please? I won't be long."

The ringing went silent. "Look, I'm not going to keep doing this. Get your own key."

"Oh, I agree--I need one. And I apologize."

The woman mounted the stairs like a bull, pounding up and grunting, today's muumuu swinging like a flag.

At the top, she unlocked the door with her key. "Now, I'm telling you--"

The phone started ringing again downstairs, and as that wig went to and fro, it was like a dog stuck making the choice between two tennis balls.

"I'll be back," Mrs. Roper announced gravely.

Kind of like the Terminator had gone drag queen.

Left on her own, Grier stepped inside Isaac's place and closed herself in, throwing the lock in the hopes that if the call didn't last long, that woman would assume it was a come-and-gone situation.

A quick review of the living room proved that he'd been by, but that was an of-course: The gun he'd pulled on her last night had to have been one of the ones she'd found and the sweatshirt he'd been wearing was what he'd used as a pillow. He hadn't taken everything, however. The sleeping bag was left behind, as well as some workout pants and a pair of Nikes--although the sensors on the windows and doors were gone.

In the kitchen, she found a neat pile of bills--clearly, they were an offering so that when no more rent was paid the score would be settled.

Leaning against the counter, she had no idea what she'd expected to find--

A soft creaking sound brought her eyes over to the rear door. When there was nothing else, she figured she'd imagined the footstep . . . but then the latch to the dead bolt turned slowly.

She straightened, her heart going haywire as she put her hand into her purse and got her Mace ready, which was better than the stun gun, given the distance. "Isaac?"

Except it was not her AWOL soldier.

The man who entered the apartment had black hair and tanned skin and he was wearing a dark suit under a trench coat. A patch covered his right eye, and he used a cane to balance his tall body.

"I'm not Isaac," he said, in a very deep voice.

The chilly smile he gave was the sort of thing that made you want to take a step back. Unfortunately, she was already against the counter, so there was nowhere to go.

And that was before he shut them both in together.

How much noise did she have to make to get Mrs. Roper back up here? she wondered.

"You must be the defense attorney."

Oh, Christ, she thought. This was what Isaac had wanted to protect her from, wasn't it.

Grier Childe looked just like her brother, Matthias thought as he stared across a galley kitchen at her.

And say what you would about the elder Childe's bleeding-heart politics and nosy predilections, he and that wife of his had done right on the procreating end. Both their kids were blond, blue eyed, with perfect bone structure. Cream of the old-school crop, as it were.

Plus the daughter evidently had half a brain, going by her r?sum?. And was without all those messy addiction problems.

He felt his lips stretch a little wider. "What's in your purse? Gun? Mace?"

She took out a thin leather-bound tube and flipped the top cover off. Putting it up in position, she let the defense weapon speak for itself.

"Make sure you aim at my good one," he said, tapping his left eye. "The other side won't get you shit." When she opened her mouth to speak, he cut her off. "Did you expect to find Isaac here?"

"We're not alone. The landlady is downstairs."

"Oh, I know. She's talking to her sister about their brother's wife." Those patrician blue eyes of hers widened. "They don't like her because she's too young for him. I'd give you the details, but it's private. And not very interesting. Now, tell me, did you expect to find Isaac here."

She took a moment to reply. "I'm not answering any of your questions. I suggest you unlock that door and leave. You're trespassing." "If you own the world, there's no such thing as trespassing. And a word of advice--you want to come out of this alive, you'll be a little more accommodating." Matthias casually wandered over to the window above the sink and looked out of the milky glass. "But I suspect I know the answer anyway. You didn't think you'd find him here because you believe he's left Boston. You're basing this assumption on the cash he left behind with you--and don't bother to deny it. I listened to you talk to your buddy at the public defender's office--"

"It's illegal to tap someone's phone without a warrant."

Pushing against his cane, he straightened back up. "And I would say to you again that words like `trespassing' and `illegal' and `warrant' don't apply to me."

He could feel her fear . . . and see it, too. She had her fingers cranked down so hard on that cylinder that the knuckles were white. But really, she didn't need to worry all that much. It seemed highly unlikely that Isaac had told her anything material--that would be her death sentence, and the guy knew it: Nothing would keep her breathing if she had intel on XOps. Not even a desire to shut her father up for good.

"I think you and I should come to an agreement," he said, putting his hand inside his coat. "Hold it--don't go crazy with your bug spray. I'm just getting you a business card."

He pulled one out, holding it between the tips of his index and middle fingers, leaving the guns he was packing right where they were holstered. "If you see your client again, call this number, Ms. Childe. And know that it's the only reason I came here to see you. I just figured you and I should meet in person so you understand how serious I am about Isaac Rothe."

She kept the Mace with her as she came forward and tilted in, as if she wanted to stay as far away from him as possible. And he knew damn well as she took the card what she was going to do with it. But that was part of the plan.

As she studied what little had been imprinted, Matthias left his free hand where she could see it. "Isaac Rothe is a very dangerous man."

"I have to go," she said as she shoved what he'd given her into her purse.

"No one's keeping you. Here, I'll even get the door."

Opening the thing wide, he stood to the side and approved of the way she measured both him and the stairs that were revealed. Cautious, oh so cautious . . .

She went to hurry by him . . . and at the last moment before she was free, he snatched her arm and held her back. "I left something for you in the trunk of your car. After all, most accidents happen in the home, and you might need to call for help."

She ripped herself out of his hold. "Don't threaten me," she snapped.

As Matthias stared into those beautiful eyes of hers, he felt ancient. Ancient and broken and trapped. But as he had learned two years ago, he couldn't stop the trajectory of his life. It was like putting your palms up to an avalanche: You got crushed and the rush of snow and ice didn't even notice.

"I am not afraid of you," she said.

"You should be," he replied grimly, thinking of the twelve different ways he could make it so she didn't come down for breakfast tomorrow morning. "You should be very afraid."

He let her go, and she took off like a rocket, her blond hair flowing out behind her as she raced down the stairs.

Going back to that window over the sink, he watched her head around the house and go out to the street.

She was going to be so very useful in this situation, he thought.

On a number of levels.