“Wife and kids still out of town, huh?” Monica noted.
He shrugged nonchalantly, but Kelly thought she detected a flash of something behind his eyes. “Swim meet. ’Fraid I’m on my own again this weekend.”
Monica shook her head. “I dunno, Sam. Good-lookin’ guy like yourself, I’m surprised your wife leaves you alone as much as she does.”
He laughed heartily. “Easy, Monica, you’re making me blush.” His eyes slid along to Kelly. “I tell you, though, part of me misses tromping through the woods all day looking for body parts. It killed a hell of a lot of time. So what are you ladies up to this weekend? Kicking back a bit, I hope?”
“The usual, Sam. Big barbecue with my kid, nothing special.”
“What about you, Agent Jones?” He smiled at her.
Nice eyes, she thought before catching herself. She shrugged with exaggerated nonchalance. “No real plans.”
“Tell you what, you really need to check out the Appalachian Trail. I can point you to some sections that are absolutely unbelievable, if you have the time…”
His voice practically hummed with enthusiasm. Kelly smiled back at him in spite of herself. “That would be nice. I haven’t been hiking in a long time.”
Sam tilted his head to one side. “You look like you’re about my wife’s size. If you want I could lend you some of her gear. You’ll definitely need a good pair of boots, and a pack—”
“Jones!”
Kelly swiveled automatically toward the familiar voice. The figure standing in the doorway was silhouetted by the bright sun. She squinted slightly, then her eyes widened as she took in the man blocking the light. His face split into a wide grin as he strode forward.
“Jake?” She said. “What’re you…”
“You’re not an easy woman to track down,” he said as he grabbed hold of her and spun her in a half circle. As he set her back down, she was uncomfortably aware of the others watching them.
She took a small step back and gestured toward him. “Monica and Sam, this is Jake Riley. We worked together on a case, about a year ago.”
“Did you now?” Monica commented knowingly as she looked Jake up and down. “Must’ve been some case.”
“It was. Nice to meet you,” Jake said, shaking hands all around.
Kelly smiled thinly in response. It had been a hell of a case, the one that killed her partner. It still gave her nightmares from time to time—dark tunnels filled with the sound of beating wings. “How’d you find me?” she asked, raising an eyebrow at him. “I thought that since we canceled the trip, you were booked until mid-September.”
“Dmitri decided to visit a…friend. And anything I could have done for him would have been redundant,” he replied, measuring his words. Jake was the security chief for Greek shipping magnate Dmitri Christou, one of the wealthiest men in the world. Kelly knew Jake’s verbal codes and guessed what he was referring to. Since his daughter’s death a year earlier, Dmitri had become more involved in charitable causes. He’d spent the past year cultivating partnerships with various political circles to further his agendas. He was a close friend of the U.S. president, and frequently vacationed with him. What Jake was really saying was that with the Secret Service around, Dmitri didn’t need any extra protection. “So I found myself with a little time on my hands. And since you were only a short drive away, I thought I’d surprise you. So here I am!”
“Yeah, but how did you find me here, at this sandwich shop?” Kelly asked, puzzled.
Monica nodded. “I was going to ask the same thing. You some kind of psychic?”
“That was just dumb luck. I was driving around looking for this little B and B I’d heard about, and decided to stop for lunch when I passed this place. Then I looked through the window, and recognized this gorgeous head of hair.” He wound a finger through a coil of it affectionately. Kelly felt herself flush bright red.
Sam Morgan picked a bag off the counter. “Well, I should be going. Nice meeting you, Jake. Hope you enjoy your stay.”
He looked a little crestfallen, Kelly noticed. She waved goodbye to him, then turned to find Jake eyeing her. “Wasn’t interrupting anything, was I?”
Before she could answer, Monica chimed in, “Sam’s a married man, you can relax about that. But looking the way you do, you probably don’t waste much time worrying, huh?”
Jake laughed out loud. “I like your new friend, Jones. So Berkshire P.D. said you were off duty.” He clapped his hands together. “How about we take the sandwiches and go have a picnic somewhere?” Monica and Kelly exchanged a glance. He rolled his eyes. “Based on that look, I’m guessing I was misinformed.”
“We’re on our way to question someone.”
“Ah, I see. So that news piece I heard on the way over, about a suspect in custody—”
“There are a few more things I need to look into,” Kelly interrupted him.
“I don’t doubt it. You’re nothing if not thorough,” Jake said with genuine affection in his voice. “I hope it doesn’t take too long, though. Driving through here reminded me a lot of Vermont. You remember Vermont, don’t you, Jones?”
She flushed a deeper red and resisted the urge to whack him on the arm. Monica was grinning widely, clearly enjoying this exchange. Kelly cleared her throat and said, “Why don’t you check into the B and B, I’ll call your cell when we’re finished.”
He nodded. “It’s a date.” He bent down to kiss her. She turned her head so that it landed on her cheek, not her mouth. “That’s right, you’re on duty,” he said, straightening up and sounding a little wounded. “I’ll catch you later, Jones.”
She grabbed the bag with their sandwiches and headed for the door with Monica in tow. The heat of the day hit her like a slap. Sweat trickled down her back as she settled into the hot leather interior of the car.
Monica turned the key in the ignition which, after a hot gasp, issued a stream of cold air. She shook her head as she looked at Kelly. “Damn. You practically set a land speed record running away from what is, if you don’t mind my saying, a damned fine male specimen.”
“We’re friends,” Kelly said weakly.
“Wish I had a friend like that.” Monica chuckled. “I sure hope this Sterling character is at home. I wouldn’t want to keep your Jake waiting.”
Seventeen
He drove around idly, without noticing any of the tree-lined streets that swept past his window. He was back in a residential area, just across the state border in Vermont. He was supposed to be picking up lunch downtown, but had been too restless to go home and face his family. His wife would give him a look, but she knew better than to say anything.
This section of Vermont, south of Bennington, was pastoral, filled with rolling hills and farmland. He’d almost bought a place here years earlier, but the garage had been located too close to the house to suit his purposes. Vermont was a little liberal for his taste anyway, still full of tree-hugging hippies. Not that he had a gripe with them, he just preferred a different crowd, and his wife was much more at home with the country club set. He chuckled at the thought of her in Birkenstocks and a peasant skirt; no, they’d made the right decision buying in Williamstown and keeping their place in Manhattan so that the girls could get a decent education. And Massachusetts, Vermont and New York all shared a common trait that factored into his decision: the death penalty was still illegal in all three states. Of course, the recent involvement of the FBI threw a kink in the works. In retrospect, crossing state lines to dump the bodies had been a mistake. It left him vulnerable to the federal death penalty statute, which could override any state charges. Not that he planned on getting caught.
He slowed to a stop, took a right, changed his mind and executed a slow U-turn. His eyes were sore, he examined them in the rearview mirror: red and raw. He looked as worn-out as he felt, the past week had taken a toll on him, affecting his sleep. He’d tried napping earlier, but was too wound up, still enraged that someone was interfering with his hobby. It was hot outside, stifling, but his best ideas always came to him in the car. He slowed and motioned for a family to cross the street. They smiled and waved at him, and he mechanically flashed a grin and a wave in return. The kid with them was about eleven years old. He clutched a melting Popsicle, streaks of purple juice ran down his face and hands. The man’s expression hardened as he watched the boy slurping away, his grip tightening on the steering wheel. Filthy little monster. His toe danced over the accelerator, tempted to bear down. He could say that it was an accident, that his foot slipped off the pedal for just a moment. He let his mind wander into the fantasy, saw the boy’s startled expression as he hit the fender and glanced up into the windshield, saw his mouth open in a little O as he soared past, blood already pouring down the young forehead. He saw the lifeless body in his rearview mirror as he fixed an expression of horror and concern on his face and shifted the car into Park.
The boy stepped onto the curb to his left, breaking his reverie. His lifted his hand in a small wave and drove on with a pang of regret. It wouldn’t do, especially not now. No, he had to conserve his resources. He’d been racking his brain, trying to figure out who was messing with him, and why. Any good citizen would have simply reported him to the police, so he was dealing with something else, someone more like him. No, not like him, he thought with a flash of rage. He was unique, the things he did, the way he did them…he was an artist while all of his contemporaries were bumbling hacks. Which brought him back to his nemesis. Who had he pissed off, and pissed off badly enough that they’d mount this campaign against him?
He dismissed co-workers, both past and present; none of them had any imagination. Same went for most of the other people in his life, they were all dull to a fault. He ran through the roster of names over and over, but kept coming up empty. He turned right at the next corner and circled the block. The family that had passed him earlier was still walking down the sidewalk. The father wore one of those idiotic American flag shirts, all the more reason to eliminate his progeny, he thought with a sneer. Suddenly he froze, realization dawning. If he was right, he knew exactly who was exposing his hobby. A smile spread across his face as he backed the car into a driveway, flipped it around and headed toward town. He’d tell his family that he was late with lunch thanks to a flat tire. Later, after they’d eaten, he’d retire to his study to plan his revenge.
Sterling Evans leaned back against the door frame and regarded them idly. Dressed in a sheer cotton robe that swung open to reveal a tight, brightly colored designer swimsuit, he was all angles: pointy chin, sharp elbows, knobby knees. And yet somehow his movements were graceful, full of self-contained power. He reminded her of a cat, Kelly thought to herself, a lean Siamese. And truth be told, she wasn’t much of a cat person.
The house was exactly as Jordan had described it, large and sprawling, a suburban version of Monticello. It was also located in Williamstown, not far from where Sommers lived, maybe a half mile at the most. This house was slightly smaller but no less impressive. Judging by the Maserati parked in the driveway, Sterling Evans had done well for himself. Air-conditioning leaked out the open doorway.
Evans yawned again and extended one arm up in a luxurious stretch. “Interrupting my siesta like this, y’all better have a warrant,” he said in a limpid drawl.
“Don’t see why we’d need one, Mr. Evans,” Kelly said firmly, taking a small step forward across the threshold. “Your name came up in the course of an investigation. We’re just here to confirm what we were told by a witness.”
“A witness, huh?” he said, languidly eyeing her feet. “Well, if you’re just here for a friendly chat, I don’t see why those god-awful flats need to enter my foyer. One piece of advice, dearie,” he said, leaning forward. “Those shoes just scream discount. Next time, get thee to Saks. I’ll give you the name of my personal shopper. He can try to save you from yourself.”
Kelly repressed a flash of rage. He smiled snidely at her, clearly pleased to have gotten under her skin.
“Well, aren’t you something else?” Monica said. “A thief with an eye for fashion.”
“I don’t know what you’re referring to, but if you want some style pointers, I’d be happy to oblige,” he said with a sneer.
“You believe this guy?” Monica said. “Like he’s anything other than a goddamn pusher.”
He clucked disapprovingly. “Dear God, the two of you are just like Cagney and Lacey, aren’t you?” He lowered his voice and leaned forward. “Here’s the thing, ladies. One more nasty word out of either of you and I’m closing the door and handing you over to my lawyer. He’s an awful prick, I’m afraid, and terribly inaccessible. Unless I’m mistaken he’s in P-town for the long weekend. With this heat, who knows when he’ll be back? And I’m betting you wouldn’t want that, would you?”
Kelly gritted her teeth. “We just need a few minutes of your time, Mr. Evans. May we come in?”
He examined a nail, frowned and said, “I just had the floors done, wouldn’t want them sullied. I’m sure you understand. Now, who gave you my name?”
“A young man named Jordan Davenport.”
He tapped a finger against his chin and gazed toward the upper branches of the sycamore tree that sheltered his front lawn. “Lemme see now, Jordan…sounds familiar, but I just can’t match it to a face.”
“He claims you might know something about some stolen art,” Kelly said, watching him closely.
His eyebrows shot up. “Did he now? Well, I’m sure I don’t know any young men unkind enough to slander my good name.”
“Really. This is a nice place you got here, Mr. Evans.” Kelly arched her neck to peer past him. “When did you buy it?”
“Oh, let’s see…a few years back,” he responded, eyeing her cautiously.
Monica let out a low whistle. “Whew, at the height of the market. Must’ve set you back, what, a cool mill?”
“My mama always said only the poor discuss money.” Evans waved a hand as if dismissing a gnat.
“So you were born with money, then?” Kelly asked conversationally. He didn’t respond, instead examining a fingernail. “Mr. Evans, would you like another peek at my badge? Let me remind you that FBI means I can find out pretty much anything I want about you in under an hour, down to your favorite teacher in grammar school and how your first dog died.” She lowered her voice another notch. “After all, we’ve received a tip that you act as a middleman for stolen artwork, which is frequently used as currency by arms dealers and terrorists. Perhaps you’ve heard of the Patriot Act? If you’d prefer, I could place a hold on all of your accounts while forensic accountants go over them with a fine-tooth comb to make sure there aren’t any inconsistencies.”