Authors: Virginia Brown
“I thought your cell phone was broken again.”
“Replaced it. No thanks to that snotty clerk spouting off about a limit on replacements.”
Lugging a small backpack that probably held more weed than clean underwear, he loped the short distance to her car, and she headed back to the house. She’d left her backpack with all the necessary things like her driver’s license in the living room. When she pulled up in the drive, she noticed that Jett’s silver Jag was gone and his garage door down. Light gleamed in his kitchen window that looked out over the driveway and her parents’ house.
What was up with that guy? She hated to think he was a criminal, but his rap sheet sure did say otherwise. And that pile of jewelry on his coffee table spoke volumes. It’d be too big a coincidence that a jewel thief had turned to a respectable career as a costume jewelry salesman. Oh yeah. But even if he was part of the ring of thieves now plaguing East Memphis, that didn’t mean he had anything to do with Mrs. Trumble’s death. Old assault charges still weren’t murder. As far as she knew, Jett had never even met Mrs. Trumble. Still . . . .
There was something about him, something that didn’t fit. While she didn’t really believe in psychic ability like Diva did, instincts went a long way in her book. And instincts warned her that Bruno Jett was up to something.
Cutting off the bike, Harley sat staring at Jett’s house for a long moment. There was no sign of activity, no indication he was home other than the kitchen light. Since moving in he’d had plenty of visitors show up, cars parked in the drive or in front of the house. Was he at home?
If he was gone, maybe she could do a little snooping around, just to see if he had anything of interest to the police. Bobby didn’t seem inclined to worry about Jett, but there were times he leaned toward the belief that Harley had too active an imagination. While that might be true, this time was different. It didn’t make any sense, but she felt Diva was right, that Jett was involved in all this somehow. There was no plausible reason for her suspicion of him other than the jewelry he hadn’t satisfactorily explained . . . and the feeling she had that Bobby was holding something back. Maybe Jett did have a murder conviction on his record, and Bobby didn’t want her to know. He had this macho thing about “
I know what’s best for you
” going on most of the time, so that was probably his reasoning now. It was very irritating.
A cool breeze that smelled of freshly cut grass and jasmine tickled her nose and the back of her neck. Diva’s wildflower garden rustled softly, her wind chimes tinkled a melody, and in the distance, a dog barked. That made her think of King. And her father.
Yogi could always tell King’s bark from other dogs, but she had no idea how he knew. It had to be because he doted on the furry beast. Where could they be? And did their abrupt decision to disappear have anything to do with Bruno Jett? It was possible. Maybe not probable, but possible. Maybe Yogi had seen Jett come out of Mrs. Trumble’s house. After all, Jett had shown up to watch the cops, and he had a lengthy rap sheet, so it wasn’t too far a stretch that he was involved somehow.
It’d be too big a coincidence if Jett had disappeared at the same time as Yogi and Diva—wouldn’t it? She remembered Bobby’s warning that he was dangerous and to stay away. Right.
It took her another minute or two to work up the nerve to risk trespassing again. Since he wasn’t there, however, it didn’t seem quite as daunting. She crossed the pavement and strips of grass newly clipped to the usual suburban height in his yard, a marked contrast to the Davidson lawn’s eclectic look. A peek in the garage window assured her his car was gone. Good.
Standing once more on the porch, she knocked sharply and waited. There was no answer, no sound of footsteps. She gave it a few more moments, and then moved around to the back door.
An aluminum awning curved over the back porch, and the storm door was unlocked. She mulled over using the metal pick she always carried for those times she locked her keys in the car, but decided against it. Breaking and entering was not something she wanted to show up on her résumé. But how else would she find out anything about Jett if she didn’t investigate? Bobby was no help. What if Jett had her parents? Or was responsible for their flight? What if he came back? Should she go in?
Do. Don’t. Which one? Her agony of indecision was brief.
In a short moment, she had her metal pick in the lock and the door clicked softly open. She stepped inside, consoling herself with the firm reminder that she was trying to save Yogi from being arrested for something he didn’t do, or even from Bruno Jett. And after all she didn’t intend to
steal
anything, even if she was trespassing.
Somehow, she just knew Bobby Baroni would never accept the logic in that. Nor, she thought as she stood for a moment in the dimly-lit kitchen, would Bruno Jett if he came home and caught her prowling around in his house. Feeling more like a sneak thief by the moment, and convinced she’d never have been able to turn to a life of crime, she moved quickly through the gleaming kitchen toward the living room. It was doubtful the jewels would still be atop the coffee table, but he might have them hidden in a drawer or something.
Soft silence enveloped her in the living room. It was furnished with masculine preferences in mind, as she’d expected: large screen TV against one wall, black leather couch and recliner, a generous coffee table with a few magazines, and a thick blue rug atop buffed wood floors. A little tidier than she’d expected. Okay, a lot tidier than she’d expected. Most men of her experience were slobs. Jett had seemed no different. Yet his house felt almost as if he didn’t even live in it. She peered at the magazines. He subscribed to
Field and Stream
? He didn’t seem the type.
A quick search of the two bedrooms reinforced that impression. Absence of clutter gave it a stark, Spartan look of emptiness. Nothing atop his dresser, bed neatly made, only a few clothes hanging in the closet, three pairs of shoes on the floor. The second bedroom held a set of weights and a bookshelf empty of books. That explained the tight abs and choice of profession. The single bathroom was bright and efficient, with blue tile on floors and tub and sink, and a built-in towel closet behind the door. A bare window held frosted glass panes and a small rectangular disk. She stepped closer, and saw to her dismay that the disk was a burglar alarm sensor.
Oh just great. But why hadn’t it gone off when she opened the back door? Usually, sirens wailed and foghorn blasts sounded to scare away intruders, but it was silent as a tomb. He hadn’t even turned it on, most likely, but an uneasy feeling made her antsy anyway.
There was no sign of a wall safe, and she checked hurriedly in drawers and atop closet shelves before moving to the kitchen again. Another quick check through cabinets and even in the freezer came up empty of jewels. She headed for the back door, and then saw a door leading to the basement. Not all houses in the area had basements, but now she recalled this one did. She hesitated. It made her really nervous to be here, but as long as she was, she might as well check everywhere before leaving.
“No stone unturned,” she muttered, and pulled open the basement door.
A light switch on the right illuminated the basement with a bank of fluorescent tubes that gave off a bluish glow. The staircase was open beneath, wood risers descending to a painted concrete floor. On the opposite wall, a pair of narrow windows were ground level with the lawn, and flanking the other wall were a washer, dryer, and laundry tub. No packing boxes, nothing in storage, just that feeling of eerie vacancy. She hesitated on the third step down.
Opposite the stairs, a small gray box was set into the cinder block wall. Most likely it was a fuse box, but then again . . . she’d just check it out, then she was done. It was too creepy in here to linger long. The wood steps creaked beneath her weight, and she leaped over the last two to land on the basement floor.
The fuse box stuck out from the wall a few inches instead of being recessed. That was odd enough, but there was something about it—she pried at the panel behind the glass top fuses, just on a whim. Her heart thudded into overdrive as it popped open to reveal a small safe behind fake fuses.
Pay dirt.
Futile, of course, to even try, but she did anyway, turning the small dial that clicked without success. Not that it mattered. This must be where Jett kept his jewels stashed. Oh boy, she could almost smell the Crime Stoppers cash.
Before she had too long to savor her discovery, the unmistakable sound of a car door slamming shut jerked her back to the danger of her predicament. Uh oh. If that was Jett, she was in big trouble.
She raced back up the stairs, taking them two at a time, and shoved hard at the door at the same time she twisted the knob. It didn’t budge. The force of her assault on it sent her bouncing back so that she teetered precariously on the edge of the step for a moment before she caught her balance. How on earth had the door locked behind her?
All right, no need to panic. She still had her trusty metal pick. Nervously picking at the lock, she fumbled, and the pick went over the edge of the stairs to land on the concrete basement floor with a brittle
ping.
No time to get it and try again. The footsteps sounded close—too close. Okay. Now it was time to panic.
A horrified glance at the basement window told her she’d never wedge herself through it, and even if she could, there probably wasn’t enough time. She leaped over the side of the stairs to the floor, and then scooted up against the cold cinder block wall beneath the wooden steps, trying to blend into the concrete as she heard the unmistakable sound of someone in the kitchen above.
She flattened herself against the wall. It seemed an eternity, but the footsteps stopped at the basement door and she took a deep breath. The basement door opened. Looking up, she saw Jett through the cracks in the wooden stairs.
For a moment he just stood on the top step, the door propped open with his foot, then he let it close softly behind him but remained still and silent. He knew someone was here. The lights . . . she’d left the lights on. She barely breathed, just shallow breaths to keep from passing out, afraid he’d hear her. Bruno Magli shoes descended to the second riser. She briefly closed her eyes, thoughts of OJ and his infamous shoes reverberating ominously in her brain. Surely, it was coincidence.
What if it wasn’t? Were the shoes preferred wear for killers? Some kind of uniform? No, of course not. That was ridiculous.
The shoes descended another step, then another, and she held her breath until her ears rang and her lungs ached. If he crossed the room, she might be able to spin around and get up the stairs before he caught her. If she was fast enough, quiet enough, lucky enough . . . .
The shoes stopped on the second from the bottom stair. She saw denim though the gaps, dark socks, long legs—she looked up and her gaze locked with dark blue eyes peering at her through the risers.
Oh damn
.
He smiled, but it wasn’t a very nice smile. “Well,” he said, taking the last stairs leisurely, giving her too much time to contemplate his next words and actions, “I seem to have an uninvited visitor.”
“I . . . uh, was just looking for you.”
“And now you’ve found me.” He reached the floor and turned to look at her where she’d edged out from beneath the stairs to feel for an escape route in the concrete block walls.
“Why yes,” she said, aware she spoke too brightly, “here you are. Now that you’re home, I’ll just be going.”
“No, I don’t think so.” He moved a few steps closer; near enough she could see the cold, dangerous gleam in his eyes. Uh oh.
“Oh, I don’t mind,” she said, “really. I think I hear my mother calling me.”
“They’re not home.”
She stared at him suspiciously. “And how do you know that?”
“Because that obscene, puke green van is gone from the driveway.”
“Oh.” That sounded logical. After all, it had been Bobby’s first clue. So maybe he hadn’t done anything to them or was responsible for them leaving. Maybe.
“Just what the hell are you doing here?”
“I was looking . . . for . . . for King. The dog. Diva thought she saw him come in here. He got loose again.”
“King needs a keeper. Or a heavy chain tying him down. Kinda like you.”
“That isn’t very nice.”