Kingsley Baby Trilogy: The Hero's Son\The Brother's Wife\The Long-Lost Heir (34 page)

Hope’s heart beat a painful staccato inside her. “How do you know so much about Andrew?” she whispered. “How do you know so much about me?”

His eyes grew dark and mysterious, his expression enigmatic. A smile, so much like Andrew’s, tilted the corners of his mouth. “Because I’m your soul mate, Hope. Haven’t you figured that out by now? You and I belong together. We always have.”

Jake landed at Houston’s William P. Hobby Airport shortly after six-
thirty and rented a car, taking the 610 Loop to the Galleria area, a pricey district of exclusive shops, fine restaurants, and plush office buildings. The brokerage firm where Eldridge worked was located near the Southwest Freeway, and the address of his apartment, provided by the DMV, was nearby, on Westheimer, one of the city’s main drags.

Traffic was heavy even for a Sunday evening, and Jake drove around for a while, getting his bearings. It was dark by the time he finally located Casa del Sol, a group of Spanish-
style buildings landscaped with oleander bushes and palm trees. Colorfully described as “garden apartments,” the two-
story structures were not unlike the dozens of complexes that populated east Memphis.

Spotting the right building, he parked in the visitors’ lot and watched the apartment for a few minutes before getting out of the car. He didn’t expect trouble, but Jake was by nature and by profession a cautious man.

The buildings were stucco and brick, housing eight units each, with wrought-
iron stairways at either end and a long gallery between them that provided access to the four second-
story apartments.

As Jake got out of his car and started toward the building, another car pulled in and parked in the covered area reserved for the tenants. A door slammed, and in a moment, Jake heard footsteps on the metal stairs farthest from him. He took the other set of stairs, deliberately slowing his steps. As he reached the covered landing, a woman stood at the far end, outside Michael Eldridge’s apartment, inserting a key into the lock.

She wore a slim yellow skirt with a matching midriff top that displayed an amazingly narrow waist, especially considering that other parts of her anatomy were just as amazingly ample. Her hair was white blond, but shiny and sleek, as if the color were natural, and when she turned to glance in his direction, Jake saw that her eyes were blue, very light and very beautiful.

“She was blond, about so high,”
the bartender had told him at the Club Mystique.
“And stacked. I mean, really built.”

On impulse Jake called, “Carol?”

The woman turned, then immediately realized her mistake. For a split second, she seemed to calculate her chances of getting into the apartment and slamming the door in Jake’s face. But she hadn’t yet unlocked the dead bolt. She whirled and took off down the stairs.

Jake tore off after her, taking the steps two at a time, then racing across the covered parking area in pursuit. She was ahead of him, but he knew he could catch her easily when she stopped to unlock her car.

As he was about to sprint the last few yards toward her, a yellow VW streaked around the corner and into the lot, headed directly for Jake. The headlights caught him in the face, blinding him momentarily as he dived out of the way. The front fender caught his thigh as he rolled.

The car screeched to a halt and the driver jumped out. “Oh, man, are you all right? I didn’t even see you.” The driver was a young man, early twenties, with scruffy blond hair pulled back into a ponytail, black-
rimmed glasses, baggy shorts, and an
X Files
T-
shirt that proclaimed The Truth Is Out There. Techno-
geek was the term that immediately came to Jake’s mind.

He walked toward Jake, visibly shaken. “Oh, man,” he said again. “Are you hurt?”

Jake struggled to his feet. On the other side of the VW, he heard a car door slam and the engine start up. The blonde was getting away.

The young man grabbed his arm. “You need a doctor? I can take you to the hospital.”

“I’m fine,” Jake said, shaking off the guy’s hand. The blonde’s car, a dark blue BMW with tinted windows, backed out of its slot. Jake started after her, but a searing pain shot up his leg.
“Damn,”
he swore as the BMW changed gears and shot forward, disappearing around the corner.

“Your girlfriend?” the techno-
geek asked him. “What happened, the two of you have a fight?”

“Something like that,” Jake muttered, hobbling back toward the apartment building.

“Listen, you sure you don’t need to go to the hospital? I feel, you know, kind of responsible, here.”

“I’m fine,” Jake assured him. “Nothing a good stiff drink won’t fix.”

“Oh, well, hey. I got some Jack Daniel’s in my apartment. Keep it around for when my old man visits. Never touch the stuff myself. I prefer a little reefer. It’s easier on the liver.”

“Thanks anyway,” Jake told him.

“Well, if you’re sure—” Reluctantly, the young man headed off across the parking lot toward his own apartment. Jake waited until he was inside, then retraced his steps back to Michael Eldridge’s apartment.

The blonde had left the key in the dead bolt. He turned until he heard the click, then pushed open the door. Taking a penlight from his pocket, he closed the door behind him, then shone the thin beam around the room. From what he could tell, the layout was typical of such apartments. The front door opened directly into the living room with a small dining area and kitchen connected. A narrow hall led to the bathroom and one or possibly two bedrooms.

Conscious of the fact that the woman might return or send reinforcements, Jake hurriedly searched the living room, coming up with nothing. The space was neat, the furnishings conservative bordering on institutional. There was certainly nothing about the decor that even hinted at a personality partial to Vipers.

The bathroom was just as bland, yielding nothing more than a well-
stocked medicine cabinet of first-
aid supplies and toiletries. The first room past the bathroom was a small office with an elaborate computer system and several metal filing cabinets containing stock-
market reports, investment portfolios, and computer printouts that were little more than gobbledygook to Jake.

He searched through the Rolodex on the desk, but found nothing. No name that leaped out at him. He turned on the computer and perused the directories, but again hit a dead end. It seemed that Michael El
dridge was exactly what he professed to be—a stockbroker.

The bedroom at the end of the hallway was a little more interesting, however. Here, Eldridge had allowed his imagination freer rein, decorating lavishly with animal prints, mirrors, and a video and audio system that must have cost a small fortune.

Jake searched through the dresser drawers, the nightstand, and then turned his attention to the walk-
in closet, which was as ordered as the rest of the apartment. Slacks, shirts, jackets, and suits were all hung in some color-
coded order, and shoe boxes had been neatly labeled and stored on shelves at the back of the closet.

Jake started with the shoe boxes. It had been his experience as a cop that shoe boxes were always the first place people used to store valuables and were, invariably, the first places crooks searched. But El
dridge’s shoe boxes turned up nothing but shoes—basketball shoes, tennis shoes, boat shoes, tasseled loafers, wing tips, sandals, boots.

Jake left the closet and went back into the bedroom, shining the beam of his penlight around the room again. He walked over to the stereo and television center, scanning the expensive equipment appreciatively before checking Eldridge’s musical and video selection. The music was eclectic, ranging from Steve Earle to Dead-
Can-
Dance, but the videos were a much narrower collection, mostly black-
and-
white gangster flicks from the thirties and forties.

There was a tape inside the VCR. On impulse, Jake turned on the TV, muted the volume, and pushed the Play button on the recorder. The picture scrambled for a split second, then straightened, and to Jake’s amazement, he saw Hope’s face come into focus.

His heart jumped into his throat. What the hell was Hope doing on a videotape in Michael Eldridge’s apartment? And it wasn’t just any videotape. It was the tape of her and Andrew’s wedding, shot ten years ago. The quality was strictly professional. No amateurish shaking of the camcorder, no in-
and-
out of focus, no shifting scenes. The lens stayed steadily on Hope as she walked slowly down the aisle, looking beautiful and radiant and so damned desirable Jake’s throat tightened, just watching her.

As she neared the altar, the focus switched to Andrew, who gazed down at her with open adoration. Then he took Hope’s hand, and Jake punched off the machine, not wanting to witness the vows being exchanged. He’d gone out and gotten rip-
roaring drunk on Hope’s wedding day ten years ago to try and block that very image. He felt like doing the same thing now, but he knew he couldn’t afford the luxury. He needed all his faculties, because something was definitely not right here.

How had Eldridge gotten a videotape of Hope’s wedding? What the hell was it doing here in his apartment in Houston?

But Jake knew he couldn’t wait around until the answers came to him. He’d already spent too much time in the apartment, pressing his luck. He had to get out of here.

Rewinding the tape, he turned off the television and VCR, then, dousing his light at the front door, peered out the window that faced the parking lot below. The coast looked clear, so he let himself out of the apartment, leaving the key in the dead bolt where he’d found it.

“Hey!” someone yelled as he walked across the parking lot toward his car.

Jake turned to see the man in the
X Files
shirt hurrying across the pavement toward him, a bottle of Jack Daniel’s in one hand and what looked like a joint in the other. He waved both at Jake.

“Smorgasbord!” The young man beamed. “Your choice of painkillers, man.”

Jake reached down to unlock his car. “Thanks—”

“Benny. My name’s Benny.”

“Thanks, but no thanks, Benny. I’m driving.”

Benny came around the side of Jake’s car. “Oh, well, yeah. I can dig that. Why don’t you come on back to my place? We can call up a few babes I know and have a party—”

It wasn’t until Benny’s gaze strayed over Jake’s left shoulder then back again that Jake realized something was wrong. By then it was too late. When he started to whirl, a blow to the back of his head brought him to his knees. Pain exploded inside his head, like a thousand nails being hammered into his skull.

He tried to struggle to his feet, but only managed to fall to his side on the pavement. Standing over him, Benny nudged Jake with his foot.

“Cool,” he said.

* * *

W
HEN
M
ICHAEL AND
H
OPE
arrived home, she went straight up to her suite and stayed there for the remainder of the evening, pleading a headache so she wouldn’t have to come down to dinner and face Michael again. Not that she would be able to avoid him forever. Iris had put him in the west wing, with Hope.

She shivered, thinking about her conversation with him earlier. Was it possible he really did care for her, or was this some sort of perverted machination on his part? A way to insinuate himself even more solidly into the Kingsley household?

Just after ten o’clock, Hope heard him come up to his room. She supposed that everyone else had retired for the night, and contemplated whether or not she wanted to talk to Iris now or wait until morning. If Iris had been scheming with Michael, as he’d implied, to get the two of them together, then Hope knew she had to put a stop to it right away.

She opened her door, but as she started to step out into the hallway, she heard Michael’s door open as well. Hope quickly retreated back into her room, not wanting a confrontation. She closed her door, but left a tiny crack open so she could peer through.

In a moment, she saw him come down the hallway and head toward the stairs. Hope opened the door wider, listening to the sounds of his departure—footsteps on the stairs, across the foyer, and then the front door opening and closing. The faint sounds of a car engine leaping to life.

Hope stepped into the corridor, pausing. Now would be the perfect time to talk to Iris, but another thought had suddenly occurred to her. Might there be proof of Michael’s true identity hidden somewhere in his room? Did she have the nerve to actually search for it?

As silent as a ghost, she slipped down the hallway to his room, hesitating as she glanced up and down the corridor. She’d never done anything remotely clandestine, and her heart pounded like a piston—not an altogether unpleasant experience. Was this sudden rush of adrenaline the kind of high Jake had experienced as a cop? Was that one of the reasons he loved his job so much?

At that moment, Hope could almost understand it. The excitement pumping through her made her almost light-
headed. She had to try and calm her racing pulse.

Taking a deep breath, she reached for the knob and opened the door, stepping through quickly, then closing it softly behind her. Michael had left a light on, a small reading lamp on an antique cherry-
wood desk in the corner. Hope decided the desk was as good a place as any to start her search.

But the drawers were mostly empty, and Hope wondered if Michael had even taken the time to unpack yet, which meant she would have to search through all his suitcases.

But the bureau proved more productive. He’d at least put some of his clothes away. One drawer contained neat stacks of shirts and sweaters, another socks and underwear, and the third, several pairs of running shorts. Hope searched through the sweater drawer and shorts drawer, then reluctantly came back to the socks-
and-
underwear drawer.

There was something about touching a stranger’s intimate apparel that made her distinctly uncomfortable, but Hope knew it had to be done. Rifling as quickly as possible through the stacks of soft cotton briefs and silk boxers, she almost overlooked a framed photograph that had been shoved beneath a pile of athletic socks.