“So what happened to the case in the end?” Jack asked. “It had to go somewhere, didn’t it?”
“From the notice of dismissal, it looks like the parties reached a settlement that was approved by the court, but the terms were kept confidential, and there was no admission of wrongdoing by anyone.”
“So we’re left with nothing to connect Willie Murphy to Venable’s father,” Train noted. “As your friend Mr. Elliot pointed out, we’d have to uncover something specific involving the senior Venable to provide a real, tangible motive. What I’m hearing is that there’s nothing in this lawsuit that does that. Am I right?”
Sydney nodded. “Like I said, if there’s anything here, I can’t find it. It looks like only Willie Murphy could have filled in the blanks.” Sydney shifted again and looked at her watch. It was nearing seven-thirty. “I’ve got to get to my mother’s house,” she said wearily.
Train and Cassian shared a look, and Sydney could tell they were both thinking the same thing. “What?” she demanded after a moment.
“Sydney,” Train said gently, “you can’t go home.”
“What do you mean I can’t go home?”
“It’s not safe,” Cassian said.
“Don’t be stupid, I have to go home.”
Train, who’d been pacing through most of the conversation, sat down next to her. “I hate to be the one to point this out to you, Sydney, but someone’s trying to kill you.”
She stared at him as the concept sank in for the first time and the truth hit her hard.
“I’m sorry,” Train said.
She looked up at Cassian. “I have to get to my family,” she said urgently.
“They’re fine,” Cassian said.
Train nodded. “We’ve had patrols passing your mom’s house every half hour to make sure everything’s okay, and the place has been quiet.”
“I’ve got to see them.”
Cassian shook his head. “It’s too dangerous. Whoever is trying to kill you knows where you live and work. How hard would it be for them to locate your mother’s house?”
“I’ll take that chance,” she said defiantly.
Cassian sat next to Sydney so that he and Train were book-ending her supportively. “Even if you’re willing to take that chance for yourself, are you willing to put your mother and your niece in danger?”
She looked at him, not comprehending.
“Whoever is trying to kill you isn’t going to be deterred by the fact that you’re with a sixty-five-year-old woman and a fourteen-year-old girl. They’ll just kill your mother and your niece as well, if necessary. Not only that, but if they think you’ve passed on any information to your family, they may feel the need to make sure your family can’t pass that information on to anyone else.”
“But I don’t know anything to pass on.”
“Someone out there thinks you do. And whoever is behind this, it’s clear they’re willing to take out anyone they feel is a risk.”
“So what do I do?”
Train and Cassian shared a look again. “First, you should call your mother.”
z
Amanda Creay sat in the library of the Chapin mansion, flip
ping through a schoolbook, but she was unable to concentrate. She closed the book and rubbed her temples. She couldn’t handle it anymore; she was convinced that she’d lose her mind at any moment. It wasn’t the grief; she’d learned to handle grief long ago. She’d learned early that grief came in waves, and that if she clenched her fists hard enough—sometimes so hard that the tips of her fingernails dug painfully into her palm—she could ride her way through the waves and come out the other side.
No, it wasn’t the grief; it was the boredom. The boredom was endless, stretching out in front of her like a flat, calm ocean, offering only solitude and emptiness. It was the boredom that terrified her, and she hoped that she’d be able to return to school shortly, if only to give her something to do.
The phone rang, and she rose and crossed the room. “Hello?” she said.
“Amanda? It’s Sydney.”
“Sydney? Where are you?” Hearing her aunt’s voice made things bearable at least.
“I’m down at the police station.”
“Why?”
“It’s hard to explain. Is my mother there?”
“No. She went out, and she said she’d be back later tonight.”
Amanda could hear the sigh from Sydney through the phone line. “I need you to give her a message. I’m not going to be back there tonight. I’ll stop by to explain everything tomorrow when I get a chance, okay?”
Amanda’s spirits crashed. “You’re not coming back?” She felt more alone than ever.
“I’m coming back, Amanda. You need to know that I’m coming back. Just not tonight. There are a lot of things that I’m dealing with right now, but I promise I won’t leave you. Can you hang on?”
Amanda steeled herself. “I think so.” Something in Sydney’s voice gave her strength, and the knowledge that she wouldn’t be alone forever was comforting. “Sydney?”
“Yes?”
“Does this have something to do with my mother’s murder?” She held her breath as she waited for the reply.
“Yes,” Sydney said after a brief pause. “Yes, it does.”
She considered that for a moment. “Promise me two things?”
“Anything.”
“Promise me you’ll find out why all this happened. And promise me you’ll come back safe.”
S
YDNEY FELT NUMB
as she hung up the phone. Amanda’s courage made her feel helpless. With nothing to go on, how could she possibly keep her promise to sort all this out? As for her prom
ise to stay safe—well, she didn’t even want to think about that.
“Everything okay at home?” Jack asked.
“Fine,” she said. She looked back and forth between Cassian and Train. “Really, it’s fine. Obviously with all my family’s been through, particularly my niece, it would be better if I was there, that’s all.”
“We’ll make sure to have someone drive by the house every so often throughout the night, just to make sure everything’s quiet there,” Train reassured her.
“Thank you, I’d appreciate that.”
“No problem,” Train said. “Let me go talk to the desk sergeant and set that up.” He left the room, closing the door behind him.
Sydney sat down and put her head in her hands. She looked up at Cassian. “So, what now?” she asked.
“Now we’ll set you up with protection for the evening. Make sure that you’re safe.”
“How does that work?”
“You can probably stay with Detective Train. That may be the easiest thing to do. We could also assign a uniformed officer, if that’d make you feel more comfortable.”
“Jack,” she said biting her lip, “I have a favor to ask.”
“What’s that?”
“Can I stay with you?”
z
“Again?” Salvage’s client’s voice crackled with rage and dis
belief. “She got away from you again?”
“It was unavoidable,” he replied, though it sounded weak even to him.
“I’d hope so.” Salvage said nothing in response to the wicked sarcasm; better to get through the conversation with as little acrimony as possible. “I’m beginning to wonder whether your reputation isn’t overplayed.”
“I understand,” Salvage seethed. “If you have someone else in mind who’s willing to perform the services I provide, I’ll be happy to turn the matter over to them.”
“You are the beneficiary of a striking lack of competition in this area,” the client conceded. “But that’s no excuse for sloppy and incompetent work. She’s a twenty-seven-year-old student, for goodness’ sakes. How hard can it be?”
“Does that mean I still have a job?”
Salvage could hear the anger in the short breaths coming through the line. “Yes, I intend to retain you. Do you intend on finishing the job?”
“There was never any question of that.”
“Good.” There was a pause on the line. “You understand what’s at stake, I trust?”
“I do.”
“I’m glad to hear it. But just in case there’s any doubt, you should know that if this issue goes any further, you’re finished.”
Salvage thought that over. “You’ve already paid half. That’s not refundable.”
There was a laugh on the other end of the line. “I’m not talking about your money, Mr. Salvage. I have friends who are powerful enough to find you wherever you go. If this gets any worse, you’ll never live to enjoy a penny that you’ve been paid. Do you understand? You’ll spend your money in hell.”
Salvage’s blood turned cold and he took the flask he’d been saving for a celebratory drink once his mission was complete out of his pocket. He looked at it warily for a moment, and then gave in at last, swigging it quickly to put some warmth back into his body. He cleared his throat. “Yes,” he said. “I understand perfectly.”
C
ASSIAN OPENED THE DOOR
to his apartment, reaching in and turn
ing on the lights before stepping back and holding the door open for Sydney.
She walked in slowly, absorbing the place as she panned around the entry hallway and living room. The apartment was located just off Dupont Circle, northwest of the White House, bordering on the fashionable Foggy Bottom area near the George Washington University campus. There was a time when the neighborhood was predominantly gay, and as such had been considered beyond the pale of the best areas of the city. Some once thought it dangerous, even. But as homosexuality lost its taboo among the cultured elite, the brownstone neighborhood had been invaded by young urban professionals and upper-government transients on temporary assignment to Washington, looking for convenient, hip places to call home.
The floors were hardwood, broken only in a few places by small area rugs, and the furniture was simple but clean and tasteful. A few pictures of those who had permanence in Jack’s life—parents, brother, a few friends—peeked out from built-in cabinetry, and artistic black-and-white photographs dotted the walls.
“Nice place,” Sydney commented as she walked into the living room.
“Works for me,” Jack replied. “There are two bedrooms. I use one as an office, but there’s a pullout couch. I can stay in there.” He needed to get straight on the sleeping arrangements. He waited for her acknowledgment, but she said nothing. “I’m sorry about all this,” he continued. “I know it’s a huge inconvenience.” “Inconvenience” struck him as an unfortunate choice of words, and he wanted to kick himself for it.
“How long have you lived here?”
“Three years.”
“Do you like it?”
“Like I said, it works for me.”
“It’s nicer than I would have expected.” Now it was her turn to look embarrassed at her choice of words. “I mean ...I didn’t mean . . . it seems expensive to me for a . . .” She paused, clearly realizing that she was only digging the hole deeper.
“Cop?” He rescued her with an understanding smile. “My parents passed away a little while back. I got a little bit of money. Nothing like . . .”
“Like me?” She returned his smile, and the tension in the air seemed to disperse somewhat, like white smoke in a breeze, leaving only its scent. After completing another three-sixty around the living room, she looked at him and nodded. “It suits you.” She let her shoulder bag drop to the floor.
“Shitty day?” Jack commented.
She nodded again. “Shitty day. Shitty couple of weeks.”
He was unsure what to say. He finally decided to keep it functional. “I’m gonna make some dinner. You want some? Or I can order something for you to be delivered?”
“What are you having?”
He shook his head. “I don’t know. Depends on what I can find here that’s edible.”
“Edible, huh? Sounds delicious.”
“Like I said, I can order something in for you.”
She shook her head. “That’s all right. I’ll take my chances on edible.”
“A little food will probably make you feel better.”
“Food and a shower,” she agreed.
He was already bending down in front of the open refrigerator, looking for anything that might be worth putting over heat. “Bathroom’s down the hall,” he said. “It’s all yours if you want it.”
He could feel her looking at him as he rummaged through the kitchen, and he wondered what she was thinking. The silence dragged on forever and there was a part of him that wanted to turn around; to see her looking at him; to catch a glimpse of her expression in the hope that it might betray a hint of the attraction he felt for her. It wasn’t an option, though, he told himself.
Eventually he heard her pick up her bag. “I’ll be out in a few minutes,” she said.
“Okay,” he replied. “Take your time.”
There was another brief pause; another moment of temptation; and then he heard her pad on down the hallway toward the bathroom.
z
“Where’d you learn to cook?” She was sitting at the kitchen table, glass of wine in front of her.
She’d stood in the shower for over ten minutes, letting the streams of warm water pelt her neck and shoulders as she leaned against the wall; feeling them run down over her as they split off into different directions, running down her arms and back and chest; dripping off her elbows and fingers, and washing over every part of her. For a while she thought that maybe, if she stayed in long enough, the water might wash away the past, and all of the pain, and leave her new. It wasn’t to be, though, and eventually she turned off the shower and stepped out of the tub, drying herself off.
When she walked out of the bathroom, the aroma from the kitchen swept through her, and she realized suddenly how hungry she was. Nothing had ever smelled as good to her as whatever Jack was cheffing up in his comfortable little apart
ment. She’d gone to the refrigerator and pulled out a bottle of white wine that was on one of the shelves. Catching a look from him, she felt defensive. “If any day deserves a drink, I think today is the one.”
“Did I say anything?” he said, holding his hands high. “You can sit there and do tequila shots as far as I’m concerned.”
“Wine will do fine, thank you. You want some?”
He shook his head. “I’m okay for the moment.”
Now she was comfortably deposited in the wooden armchair at his kitchen table. “My parents were older than most,” Jack explained in answer to her question about his culinary prowess. “My mom was nearly forty when I came along, and my dad was into his fifties.”