Chapter 6
SIX
By some grace of heaven, he didn’t react to the word kidnapped . Mostly because the last thing Penelope needed, probably, was him looking at her with what he knew might be horror in his eyes.
But seriously, kidnapped ?
She kept talking, and he managed to keep driving, his eyes on the road, his hands on the wheel, instead of doing the one thing he wanted to do—stop and maybe pull her into his arms.
Just hold on and steady the terrible thunder in his chest.
It was possible he was taking this harder than she was. Because she was sitting next to him just. fine.
“I was nine. My parents were out of town—I don’t know where. Tia was two years older than me and had her own room, and that night she was sleeping over at a neighbor’s house. It was just me and my nanny and, of course, Edward and his mom. They actually had rooms in our house—he had a single mom, and she was with our family until she died, not long after Edward. Cancer. Or grief.”
She took a breath.
He swallowed the terrible boulder in his throat.
“Anyway, I was asleep, and woke up to someone putting duct tape over my mouth, and then, while I tried to scream, they taped my hands and feet and pulled me right out of my bed.”
She spoke so differently than she did in her podcasts, without drama or sound effects. Like she might be giving a police report.
“They hid me in our house. We have an old house—built in 1887—and it has a creepy basement and a huge attic and even a dumbwaiter that moves from floor to floor, and that’s what saved me. They put me in the basement—I’m not sure why. Maybe so they could tell my parents where to find me once they’d delivered the money. But we had this old cold-storage room where our housekeeper stored our apples and potatoes and other canned goods—she was from Germany and was this amazing cook?—”
“Pen.” Oh, he didn’t know why he’d interrupted her. “Sorry.”
“No—sorry. Not a podcast.” She glanced at him and he caught her eye. She could steal his breath, and not just with her story but with the striking beauty she probably didn’t know she possessed, wearing a white puffer jacket, leggings, and boots, that dark hair spilling out of her white hat. He still couldn’t get the image out of his brain—her wearing that ridiculous helmet, lopsided on her head, grinning into the camera, her eyes glowing.
He’d gotten himself in trouble then, conjuring up things for them to do on their I-guess-not-a-date.
Whatever. At least he’d gotten her into the car with him, and now?—
“So, anyway, they wrapped me up in a blanket and shoved me into the cold cellar, way in the back?—”
“Who is they?”
She eyed him. “I’ll get to that.”
He huffed, a sort of laugh. “So it is a story.”
“It has to be. Because if it isn’t, I’ll end up in therapy all over again.”
Oh.
“So there I sat, all night. The next day, I had to go to the bathroom, really bad, and ended up . . . you know. At least it was warm.”
“Aw . . .”
“I was mortified and really scared, but also had spent most of the night working off the tape on my mouth. They’d wrapped it around my head, so I lost some hair getting it off, but I got it free and then started biting through the tape on my wrists. Took me the better part of the next day, probably, although it was pitch dark in the room, so I had no idea. I finally got free, and then I realized that not only was I locked in but no one could hear me.”
“You must have been terrified.”
He crossed the Hennepin Avenue Bridge over the Mississippi, the waters gray, just a few boats on the river.
“I was. And then, after a while, I wasn’t. I sometimes hid there when Edward and I played hide-and-seek, so I ate some apples and then opened a jar of pickles . . . To this day, the smell of pickles brings me back to that.”
He nodded, his mouth tight. GPS spoke up and told him to take a left on University Avenue.
“Two days in, the door unlocked. It was Edward. He’d figured out where I was, but he said I wasn’t safe, that I needed to hide.”
“Why?”
“Because the person who’d kidnapped me was my nanny. And Edward knew it. He’d overheard her talking with one of the security guys, Nicolai, who was in on it, and apparently my parents were negotiating the ransom, and he thought . . .” She sighed.
“He thought they’d kill you.”
She nodded.
He pulled up to a sprawling block of brownstone condos that overlooked the river—grand buildings that appeared to have been built at the turn of the century. “Wow.”
“I know, right? River view, and it’s huge. He was going to be sad when he let it go . . .” She unsnapped her belt.
He put a hand on her arm. Turned to her. “So you hid.”
“Yeah. In the dumbwaiter. Edward sneaked me food until my parents got home, and then he told them where I was.”
“Why didn’t he call the cops right away?”
“He wanted to, but his mother didn’t know who to trust—she thought security might be in on it, so she wanted to wait until my parents got home. She knew I was safe, and that was the important part. I think they were both pretty scared.” She lifted a shoulder. “Anyway, that’s why my dad started EmPowerPlay. Because he thought I needed to feel strong and capable and . . .”
“Really? What sport did you play?”
“Soccer. I was terrible. I think I even scored a goal for the wrong team once.” She got out.
He followed her. “At least you scored.”
“The goalie left the net.” She pointed to a unit at the end of the row. Yeah, he saw it now—wood boarded up over the front door, windows blackened.
“The fire didn’t catch the other units?” He followed her across the parking lot.
“They made them a little sturdier back then for exactly that reason. Brick walls, brick foundation.” She stared at the unit. Took a breath.
He couldn’t stop himself from coming up behind her, putting his arms around her. “We’ll figure this out, Penny.”
We. Yes, we .
She held on to his arms for a moment, then turned, wiping her cheeks. “Okay, so the fire happened around nine p.m. My guess is that there had to have been someone home that time of night.”
He followed her to the townhome next to Edward’s, and she knocked on the door. He checked his watch. Monday afternoon . . .
His team had a game in about four hours. He should probably watch.
The door opened and a woman stood on the stoop holding a yapping poodle. Mid-forties, brown hair, she wore her eyeglasses on her head—so probably computer glasses and they’d interrupted her workday. “Yes?”
“My name is Penelope Pepper and this?—”
“Oh my—King Con.”
He gave her a tight-lipped smile, lifted his hand. “Ma’am.”
“We’re actually here because . . . well, we were hoping that you might know something about the fire next door.”
The woman sighed. “Other than I wish they’d gut the place? It’s an eyesore and dangerous to the neighborhood. Homeless sleep in it, not to mention the dogs.” She met her dog’s eyes. “Norm here is completely freaked out.”
Norm didn’t have any front teeth, so Conrad guessed she might be right.
“Were you here that night?” Penelope reached out to pet the dog, but he emitted a growl, so she pulled back.
“Don’t mind him. But no, I wasn’t. I was on vacation. Came back to this tragedy. But Janet Foster was. She’s retired, doesn’t go out much.” She pointed to the unit on the other side. Lowered her voice. “Sees everything.” Everything was a three-syllable word, accompanied by raised eyebrows and a nod.
“Thank you,” Conrad said and took Penelope’s hand.
“Hey,” said the woman. “Don’t you have an away game tonight?”
He nodded, then pulled Penelope away. “Don’t you know not to pet strange dogs?”
“No. I never had a dog. My mom is allergic. But I always wanted one.”
“I thought you’d be a cat person.”
“Oh no. Give me a floppy, loyal, shedding golden retriever any day.” She knocked on Janet Foster’s door.
Nothing. The wind scurried off the river, into the parking lot, the sun hovering over the city, shadows creeping across the pavement and grimy snow.
Conrad reached over her and knocked again, harder.
The door opened nearly immediately. “I’m here, for Pete’s sake!”
The woman wore a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt with the words All You Knit Is Love appliqued on the front. White fluffy hair and a few pounds turned her into a grandma type, except for the scowl on her face.
“Sorry.” Conrad held up a hand. “We were wondering if you could help us?—”
“You look familiar.” Except she wasn’t looking at Conrad. The woman narrowed her eyes at Penelope. “How do I know you?”
“Um—”
“This is Penelope?—”
“Oh my— Penny for Your Thoughts ! Goodness, come in!” A smile broke through, and even though she gave Conrad the side-eye, he followed them in.
Cozy place, right out of the eighties, with blue overstuffed sofas and end tables covered in doilies and a tangle of knitting on the sofa. The television played a YouTube video. Janet picked up the remote and muted it. “I just love your podcast. I intend to call in someday—really, I do.” She moved the knitting. “I still think that Tommy Fadden, her nosy neighbor, killed Sarah.”
Conrad had met Tommy when he’d been shot trying to help Harper find Penelope, so nope.
Penelope sat down. “Actually, Tommy is sort of a hero in the story, but that’s still an upcoming episode. I’m researching a different, um, murder.”
Conrad stayed standing, the smell of something baking lifting from the kitchen. His stomach growled and he pressed on it. He hadn’t eaten, thinking, well, thinking this was a date.
Weirdest date he’d ever been on.
“How can I help?” Janet had seated herself on a nearby rocking chair.
“The night that . . . your neighbor’s building burned, what do you remember?”
“Edward. Oh, he was such a darling.” She leaned forward. “I loved his fiancée too. Such a pretty girl. What was her name?”
“Tia?”
“No . . . that wasn’t it. Anyway, yes, I was here that night. Such a tragedy. They evacuated me, but of course, my unit was unharmed. And they got here so fast—well, you know, they were probably on their way anyway after I called them.” She leaned forward. “I gave my statement that night, but they never came back. I’m not sure why. I could probably describe him if they wanted to hypnotize me.”
Conrad frowned.
“Describe who?” Penelope said.
“The man who killed Edward.”
Penelope visibly froze.
“He came into the apartment, and I heard shots. Three shots.” She held up her fingers, just in case. “So I called 911. And then I saw him leave. He ran right out the front door and into the parking lot, and I tried to see where he went, but it was dark and . . . well, about five minutes later, the entire building rumbled and the windows exploded—terrifying. I stood out in my housecoat for three hours while the firefighters hosed it down. Insurance put me up in a hotel for a week before they’d let me back in. Oh, sweetheart, are you okay? Don’t cry?—”
Oh no, he hadn’t noticed, given the fact that he’d turned and looked out the window, trying to decide if Janet could be telling the truth. Not a huge picture window, but enough to make out a fleeing suspect.
Now he spotted Penelope grabbing tissues, Janet sitting next to her on the sofa. She pressed the tissues to her eyes. “I just feel so sorry for his fiancé.”
“Oh, I know it,” said Janet. “Such a pretty girl. Blonde hair. Drove a really sweet orange Volkswagen bug. Those things are expensive—I mean, back in my day, they were dirt cheap, but now?—”
“Do you remember her name?” Penelope’s voice shook, just a little.
And he got it. Penelope knew very well the name of Edward’s fiancée. Except he’d met her sister, Tia, who had dark hair. And probably didn’t drive a bug, and—Penelope was faking.
Oh. Wow. She was very, very good at the fake. Should probably teach a few of his wings.
“I think he called her Sarah. Anyway, they were so cute together. He’d sometimes cook out on the grill facing the river. Not that I watched them or anything, but oh, they seemed so in love.”
Penelope covered Janet’s hand with hers. “Thank you for telling me. Do you really think you could describe the shooter?”
“Absolutely. Tall, dark hair, big build. Looked like a tough guy, you know?”
A tough guy. Yeah, that described the majority of Conrad’s team.
Penelope got up. “Do you mind if I get your number? You know, just in case I have any questions?”
Janet rattled it off, and Penelope put it into her phone.
Conrad watched as she hugged Janet, gave her a warm smile.
He thanked the woman as they left. He walked out to the car, a clench in his gut.
“We already knew that Sarah knew Edward, right?”
“Right.” She opened the door, her expression unreadable.
Ho-kay. He slid into the driver’s seat and turned to her. “It doesn’t mean he was cheating?—”
She held up a hand. “It doesn’t matter. Maybe Tia escaped tragedy.” She looked away, her jaw tight.
Oh no. Especially since he didn’t exactly know how to fix it. “Cookie?”
He got a laugh. Not a big one, and maybe it wasn’t even a laugh but an expulsion of breath that also loosened the tension in the car. “No, thank you. But . . . it makes me think about what Harper said to me.” She turned. “Two weeks before Sarah was murdered, someone broke into her apartment and stole her computer.”
“Yes.”
“Tommy saw him—tried to stop him. Lots of reasons, but in the tussle, he tore his pocket and ended up with a box of matches from Turbo.”
“Turbo—wait, the nightclub?”
“Yeah. Tommy and Harper went there to talk to the security, but it was closed. They ended up at the offices of S & W but then got carjacked and . . . Anyway, what if this so-called ‘tough guy’”—she finger quoted the words—“worked for Turbo?”
“Why Turbo?” He’d turned on the car to crank up the heat.
“The building is managed by S & W—so it’s possible the security works for the building, not just the nightclub.”
He put the car into Drive. “They should be open by now.”
“What are we going to do—ask around for a big guy?”
He looked at her. “No, PI Penny. We’re going to take some shots of the security guys, and you’re going to text them to our friend Janet. See if we get a hit. And while you’re doing that, I’m going to eat something.”
She laughed. Put a hand on his arm. Squeezed.
Yeah, this date was so not over.
* * *
Conrad clearly had more power than just a few thousand social-media followers. Apparently, the guy had friends tucked away everywhere, or at least fans everywhere, because although Turbo was closed to the general public, Mr. King Con sat with a plate of wings and a Diet Coke, talking with Rex Dalton, the owner of the nightclub, a man in a pair of dress pants and an untucked fitted dress shirt.
Rex, the superfan who’d invited them in and bought the story Conrad had fed him about needing some publicity photos.
Felicity would go wild. They selfied in front of the black dance floor under disco lights, and in one of the round white-leather booths that circled the floor, and at the media console that looked down on the masses, the DJ giving them peace fingers, and even in the private balcony, where Rex got into the picture.
Penelope drew the line at the dance platforms, thank you. But this was clearly not a wasted date, and she had to admit, Conrad was clever. And hungry.
Now, while Conrad chatted, she wandered around and took “publicity” shots, which conveniently included the security.
She counted seven men, not all of them fitting Janet’s rather loose description, but maybe the woman would recognize one. Because of course she’d recognize a man from three years ago that she’d seen running from a building in the shadowy night, his back to her. No problem .
Penelope slid onto a high-top chair beside Conrad, and he glanced over his shoulder. “Hey. Get what you needed?”
She grabbed a wing. “How hot are these?”
“It’ll take the roof off your mouth,” said Rex. He wore his dark hair short and had a shade of whiskers, and rings on his fingers.
“I think I’ll wait until dinner.” She set her chin on Conrad’s shoulder, just in case someone might be a social-media follower. “Where are we going? Or are you too full?”
He hadn’t even jerked at her intimate gesture, so game well played. Instead, he wiped his fingers with a wet wipe. “Are you kidding?” He stood up. “Thanks, Rex.”
“You should come by when we’re actually open,” Rex said. “I’ll put you in the VIP stand.”
“You too. You ever want tickets, reach out. I’ll set you up.” Conrad shook Rex’s hand, then held his out to Penelope. Oh, they were still onstage. She took it, let him lead her outside.
“Get the shots?”
“Already sent to Janet. We’ll see if she gets a hit.”
Outside, the night had started to pitch the streets, lights puddling the icy sidewalks. Her breath caught in the cool air despite the nearly above-freezing temperatures. She needed a vacation, pronto. Probably someplace in the Caribbean. She could follow Tia to her remote-island gig.
“Were you serious about dinner?” Conrad asked, leading her around the back to the parking lot.
“You’re actually hungry?”
“I’m a hockey player. I’m always hungry.”
They emerged from the alleyway into the lit lot. When they’d arrived, a delivery truck had blocked the back entrance, so he’d parked away from the door, on the other side.
Now, he slowed as he came up to his car.
She saw it too . . . Glass speckled the pavement, and as they drew closer . . .
“Someone vandalized my car.”
The driver’s-side window had been shattered, the steering wheel sheared off the mount. The front windshield, too, bore a spiderweb.
He dropped her hand. “What?”
She stepped closer, and her foot crunched glass. “Who would do this?”
“C’mon.” He took her hand, pulled her away, back toward the club, nearly running.
“Conrad—what?—”
“Listen.” He pulled her into the alleyway, turned to her, almost pushing her back against the wall, his gaze fierce on hers. “I don’t know, but this feels . . .” His jaw tightened.
And right then, she heard his words, the ones that now formed in his eyes, the ones he’d spoken just a couple nights ago, brutal and sharp inside her— “You, Penelope Pepper, are the connection.”
Her mouth opened.
His gaze dropped to it, back to her eyes, and for a second—a terrible, confusing, magical second—her fear dropped away, and all she could think was?—
Yes .
Please.
He backed away, took her hand, breathing a little hard. “Let’s call the cops.”
Probably that was the right answer.
An hour later, she found him standing in the lot as a tow truck backed in to trolley away his car. The air had turned bitter, with two police cars lighting up the lot, the area roped off. She’d given her statement—which filled about three sentences—and he’d given his, and no one had asked why someone would do this. Apparently, the catalytic converter had also been stolen and he’d sported a designer steering wheel, and the cops took pictures and packed up the crime scene and attributed it to vandals.
Bummer for King Con.
She didn’t take any selfies. She did, however, call an Uber XL because she thought maybe he wouldn’t want to be shoved into an economy car on the drive back to her place.
Indeed . He sat in the SUV, head back, eyes closed. So maybe this was the end of their date.
Poor guy. He’d clearly gotten in over his head saying yes to this game.
“Please tell me you have other wheels,” she said.
“I do. A truck.”
Of course.
He lifted his head. “But this can’t be the way this date ends.”
Her eyes widened.
He sat up. “I’m sorry about the vandalism?—”
“That wasn’t your fault last time I looked.”
“That was sort of a cosmic, blanket sorry , the kind that meant I’m sorry that the world occasionally sucks and that people do bad things, and I’d really like to end this night on a positive note.”
“Are we talking cookies?”
“Actually, I’d prefer a steak.” He stretched his arm over her seat. “My place? I cook a mean ribeye.”
Oh. His place. Which meant . . . no paparazzi. No King Con sightings.
No fake-dating game.
Crazily, she was about to nod when her phone buzzed. She pulled it out, thumbed open the text. Stilled. “Shoot.”
“What?”
“It’s my mother. I forgot—Sunday-night dinner.” She closed her eyes. “It’s a thing. I’ll text them and tell them I’m busy?—”
“No.” He looked at her, his voice kind. “Family is important. It’s fine. Drop me off at home.”
Oh. And it was something in his tone—defeat, maybe—that made the words emerge from her mouth. “Come with me.”
He raised an eyebrow. “To dinner?”
“Yeah. It’s fine. Casual. Sort of. Okay, not at all, but our chef is amazing, and . . . you did say you were starving.”
“I managed to pack away a dozen wings. I think I’ll survive until I can get home and order a pizza.”
“It’s beef Wellington night. Garlic potatoes. Homemade bread. Crème br?lée?—”
“Yes.”
She laughed then, and he smiled, and it took the sharp edge off today’s events. The Uber drove them to her house, and she picked up her car and he wedged himself into her passenger seat, and forty-five minutes later, she pulled up to her parents’ lakeside home.
Er, estate.
She entered the code at the gated entrance, drove up the long drive, and seeing him sit up as he took in the house elicited a pride she hadn’t felt in ages.
The house rose, striking under a starry winter sky. It looked like something out of time that always made her pause, consider the generational wealth that had gone before her. The Georgian-Tudor style, with the steep, slate gable roof, gave it a stately aura, and why not?—the entire house spanned over thirty-thousand square feet. Lights arrayed over the front revealed the half-timbering of the exterior, especially along the wing, the rest of the house a herringbone brick. A two-story portico jutted out from the house into the cobblestone driveway, and electric candles flickered in the tall, narrow windows.
“The main house was built in 1887, with the wing added right after World War I. It’s old and beautiful, with tall windows that overlook the lake, and sleeping porches off every bedroom—of which there are eleven—and a great room that my entire house would fit inside. A three-story zinc fireplace and even a third-floor ballroom, sort of like your parents’ inn.
“This is nothing like my parents’ inn,” Conrad said as they pulled up. “But it is gorgeous and reminds me a lot of old money. What does your dad do?”
“Now—he manages our investments. But my great-great-grandfather was in lumber. And then, of course, paper. We’re the Paper Peppers.”
They stopped under the portico and she got out.
Conrad came around. “I feel this might have been a bad idea. I don’t think I shaved today.”
She glanced at him. “You haven’t shaved in ten years.”
“What do you know? I shave every year after the Stanley Cup.”
Felix came out of the building in his usual suited attire, hair freshly cut, a dark expression aimed at Conrad.
“Keys are in the ignition.”
“I’ll park it in the garage, ma’am.” He got in.
Conrad shot him a frown. “Valet?”
“Security. My dad went a little crazy after the kidnapping. I had a bodyguard in college.”
She opened the scrolled-oak door. “Usually we use the side entrance, but . . . it never hurts to show off the entry.”
“Holy cannoli,” he said as he stood in the two-story vaulted entrance. It led straight through to the great room and then beyond, to the solarium.
Yes, it was impressive to the first-timer. On either side, a hallway lined with black brick led to the living areas and the bedrooms respectively. “When I was a kid, I would ride my bike in the hallway. It’s nearly the length of a football field.”
“I feel like shouting or something, seeing if my voice echoes.” He took off his jacket.
A man, blond hair, well-built, always reminded her of a Nordic Viking, walked up. “Ma’am.”
“Geoffrey. This is Conrad Kingston.”
“Yes, ma’am, we know.” He took Conrad’s coat.
Of course they did.
“Thanks,” Conrad said as Geoffrey collected hers as well.
“Ma’am, your family is gathering in the small dining room.” He offered a tiny bow, then moved away to stow the coats in the nearby closet, secreted behind an oak panel.
They walked into the great room. “Okay, when Harper said you were . . . you know . . . rich . . . I thought maybe one of those nice homes on the lake. I didn’t realize it was”—he cast his voice down—“like, own-your-own-country rich.”
“And that is why I don’t tell anyone. Don’t act weird.”
“I’m not.”
“You totally are.”
He’d stopped at the Postimpressionist painting that hung on the wall opposite the fireplace.
“Yes, that is a Cézanne original.”
“My mother would love to see this place. She’s all things vintage.” He ran his hand along the scrolled built-in bookcase, then stood behind the creamy white sofa that faced the fireplace. Puddles of light fell from the sconces on the walls.
He walked over to the solarium, heavy with the scent of plants. Terra-cotta tile led to the floor-to-ceiling picture window and doors. Beyond, in the darkness, the expansive lawn led right down to the lake.
He turned to her. “Do I need a tie?”
“Stop talking. I’m starved.” She pulled him toward the smells of the dining room.
So maybe she was hungry.
Except, in the room papered in gold tapestry, the chairs were empty at the twelve-foot dining table, although candles flickered in the candelabra in the middle and places were set. The smell of garlic and a hearty roast came from the kitchen.
She pressed a hand against her growling stomach.
“This is the small dining room?” Conrad arched a brow.
“Fine. Follow me.” She gestured back to where they’d come from and crossed through the great room to the dining hall.
An eighteen-foot walnut table, coffered ceiling, a custom-made Turkish rug, and gold-framed pictures of her greats, most of them with family gathered on the lawn.
“Now this is how to have a family dinner. We could fit the entire Blue Ox team.”
“My dad has a big party every year, brings in his board. We usually use the small dining room for family.”
“Pep! I didn’t think you were coming.”
She turned and Tia came into the room, wearing leggings and a gold blouse, UGG slippers. “Is this . . . wait—Conrad Kingston? You were at the gala, right?”
Please . Penelope managed not to roll her eyes.
He had to bend over to give Tia a hug, and she rose on her tiptoes as she looked over at Penelope and winked.
Aw. Don’t get crazy , Penelope mouthed. She needed a word with her sister.
“Sadly, despite the great smell, the gas went out on the stove,” Tia said. She turned to Conrad. “In this old house, we aren’t connected to city gas or water or sewer, so we have our tanks delivered.” She put her hands on her hips. “Our house manager, Charles, was out last week, and Chef Taylor didn’t think to order it. Anyway, Mother is the kitchen and . . . I think we might be having peanut butter sandwiches.”
Conrad did a poor job of hiding a smile. “Back to steaks at my place?”
“Fine. But first, I need a minute with Tia.”
He held up his hands. “I’ll be in the great room looking for a first-edition Dickens.”
“It’s on the top—” Tia started.
Penelope grabbed her arm and pulled her away, into the hallway and down toward their mother’s office. Their father had a study on the other side of the great room.
She pulled her inside the room with plush white Turkish rugs, deep blue sofas, and pictures of their family gallery-style on the walls. A Queen Anne desk her mother rarely sat at faced yet another fireplace, this one in white marble.
“What?” Tia said, rounding on her. “And what is Conrad Kingston doing here? And by the way—he is still smokin’—”
“Stop talking and listen.”
Tia held up her hands. “Wow. Hangry much?”
Penelope wrinkled her nose. “A little. But that’s—” She took a breath. Maybe . . . shoot. This might be a bad idea. “I got the forensic arson report from Edward’s apartment.”
“Yeah, so did I.” Tia folded her arms.
“No—a different one. The real one. The one that found two bullet holes in his wall.”
Tia’s eyes widened.
“I went there today and talked with one of the neighbors, and she saw a man run from the townhouse right after hearing three shots.”
Tia reached out, backed up and hit the sofa. Leaned on it. “So he was dead before the fire.”
“Yes.”
She breathed out, bent over, gripped her knees. “Oh, thank God.”
Penelope stilled. “What?”
“I was so worried that he’d burned to death.” She stood up, her eyes filled. “That he’d suffered in the flames, but . . .” She swallowed. “Thank you. It’s like a gift, knowing?—”
“Tia. I’ve been saying for years that someone murdered him and set the house on fire to cover it up.”
Tia’s eyes widened. Her mouth opened, and Penelope could almost see her brain working. “I know. I just . . .”
“Loved him. And you didn’t want to think that someone could murder him.”
A tear trekked down her sister’s cheek. “But the alternative—that he burned to death—was just as horrible.”
Penelope stepped up and wiped it away gently with her thumb. “I know I’ve asked this before, but I need you to really think. Did Edward have any enemies? Anyone who would’ve wanted to hurt him?”
Tia shook her head. “No. Everybody loved him. He was so smart and brilliant and . . .”
Cheating on you. But Penelope kept that to herself, not quite sure she could believe it.
“That’s it, then,” Tia said. “I didn’t want to believe you, but I guess . . . now we know. We give the evidence to the police and walk away. Let them handle it.”
Penelope blinked at her. “Tia. The police know—they have to know. Or . . .” She frowned. “Okay, yes, but . . .”
Tia put her hands on Penelope’s shoulders. “Give them what you found. Then you need to let him go too.” She pulled Penelope into her embrace.
Huh. Her heart thumped, not sure . . .
Tia pushed her away. “So, I heard things are going well with EmPower. Lucas called—said the photo shoot went spectacularly. We already have pictures on the website.”
Really? But Conrad’s words about Tia’s way of grieving rounded back to her, so, “Yeah. I bought equipment for the team today.” It felt like a thousand years ago. “Conrad helped.”
“Uh-huh. You two a thing?” She looped her arm through Penelope’s.
“No. I mean . . .” Shoot. What did she mean?
They had exited the room, walking down the hall into the great room. Voices.
She slowed, listening.
Her father’s voice.
And Conrad’s.
“I don’t know,” she finally said to Tia.
“Mm-hmm. I’m checking on the sandwiches.” Tia left her there, in the room, listening.
“Nice boat.” Conrad’s voice. He was probably looking at a picture of her father’s pride and joy, moored in their boathouse—a Melges 24 sailboat.
“She’s a beauty. Been sailing since I was kid.” Her father, his voice deep, warm. He had a way of making everyone in the room feel like they might be the only one.
“This is a good picture.” Again, Conrad.
“That’s one of the boards I sit on. Quantex Dynamics. Had our meeting in Barbados a few years ago.”
“I invested in crypto stock about three years ago. Totally tanked. I lost about a hundred K.” Conrad’s voice.
“That’s rough, Conrad. You’ve got to learn how to find the right stock.” The sound of a bottle opening. Except Conrad didn’t drink.
Or at least, she thought not.
“Thanks,” Conrad said.
“That’s a glass of Macallan Dalmore 62. Try it.”
“Actually, sir?—”
See?
But silence, and then her father laughed.
Her throat tightened.
“Son. You need to learn how to enjoy the finer things in life if you want to be with my daughter.”
Wait — what?
“The fact is, investing is always a gamble. You can make an educated guess, but you never know how it’s going to pan out. But you can’t get scared when things look like they’re going to take a turn. Stay in the game. Have a little faith.”
“I’m working on something, sir, that I hope pans out. We’ll see.”
Right. His contract with the Blue Ox.
The one her father could influence.
So, they were back in the game.
And she had an answer for her sister. We’re nothing.
She took a breath, then walked into the office. Opulent, with a bookshelf floor to ceiling behind the massive mahogany desk. Another fireplace, the photographs assembled in gold frames along the mantel.
Her father stood with a highball, holding court at the fireplace.
Conrad’s hands were in his pockets. He looked over at her. Smiled.
She took a breath. “The gas is out in the stove. No dinner tonight, Dad. C’mon, Conrad, I’ll drive you home.”
Conrad frowned, then reached out to shake her father’s hand. Turned and walked over to her. “Did I do?—”
“Date’s over, Conrad.”
He stiffened, swallowed, his mouth tightening. Then, quietly, “What date?” He shook his head and walked out the door.
* * *
Of all the places for Emberly to run back into Steinbeck Kingston, a cathedral in Catalonia seemed the most improbable.
Unless you factored in fate, and the fact that the man had a magnetic pull on her—even from the moment she’d met him (that had nearly been tragic)—and of course, their shared target.
Declan Stone.
Too-handsome, too-smart, too-arrogant, too-freakin’-charming Declan Stone, who didn’t remotely resemble an international or even a domestic terrorist in his khaki pants, black rain jacket, and baseball cap, wearing the pedestrian earphones and headset handed out by the group tour guide. Sheesh, he practically blended into the group of tourists wandering around the interior of Sagrada Família, his gaze heavenward at the windows that were currently turning the nave of the church a bright orange.
Honestly, if a girl slowed down and actually listened to the guy talking in her own headset, she might admit that Gaudí’s nature-forward cathedral mesmerized her, with its attention to gathering the shifting daylight to stream down lavender, teal, gold, and fuchsia into the corridors of the space. That and the pillars carved to resemble massive sequoias jutting to the ceiling of the church gave the place almost a fairyland spell.
Nimue would love it. If Emberly could drag her sister out of the darkness of the deep web. Although, right now, Nim might be sitting on the bow of her restored fishing boat, moored in a private harbor in Geiger Key, just outside Key West.
Yeah, clearly Emberly was the one who needed a vacation from her life.
Stone sat on one of the pews in the middle of the cathedral, staring at the crucifix hanging in front, listening to a boys’ choir sing some hallelujah-type chorus. Emberly pulled the headphones from her ears and merged into the crowd, standing in the shadow of one of the tall sequoias.
And just to confirm that her disguise worked, she glanced at Stein.
He stood away from Declan, but only a few feet, not even trying to hide his stun power, the dark, burnished hair that seemed unruly and long for a former SEAL, his stance less than casual, the way he stood, legs apart, arms folded. He wore a black jacket, black pants, and a black baseball cap—could anyone say private security? Hello.
But maybe that was the point. Akin to a giant Do Not Disturb sign across his chest.
No earphones for him. He’d wandered in seemingly almost uncaring at the grandeur of the place.
Which made it a little hard to complete her mission, thank you.
She dug out her earwig and pressed it into her ear. “There’s no way I can grab him.” Her voice, low, was answered with a sigh.
“We’ll need to get creative.” Her boss on the other end. Emberly could picture her, pacing in her apartment in Montelena, the one that overlooked a small alpine town with a castle embedded on a mountainside and one of the most secure crypto vaults in the world.
One that required the blood of the vault holder for access.
Whoops. Should have figured that out during her last go-round with Stone, back in Minnesota.
“You just need to get close enough to poke him.”
“I need more than that. I need three cc’s—that’s a teaspoon—which means I actually have to get him alone, secured, and still for a good sixty seconds.”
She had the entire kit in her sling bag. Just in case fate decided to, maybe, send an earthquake through Barcelona, separating Stein from his client and maybe rendering Stone unconscious. Yes, that would be überhelpful. And maybe God should listen, because she was one of the good guys.
Had sort of thought Stein was too. She still hadn’t sorted out how and when he’d switched sides. Or really, why it irked her.
“If you don’t get him today, then he goes back to the conference, and only three more days until he heads home, back to his fortress.”
“He might go to his retreat in Mariposa.”
“You think you’ll have a better chance of getting near him on his private island ?”
“He doesn’t own the entire thing?—”
“Okay. Listen. You’re creative—that’s why we tapped you for this. Get it done.” Her voice softened, and frankly, Emberly didn’t hate her new boss. She spoke with a slight British accent, had lived around the world, and had a sort of compassion about her. Code name: Mystique. “I checked into Stein, like you asked. He survived the bombing in Singapore, got shipped out to Tripler in Hawaii, spent a year in rehab, and tried to rejoin his team. Didn’t go well. Got out and sort of wandered around for the last three years. Fell off the radar. I’ll keep checking, but I don’t think he’s a threat.”
Yeah, well, Mystique hadn’t seen how said Not Threat had looked at her across the room Saturday night like he’d wanted to devour her. Shock, then a sort of fierceness, as if he might have been trying to place her, and the sense of it burrowed under her skin.
No way could he have recognized her, right? She’d worn a different wig, contacts, pants, a white shirt—completely different presentation than the woman she’d been on the dance floor a month ago.
Except, the way his gaze had changed to almost a hunger . . . She’d downed her vermouth, and when he turned away, fled.
Shoot, he’d gotten into her head, clearly.
“I’ll get creative,” she said now to Mystique. “You can count on me.”
“I know.” She hung up.
Emberly pulled out the earwig, pocketed it, and then watched as Stone got up, the choir having finished, and followed his tour group out of the cathedral.
They stopped outside, where a light rain drizzled, and she pulled on her own baseball cap, sunglasses (just because), and her black rain slicker. Even managed to sidle up to the group and hear the guide talk about the brutal modernist sculptures on the back of the cathedral, depicting the Passion, the final days of the Gospel.
Around them, tourists stood in a line, waiting to enter, and across the street, buses splashed through puddles. Bicyclists pedaled, heads down, along bike lanes, barely looking up.
“The facade is intentionally severe,” said the guide. “Designed to depict the suffering of our Lord, the severity and pain of the crucifixion.”
It did appear cruel, the sculptures almost austere, bare stone, with relief in places to represent body parts, faces. A stark, grim contrast to the Renaissance paintings that hung in the Louvre and other art houses around Europe.
These people got it—no romance in death. It was ugly, horrid business, and she turned away from the depiction.
A scream lifted and Emberly held in her own shout when a bicyclist slammed into one of the tourists who had stepped out from the line to capture a picture. The woman flew, hit a bus, thankfully stopped, and more people started to scream.
Blood ran into the street, the drizzle turning it into watercolor.
Declan and Stein had turned, along with others, and of course, Stein stepped up to his man, put a hand on his back.
Maybe he thought this was a distraction.
And it hit her then.
Yes, a distraction. Something that would make Stein think Stone was in trouble. . . .
Maybe even an accident of his own.
Take out Stein, and she got to Stone.
The thought put a fist into her gut, thickened her throat, but she couldn’t help it that he’d changed sides.
All was fair in . . . war.
And love could have nothing to do with it.