Chapter 13
Chapter Thirteen
Deaver parked about a mile away and walked to Caroline Lake’s home. He’d studied the satellite photos and maps carefully, and made his way mainly through back streets and service alleys.
He needn’t have bothered, really. The weather was so bad there wasn’t anyone around.
Those who worked had already left and the others were at home, sheltered from the icy sleet.
It was a residential neighborhood and under normal circumstances at any given moment you could count on someone walking the dog or going for a jog, but not in this weather.
It made his job easy. So easy, he was even able to go in through the front door, walking up the driveway someone had cleared, so he wouldn’t leave footprints.
The front door lock was a joke and once he got through it, he could understand why.
Though the house was big, there was very little furniture, no artwork on the walls, no fancy home entertainment systems or stereos, very little silver and no expensive knickknacks.
Basically, there wasn’t anything to steal.
Except, of course, for twenty million dollars in diamonds.
Deaver went through the house carefully, room by room, making sure he put everything back the way it was. It went fast because the rooms were fairly empty. He saw no sign that anyone other than a woman lived there until he hit the upstairs master bedroom.
There was a big black duffel bag and a suitcase on the bedroom floor with men’s clothes, size huge. Bingo. So Jack had made it to the pretty lady and had got into her pants pronto.
Good going, ace, he thought. You’ve just made my job easier. Get the woman, get a gun to her head and Jack was going to sing. Oh, yes.
Deaver went through Jack’s bag very thoroughly. No weapons and no diamonds. That meant that Prescott was carrying and he’d hidden the diamonds somewhere.
Deaver stood, blood pounding in his ears, fists clenched. He was so close, so goddamned close! He banged his fist on the dresser, then ran his hand over his short-cropped hair.
He had ten thousand dollars left and if he didn’t get his diamonds back, how the fuck was he supposed to live?
It was entirely possible that Jack had hidden the diamonds somewhere in the house, but Jack was a thorough man.
If he’d hidden them somewhere here, Deaver would have to tear the house apart.
It would take time and Prescott might come in while he was searching.
And in any case, Prescott would know someone was after him.
Deaver thought it through. Would Prescott leave a fucking fortune in diamonds in this woman’s house? Yeah, so sure, he was banging her, but he hadn’t seen her in years. How could he know she wouldn’t make off with them? And how could he know the house well enough to find a good place to stash them?
No, it wouldn’t make sense for him to keep them here. So he’d stashed them somewhere else, somewhere only he could have access to, like a safe deposit box in a bank or a warehouse rental unit.
Smart boy, Deaver thought. But not smart enough.
He let himself out quietly and got back into his rental Tahoe.
Time to check out Caroline Lake.
The bad thing about not having any customers is that it gives one way too much time to think.
Caroline walked around in a daze after Jenna left, absently straightening books and dusting shelves.
Finding out a man you were dating—or whatever it was they were doing—was rich wasn’t necessarily a bad thing.
Especially when he was filthy rich, as Jack apparently was.
Fifteen million dollars. She could hardly get her mind around the thought.
And she found it impossible to square it with Jack Prescott.
Rich men were vain, they liked the good life, they somehow felt they were blessed and better than others. Like Sanders, for example. Caroline tried to imagine Sanders dressed in tattered jeans, ancient boots, a leather jacket in the dead of winter.
Impossible.
Rich men hired other people to do their scut work for them.
Caroline could hardly imagine a rich man wrestling with her boiler, making all the repairs that Jack had made, shoveling her drive.
A rich man would have automatically picked up the phone and hired someone to shovel snow instead of taking a couple of hours to do a dirty, exhausting job.
She tried to imagine Sanders shoveling snow and snorted.
Caroline entertained herself with an image of Sanders, in his Calvin Klein winterwear and cashmere-lined gloves, shoveling snow, ruining his manicure.
The image was so enticing she actually smiled at Sanders as he walked into the bookshop, thinking him a figment of her imagination.
He clasped his glove-clad hands together and beamed when he saw her smile. “Caroline, my dear, how good to see you!” He clasped her shoulders and bent down to kiss her. She averted her face at the last minute and he bussed her cheek instead of her mouth.
Oh my God, it was Sanders—in the flesh!
The last time she’d seen him had been for a disastrous nightcap at Greenbriar after a very nice dinner in October. The dinner had been so nice, and she’d been so grateful for the respite, that she’d asked him in for a whiskey only to have him behave badly towards Toby.
“What are you doing here?” she asked bluntly.
He took off his jacket and gloves leisurely, looking around the bookshop.
Caroline had no idea what he thought of First Page.
Sanders liked sleek and modern, which First Page certainly was not.
He turned and focused his gaze on her. “I thought I’d stop by and see you.
I haven’t had a chance to offer my condolences for the death of your brother yet. ”
Uh huh. He’d obviously been amazingly busy the past two months not to be able to drop in or pick up the phone or pen a note.
But Caroline had been brought up by her parents to be polite. She often thought of it as a handicap.
“Thanks Sanders.” She drummed up another smile for him. “That’s very thoughtful of you. I appreciate it.”
He nodded, clearly unable to process her ironic tone. He looked around again, then back at her, waiting.
Caroline suppressed a sigh. She couldn’t even plead that she was busy. The shop was deserted, as was the street outside. It was entirely possible that the whole city was deserted, everyone in it just staying home.
“Do please sit down, Sanders. Can I make you a cup of tea?” Maybe he’d been passing by and wanted something warm.
Maybe if she offered him tea, he’d leave.
Caroline didn’t think he’d stopped by for a book.
In all the years she’d known him, she’d never known him to read a book.
He read reviews, so he could sound knowledgeable, but he’d never read the actual book, that she could tell.
He gave her an alarmingly warm smile, and placed his hand over hers. “I’d love a cup of tea, thanks.”
Thank God for her little secondhand microwave oven in the office. In three minutes, she was back with two mugs of vanilla tea, berating herself for her unkindness.
It wasn’t Sanders’ fault he was an ass. And his visit did break the monotony of an endless afternoon in her empty shop, waiting for Jack to come pick her up. And it did distract her from endless speculation about Jack’s money and where it came from.
So she leaned forward with genuine warmth to hand him the cup and was startled when he grabbed her other hand and kissed it. He held it for a long moment between his hands.
“Uh, Sanders?”
“Yes, darling?” He smiled at her.
“I need my hand back, so I can drink my tea. Please.”
“Of course.” He released her hand and sat back, sipping, completely at ease. “So… how was your Christmas?”
Don’t blush, Caroline told herself furiously and managed by dint of sheer will power to keep her color down.
Oh God, she couldn’t possibly tell Sanders what her Christmas had been like.
Even if she wanted to confide in him—which she most certainly did not—she had no idea if Jack wanted to trumpet their affair, or whatever it was they were having, from the rooftops.
Telling Sanders was the equivalent of taking out an ad in the local newspaper.
What could she say? If she said she’d been with someone, he’d immediately want to know who. And she was an atrocious liar. What could she say that wasn’t a lie, but didn’t convey the truth?
“It was … quiet,” she said finally.
He nodded, as if that was the answer he expected.
“I didn’t call because I thought you might want to be alone over the holidays.
I know that Christmases have always been hard for you.
But you know, Caroline, the grieving process must come to an end.
You’re still a young woman, and now Toby—well, Toby has gone on to a better place, and you can start thinking of yourself.
There are stages to grieving, you know…”
Caroline zoned out. It was a speech she’d heard thousands of times before from Sanders.
He was sitting directly under the overhead lamp, turning his perfectly styled hair a pure gold. He was definitely a handsome man, and he definitely knew it. Caroline watched him as he gave his little sermon, listening to one word out of ten.
The light also reflected off the top of his head. She peered a little, carefully disguising her interest. Was that his scalp she was seeing through the blond strands? Yes, that was definitely skin, not hair at his temples. His receding temples. Was Sanders going bald?
He wouldn’t like that. Caroline imagined that he was using every expensive hair care product on earth and that eventually, if he trod the tragic path of male-pattern baldness, he’d have a transplant.
Jenna was absolutely certain that he’d already had a little nip and tuck around the eyes, but however carefully Caroline looked, she couldn’t see any signs.
But then, what would she know? She wasn’t exactly an expert.