by K. A. Tucker
“Ruby, this is—” I turn to greet Hans.
Only it’s not Hans.
“What are you doing here?” I blurt out as Jace stands in my doorway, his golden-blond hair speckled with large snowflakes, a charcoal-gray wool coat shielding his pricey clothes from the elements, the collar curled up stylishly.
“Maggie . . .” Ruby sets her teacup down, and using the coffee table to support her as she stands, she walks over and offers a wrinkly hand. “My name is Ruby and I live next door.”
He flashes a thousand-watt grin that I’m guessing he reserves for the elderly during his father’s political campaign. It works on Ruby, earning her wide smile. “I’m Jace Everett. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“Jace.” She’s so old and stiff, she needs to turn her entire body to look at me, her knowing eyes twinkling. “We were just talking about you.”
“No we weren’t!” My cheeks flush.
She ignores me. “Would you like some tea?”
“Uh . . .” His gaze drifts over our setup. “I would love some tea. Thank you for your hospitality, Ruby.” He shoots a reprimanding look my way.
She pats his arm like a grandmother would her grandson’s. “Make yourself comfortable. I’ll be back in a moment.”
Ruby shuffles away as Jace kicks off his wet shoes. His eyes scan over the shelves and boxes. “So you weren’t abducted the other night. That’s good to know.”
“How did you find me?”
Shaking his coat off, he drapes it neatly over the couch’s arm and then takes a seat next to me. “You gave the address to Natasha, to have the papers couriered over, remember?”
Right. I did do that. I was so relieved when I saw the email request this morning, I answered quickly. While I could just cancel all plans for letting Jace have my money, I don’t want to risk any part of Doug’s investigation by closing an open door. But after what happened in the elevator yesterday, I definitely didn’t want to see him again in person.
And now here he is.
“So you thought it’d be appropriate to just show up. On a Saturday.”
He slides an envelope out from the inside pocket of his jacket. “I thought I’d deliver them to you in person.”
“You really want my money badly, don’t you?”
He sighs, a hint of irritation flickering in his eyes as they settle on me. “Are you always so cynical? Or have I done something to offend you?”
“I don’t know. Have you?” I ask pointedly.
He holds his hands up in surrender. “Look, yesterday was . . . unprofessional of me. I get it, and I’m sorry. It wasn’t my intention. I didn’t know what else to do, though. I don’t sing or dance and I couldn’t think of any stories. You sounded like you were going to die.” He smiles, and has the grace to look somewhat sheepish. “It worked.”
It did. Too well.
Unprofessionalism. That could be my excuse for tearing up these forms. Then again, I’m equally to blame. And I’ve been ordered to keep up appearances.
I hold a reluctant hand out. “Where do I have to sign?”
He smiles. “Already marked with flags.”
“I’m assuming these are the exact documents that my advisor approved?”
“They are, but I’m in no rush. You should read through before you sign.”
“No thanks,” I grumble, scribbling my signature over and over. I’m in a rush. To get rid of him.
“There’s a lot of stuff in here,” he muses, scoping out Celine’s apartment. “Are you going to have a garage sale or something?”
“Oh, hell no! She’s having Celine’s brilliant and talented friend work his buns off to sell this valuable collection at a silent auction in the esteemed Hollingsworth showroom,” a petulant-sounding male voice announces. Hans stomps his heavy boots on the doormat. “Someone took pity and let me in downstairs. My delicate skin was not made for this weather!” he whines, unwinding the red plaid scarf hiding half his face. It’s just barely below thirty degrees Fahrenheit out there and yet he’s dressed for a trek through Alaska.
“Oh, goodie! More people,” Ruby says with a smile, sneaking up behind him as he peels off a bulky fur-lined coat. “You must be Hans. I’m the neighbor across the hall, Ruby. Celine and Maggie both told me so much about you. You look like you could use some tea.” She holds up a cup in her hand.
“Crown Staffordshire?”
“1938.”
Hans nods with approval. “Very nice.”
Ruby grins at us with excitement. For a lonely old woman, this is now a full-fledged party. “I’ll be back in a moment with another cup.”
After disrobing from his winter gear, Hans gets his first good look at Jace. His eyes widen and flash to me. Yes, he recognizes him from the picture.
I do quick, begrudging introductions. Thankfully Ruby quickly reappears with a fourth cup and another plate of shortbread. She insists on pouring for the men and I watch, thinking how bizarre this all is. In the apartment of a dead girl, the friend helping me sell off her life’s work on my left, the guy who paid for her sexual services but pretends not to know her on my right, and the old crime fiction novelist who thinks this stinks of murder across from me.
Having tea.
All we need is Grady here, smoking a joint.
“Are these the catalogues you were telling me about?” Hans picks up the five journals sitting on the coffee table, so full that none of them close completely.
“Yup.”
He inhales, his eyes lighting up as he fans the pages and colored pictures flash past. “I’ll bet she has a page for every single item she ever bought. Talk about OCD, but I love that girl. Cuts our work in half, at least.” He sticks them into his leather satchel.
I sit quietly sandwiched between the two men on the couch while Hans chatters incessantly and Ruby watches like a hawk perched on its post. I would expect nothing less from a writer.
“So, what are you doing here, Jace?” Hans’s bony elbow digs into my ribs, making me jump.
“Maggie needed to sign some paperwork for the investments she’s making through me,” Jace explains politely.
“Are you investing the money we make off Celine’s collection?”
“No, I’m not going to risk losing that,” I mutter. “It’s going directly toward a local project.”
“Hey . . .” Jace’s hand lands on my knee. “I don’t lose my clients’ money. I thought you trusted me.”
I want to slap his hand away. And in the time that I consider it, Grady appears in my doorway. It takes all of two seconds for his eyes to zero in on Jace’s hand.
“Hi, Grady.” I stand quickly, moving a few steps toward him. “What’s up?”
He smiles—a tight smile—and holds up a drill. “Ruby just called me down, about a kitchen cabinet hinge needing fixing?”
“Oh, that’s right. I did.” Ruby’s eyes twinkle. “But why don’t you come in for some tea first?” She produces a fifth cup from somewhere, as if she anticipated this. I’m sure that’s why she also left Celine’s apartment door open.
Grady’s work boots, unlaced, clomp against the floor as he saunters in, the late-day scruff along his jawline reminding me of the other night. In his dark faded jeans and Black Sabbath T-shirt, he’s about as polar-opposite to Jace as a guy could get.
And I’m becoming that much more attracted to him because of it.
I feel myself blush and duck my head as Ruby introduces Grady to everyone—because I clearly have no manners anymore.
When I dare look up again, Jace is sizing up Grady, and Grady is glaring daggers at Jace, and neither Ruby nor I miss the exchange. The only one who seems oblivious is Hans, too busy stuck in a hot-guy haze to stop smiling. “So what local project were you talking about, Maggie?”
I turn to level Jace with a gaze. “Helping steer women away from prostitution.”
Jace coughs against his mouthful of tea. “Is that something your friend was passionate about?”
“It was defi
nitely something on her mind.”
“That’s a great idea, Maggie,” Grady offers softly, close enough to reach out to me, his fingers giving my elbow a light squeeze. Making me smile and wish that it was the evening already and I was curled up with him under the lights of the rooftop garden.
“Well . . .” Jace sets his cup on its saucer. “That sounds like a commendable charity then.” He clears his throat and stands. “Thank you for the tea, Ruby. I should get going now.”
“So soon?” Hans says with a pout.
Jace collects the signed papers from the table and heads for the door, his eyes landing on Grady. He stops abruptly. “You know, I have an idea.” Pulling his coat on slowly, he says, “I’m going to give you the first three months of my earnings—after overhead to the firm—and you can add that to this charity fund.” His gaze rolls over the apartment, ending on the bed. “For your friend.”
My heart speeds up. “That’s very generous of you. Why would you do something like that?” Feeling guilty?
His eyes flicker to my mouth. “I figure I owe you.” He pauses. “And you seem so hell-bent on believing that I’m an asshole, maybe this will change your mind.”
“Don’t forget, December twenty-second. Hollingsworth Gallery. Eight o’clock. Silent auction for Celine!” Hans chirps, his eyes glued to Jace’s smooth strides.
But the second the door shuts behind him, Hans’s undivided attention turns to Grady. “So . . . We have some heavy boxes to lift, and you look strong.”
————
“My back hurts a little,” Grady admits with a chuckle.
“I can’t for the life of me figure out why.” I giggle into his chest. Hans seemed to enjoy ordering Grady around, telling him where to stack boxes, only to make him move them repeatedly because of weight concerns or height concerns or, maybe, just because the lively antiques appraiser liked watching the rugged building superintendent’s muscles strain. “I think Hans has a crush on you.”
Grady shifts his body until we’re pressed against each other from noses to toes in the hammock, my back to the fire. “I think I have a crush on you,” he whispers.
I exhale as nervous flutters fill my stomach. Is that what’s happening to me, too? Am I crushing on Grady? We hardly know each other, and yet I feel more comfortable with him than I have with any guy in recent memory. Too bad he lives worlds away.
He must be able to read my mind. “So, where is home for you, Maggie Sparkes?”
“San Diego.” I pause, hesitant to go on. It’s nice, the feeling that someone doesn’t know—or doesn’t care—how much money you have. I figure it’s one or the other for Grady, seeing he hasn’t brought it up since I let it slip. “Ethiopia . . . Kenya . . . Malawi . . . South Africa.”
He leans in, the tip of his frosty nose touching the tip of mine. “So you like warm climates.”
I laugh. “Yes, in fact, I do.”
He smiles. “Well, I’ll be thinking about you in February, when I’m digging my hammock and fire pit out of a foot of snow.”
I know this “thing” that we have is temporary, so I’m mostly joking when I say, “Or you could come down and help me build a house. If I’m back down there by then,” I add quickly, remembering Rosa, a bitter twinge sliding into my spine.
“What . . . and leave this paradise?”
“You could build another one. Of course, you’d have to build a windmill if you want electricity for the little lights.”
“A windmill. That sounds complicated.”
“A fourteen-year-old boy in Malawi built one using only wood, a bicycle, and tractor blades. Look it up. You seem handy. You could build me a few of those, right? Until I get the solar panels up and running?”
“I’d have to do some research, but I doubt I’m as smart as that fourteen-year-old boy.”
I lean in to steal a kiss, our half-naked bodies pressed up against each other. The temperatures have dropped even further tonight, to the point that we’ve more pushed clothing aside rather than undressed, even under layers of wool covers, which are pulled right to our chins.
I know it’s all talk, but a small part of me wonders if it would be possible. Is there a chance that I could be doing exactly this, with Grady, under the warm skies of Kenya or Ethiopia, in a year’s time? He’s the first guy I’ve been with in years who I could see fitting into my world.
What does he have to hold him back here? No career aspirations, by the sounds of it.
A call from Doug—I’ve assigned him his own ringtone now, to save me from screening—breaks apart this intimate moment.
“Her computer has back doors in it.”
Doug’s words quickly pull me back to my purpose for being in New York City. “Okay? What does that mean?”
“Someone may have hacked into her computer, remotely.”
I sit up abruptly, the cold, the snow, my state of dress, everything else forgotten. “What do you mean? Could that mean something important?”
“Can’t say for sure, yet. Stay tuned. Also, we went through Jace Everett’s school records. He’s a smart guy, based on his grades. Stayed out of trouble for the most part.”
“The most part?”
“Well, he had some issues with fighting at his prep school when he was around thirteen. He had a temper, from the sounds of it.”
“How bad of a temper?” At thirteen, most boys are acting out. At least that’s what I remember of my private school. If they weren’t pushing and shoving each other around, they were trying to cop a feel of the more developed girls to give them something besides their mom’s Victoria Secret catalogues to jerk off to in their sheets at night.
“The report is vague, but that doesn’t surprise me. His dad is a big donor to the school. I’m sure that bought the right to keep specifics out of the paperwork.”
I sigh with frustration.
“I do have some good news, though. We found her phone’s backup in her computer.”
“So you mean—”
“ ‘L’ stands for Larissa Savoy. It’s the only L in there. Thirty-one years old, single, a real estate lawyer at Delong and Quaid, lives on East 30th Street. We’ve got a string of texts between her and Celine. All carefully worded.” He snorts into my ear. “But I’ve got names of clients. Some phone numbers. You want more information on them?”
“Sure.” Though I don’t know that I’ll do anything with it. Yet. “Is there a Jay in her contacts list?”
“No, but there is a Jace Everett.”
My heart leaps with anticipation. “Are there any texts between them?”
“Quite a few, from August to October.”
I smile, though I’m far from happy. Vindication at last. That lying asshole. “What did they say?”
“They were definitely meeting, but it’s not clear for what, or where. That’s not abnormal though. Any john paying for sex isn’t going to spell it out in a text. Half of these numbers probably aren’t even their normal phones. These guys tend to get prepaids for their hookers.”
I scowl at his choice of words.
“Don’t get too excited yet. Maybe he only knew her as ‘Maggie.’ ”
“But her diary made it sound—”
“You want it to sound like he knows Celine.”
I roll my eyes. “That’s what Detective Childs would say.”
“Something else I noticed—her journal log shows that she stopped with the escort services in late July.”
“Really?” I missed that part. I sigh. Too many questions still. “What about Larissa? When was their last text?”
“July as well. Celine didn’t text much to begin with, from the looks of it. Mainly just to Larissa, you . . . a few to someone named Grady.”
My eyes dart to the man lying next to me, who’s now sliding off the condom and tugging up his track pants. An edge of distrust pricks me. He said he never talked to her. “About what?”
“Her oven element being out . . . Her fridge wasn’t cold . . . toilet . . . Oh, h
ere, she mentioned the window lock seeming a bit too loose. She was worried. That was only a few weeks ago.”
“Okay, that all makes sense.” He’s the building super. She was asking him to come by and fix things.
Grady wraps the blanket around my shoulders, covering me against the cold winter’s night as my teeth start to chatter.
“Zac is going to search out the phone records to see what more we can find and how many calls were exchanged between Jace and Celine. I can pay Larissa a visit tomorrow and feel her out, but I doubt she’ll talk to me.”
“No. I’ll go.” An angry thrill shoots through my chilled body. I want to look into this woman’s eyes when she explains to me how she lured Celine down this ugly path.
CHAPTER 17
Celine
July 28, 2015
“Hey, do you have a few minutes?”
“For you? Always,” Larissa purrs into my ear, though I can hear her heels clicking frantically against tile in the background. On her way to court or a meeting, or whatever it is that real estate lawyers do.
Suddenly, I’m nervous. “Okay, so here’s the thing: I’m not sure I can do this anymore.” I don’t need to spell it out; she knows what I’m talking about.
“Is this about what happened the other night? Because that issue has been dealt with, I promise. He and the people who gave him references are on my shit list now.”
I shudder. “I’m not comfortable going back. Not right now anyway.”
“Okay.” She doesn’t hide the disappointment in her voice. I’ve made Larissa a lot of money over the last three years, after all. “But how are you going to afford to do this?”
I don’t know. “I’ll manage. I should have enough savings to get me through until I move back to San Diego in December, to be with my mom.” I’m not really even sure how much her meds are going to cost.
In reality, my savings could be wiped out in two months.
“Well, you know where to find me if you change your mind. Maybe all you need is a break?”
“Yeah. Maybe. Thanks for being so understanding.”
“Take care, sweetie. Gotta go.”
I hang up, anxiety gnawing away at my stomach.