Art shook his head, silent.
“You’re properly speechless,” she said, laughing. “It’s seriously wild, isn’t it? I don’t spend much time thinking about the monetary value of these items. But with us thinking the existing ruby eye is fake, even if the one Oliver Renell submitted is real, that significantly diminishes the worth of the medallion.”
“You’re talking about tens of millions of dollars. Until now, I’d never heard any actual numbers. Jesus, Avery. Have you and your partners ever considered setting up some outside security for assignments like this?”
She sighed. “We should. My parents should have. I can see why we never have, though. Anytime we’re handling an item with a high value like this, it’s in a controlled setting. Like the MOA lab. MOA has its own security. That should have been enough.”
“Not when you’re dealing with an item that’s been tampered with before it gets to you. It’s something to think about going forward; that’s all I’m saying.” They were now on Micah’s street, and Art found a parking spot out front. “Is this it?”
“Yes. You’ll come with me?” She started to open the truck door and looked over her shoulder at him.
He was already out and shutting his door. “No, I’ll let you come with me. Hang back some.” He climbed the steps to the brownstone ahead of her, one hand on his gun in the holster at his hip.
She’d never even noticed before that he carried it. The other MOA guards had Tasers on their utility belts. “Do you carry that at the museum? They let you?”
He glanced at her, his hand outstretched to ring the bell. “I’m a cop. I always carry.”
That fact made her feel safer and more worried at the same time. She was gripped with a bad feeling about Micah. She reached past Art and rang the bell and then knocked loudly.
“You’ve tried calling him more than once?”
“Several times, on his cell and his house phone, and so has Sir Robert.”
Art waited a full minute, then pounded on the door and called loudly. “Micah Abbott, open up. It’s Art Smith with Springfield County Police.” He looked up and down the street, which Avery had also seen him do when they were approaching the house.
Behind him, Avery dialed his phone one more time, clinging to hope that he was fine and just not home. The house phone rang and rang on the other side of the door until the answering machine came on.
“Micah Abbott, I’m coming in. I believe your life is in danger.” He turned to Avery. “Please tell me there’s a hidden key somewhere?”
“Um, no. Not that I—” She gasped. “Wait!” She ran down the steps to the truck and returned with her purse. She rummaged inside the zippered inner pocket and produced a house key on a yellow-duck key chain.
“Perfect.” He put his arm out, motioning her to stand behind him and away from the window. “Stay right there.” Art turned the key in the lock and threw the front door open, stepping inside and calling Micah’s name again.
Avery leaned forward on the porch, peering inside and seeing Art dart to the right toward Micah’s dining room. A moment later she heard him speak on his phone. He gave Micah’s address in Hamilton Heights. “I need backup and an ambulance. I have an injured resident, Micah Abbott, midfifties, Caucasian male, gunshot wound to the left shoulder. Premises not cleared yet.”
Avery was inside the house in an instant at those words. She found Art kneeling over Micah, one hand pressed over his left chest. Her friend was breathing but unconscious. There was a lot of blood.
He looked up at her. “You shouldn’t be in here!”
She dropped to the floor on Micah’s other side, putting a hand on his arm. She cringed, seeing the blood. A gunshot wound to the left chest—had he been shot near his heart? The lung? How long had he been like this? Her friend’s skin was ashy and gray, his lips a pale purplish blue. He had to live. He had to; she couldn’t think about any other outcome. “I’m not leaving!”
He glared at her, then grabbed her hand, lifted his off the bloody bullet-entry wound, and replaced it with Avery’s. He pressed on her hand with the flat of his palm, demonstrating. “Constant pressure, both hands. Don’t let go. Don’t take your eyes off his chest. Yell if he stops breathing.” He stood.
“What? Don’t leave me!”
“I’ve got to secure the house. The gunman could still be here. Pressure and breathing, got it?” He pointed at Micah’s rapidly rising and falling chest.
Avery applied pressure. Art went through the dining room into the kitchen, gun drawn. Avery’s gaze darted around wildly, seeing movement in every corner and behind every piece of furniture. Be empty, she thought. Let him find an empty house, no gunman, no danger. Whoever had done this could easily still be here. Micah’s brownstone was an eclectic mix of the elegant old-world decor Cicely had strived for layered with single-dad functionality. Micah and Cicely had lived here since they married nearly thirty years earlier, and a decade ago, they’d moved Cecily’s mother in too. Every room exuded a lovely, tasteful, if slightly neglected feel. Though his study was upstairs in the spare room, Micah had a workstation down here too, taking up half the dining room table. It looked like a tornado had blown through. Papers and file folders were scattered everywhere—floor, kitchen sink, the back of the couch in the front room. Kitchen drawers stood open along with a few cabinet doors, reminding Avery of her own kitchen after the break-in.
She looked toward the ceiling, able to follow Art’s progress through the house from doors being flung open and hitting the walls of rooms he was checking. It sounded uneventful so far, thank God. She kept returning her gaze to her stacked hands on Micah’s chest, watching his breathing. She hadn’t visited her friend often enough after his wife died. She should have. She could have brought him dinners for longer than the few weeks she’d done so. She should have helped him clear out Cicely’s things when he was ready. She should have helped him get Noah ready to go away to college last summer. She’d first been gone in Philly, and then, when she was back, she’d been immersed in her own loss.
When Micah was better, when he was better and back home and fine, she’d fix her should-haves. She’d help him choose some new drapes, help clear the layer of dust, brighten up the place for him. When he was better. Avery bent at the waist and pressed her lips to Micah’s forehead, her tears wetting his skin. “You have to be okay. Micah, do you hear me? Listen to me. You’d better hold on. You have to get through this. I can’t lose one more person. Especially not you.”
Avery’s head jerked up at the sound of the second ambulance in her life that day. “See? They’re coming to help you. Hang in there, Micah, please. You have to, for Noah and me and Tilly and all of us.”
Avery didn’t move until the paramedics surrounded her and Micah and one of them swiftly swapped a thick sheaf of sterile bandages for her hands, keeping his hand in place now. Another paramedic put an oxygen cannula in Micah’s nostrils and started an IV. When they raised the stretcher onto its wheels to take him out, Avery followed, surprised to see a few of his neighbors on the front sidewalk. The one she’d exchanged pleasantries with in the past, coming and going, motioned her over. Avery racked her brain for the woman’s name and finally came up with Vera Washington.
“Is Micah all right? What happened?” The woman’s gaze followed her neighbor as he was loaded into the back of the ambulance.
“We don’t really know what happened. I came to check on him when he didn’t come to work today.”
Vera’s husband spoke. “You were right; we should have called the police.” He shook his head. “My wife thought she heard something early this morning. A loud crack, like the one last winter when that big branch came down on our roof,” he said, pointing up at the enormous maple tree that towered overhead.
“I made him go look.” Vera picked up where he left off. “Our tree seemed fine this time, so we came right over and knocked on Micah’s door, making sure he was okay.”
Avery’s eyes were wide. Art was going to want to
hear this. She turned briefly to call him over, but he was already approaching. “And was he? Did he come to the door?”
Vera shook her head, her mouth turned down. “We should have known. Fred said he must be sleeping and we should leave him be, but I know he’s always up early. We have our morning coffee on our back porches together most mornings. We’re all early risers.” She looked up at her husband. Her tone was sad rather than blaming.
“You were right,” Fred told Vera, putting a hand on her shoulder. “I just thought—we know how hard he works, plus with his boy home all weekend, I figured he needed his sleep. We waited a while, but when he didn’t answer the door, we left. Figured it was a car backfiring or someone around the block got hit with one of these big old branches. We could have called for help hours ago if we’d known something was wrong.”
“Was he shot?” Vera leaned toward Avery, her voice a whisper. “Is that what we heard? That man is the sweetest—who on earth would do something like that?”
Avery nodded. “He was shot.” She was aware of Art standing behind her now and unsure of what she was allowed to share about the scene inside the house, but she knew this couple cared deeply for Micah. They’d all lived here ever since Avery could remember. “You didn’t see anything strange? No sign that someone had broken in?” She knew it was a dumb question as soon as she’d said it.
“Oh no,” Vera replied. “I wish we’d seen something. Then we’d have called the police right away. But everything seemed normal, except him not answering his door. Fred thought he must be sleeping in, but I figured he’d already left for work.”
The detective Art had been speaking with, a James Graham, had joined them as well, and he handed Vera and Fred Washington his card. “Thank you, ma’am. It’s obvious you folks are good neighbors. If anything else comes back to you, give me a call.”
Vera had tears in her eyes as she looked up at Avery. “We’ll go visit him as soon as we can. Micah will be all right,” she said, taking Avery’s hand in hers. “We know he’ll be all right; he’s got to be, for his boy. Will you call and let me know as soon as you hear anything? Fred, go get me a pen,” she said to her husband. “I’ll write down our number.”
Avery stepped away, wanting to catch the ambulance to see where they were taking Micah, but the vehicle was already backing out of the driveway. Before she could say a word to Art about wanting to follow, he shook his head.
“No. We need to get you home. Too much has happened. I’ve got another officer doing a sweep at your house, just to make sure everything’s fine, but we need to go.”
“But—”
“Avery, my only priority right now is protecting you. You’re smack in the middle of too many pieces of this puzzle, and I’m not confident you or your family is safe. Detective Graham here has already sent someone to talk to Noah at his school, and I promise you, as soon as I can guarantee you aren’t a target, I’ll take you myself to the hospital to see Micah.”
She gave up. Art let her go back into the house to collect a few things she thought Micah might want when he woke up. When she came back downstairs, the forensics team was already at work, marking areas in the dining room and snapping pictures.
Art had already given a detailed account to Detective Graham, but Graham had a few questions for Avery before they left. When he asked if Avery had any idea who might have done this to her colleague, she replied, “He was shot because of me.”
Graham frowned, looking over at Art and then back at Avery. “How so?”
She began to go into detail about how Micah had promised he’d search through his copies of work-related documents for anything regarding the collector who had submitted the medallion so she could try to connect the dots on what was happening, but Art stopped her halfway through.
“I’ve told Detective Graham that I overheard you and Micah discussing that Saturday night. I’m sure the whole little group we were sitting with did too. Sir Robert, Nate, Francesca, and Wilder.”
Avery took a step back, staring at him. “You’re not suggesting any of them would hurt Micah over whatever he’d planned to give me?”
“I’m not sure of anything at this point. Do you really think it’s a coincidence that whoever shot your friend happened to come upon him while he was in the middle of gathering old records on the assignment?” He spread his arms out to encompass the papers scattered around the dining room and kitchen.
“I . . . um . . . I mean, some of this is just Micah. He normally kind of has stuff everywhere.”
Art turned to the other detective. “Will you keep me updated on anything you find referencing the medallion or an Edward Johnstone? Even if it seems like nothing, Ms. Ayers may be able to shed light on it.”
Graham nodded. “My sergeant already verified you’re still working the original homicide case. I’m sure you’re aware the FBI field agents have been coordinating efforts between us, them, and Springfield County’s PD. Keeping everyone in the loop isn’t a problem. To me, this looks like that couple next door might have interrupted the shooter and made him run off, hopefully before he found whatever he was after.”
Two black unmarked sedans arrived as Avery and Art were pulling away from the curb. In the rearview mirror, Avery saw three men in dark suits on their way up to Micah’s front door. “Wow. FBI too, huh?”
“It’s a collaborative effort. A field agent arrived to check out your car, too, just after we left. All those old movies that show the feds showing up and kicking local law enforcement to the curb perpetuate the idea that it’s us versus them. More often than not, now, it’s pretty widely accepted that a coordinated approach usually works best.”
“I’m learning more than I ever wanted to know about law enforcement,” Avery said.
On the drive back to Lilac Grove, Avery checked in with Tilly and Aunt Midge. Halston had chewed off part of his cast and they’d had to take him in that morning for a new one, but otherwise all seemed fine. She tipped her head back on the headrest of Art’s truck and closed her eyes, feeling the beginnings of a headache. Her elbow was throbbing, too, under the bandage.
Avery’s mind had Sir Robert, Francesca, Nate, and Wilder in a rotating queue; she couldn’t stop thinking about what Art had said. Her parents had worked with Sir Robert for nearly a decade. It was true that Francesca had started dating him only a year or so ago, but she seemed to be genuinely into him. And Francesca also held a great deal of respect for Goldie Brennan in her MOA position. Nate was a bit of an outlier, as he’d been at MOA only since last year, and all Avery knew about him was what he’d told her—and that Goldie loved him enough to trust him with a lot of responsibility in his job. And Wilder . . . Wilder as someone who’d be driven to forge a jewel for millions or kill to cover up the evidence made absolutely no sense at all. Avery couldn’t remember a time when he hadn’t been in their lives. He’d never seemed to care much about money one way or another. And he was crazy about Aunt Midge, who would literally murder him if he ever tried to hurt Avery or Tilly.
She threw Wilder out as a suspect. She didn’t care what Art might have to say about that; he didn’t know Wilder. Avery tried to imagine any of the other three having an intricate plan to swap a fake gemstone with a real one and then killing the collector to keep him quiet. But how would Renell have known anything? If he truly was just a collector who’d found the Emperor’s Twins ruby, he’d have easily discovered that the one-eyed dragon was at MOA and he’d have submitted his find. But why all the secrecy, the refusal to meet in person or by phone? And why on earth had he been killed?
She couldn’t accept that any of the three people who’d overheard her at the fire talking with Micah could have wreaked the havoc of the past week and a half. There had to be another explanation, another culprit. Her mind went to that one-time date with Tyler Chadwick. He’d been such a flirt right off the bat, and she’d been so flattered when he had asked her out. She hated to admit the possibility that her date with a Hollywood actor had been about anything oth
er than him being attracted to her, but . . . why had he asked her so many questions about the value of the ruby? And he’d actually had the nerve to try to talk her into taking him to see it that night. Avery had thought at the time that he was just being pushy. Now she wondered if it was more than that.
Her eyes snapped open, and she scrolled to his number in her phone. Art looked curiously at her as she left a voice mail for him, saying it was urgent and to please call her back. She followed it up with a text, asking him to call her.
“What’s that about?”
“Hold on,” she said. “I can explain in a minute.” She made another call, this time to Goldie. She filled the curator in on poor Micah, trying to offer reassuring words; she could hear from the woman’s voice how upset she was. “Goldie, I’m sorry to ask you to do this, but it’s vital that I reach one of the actors from the studio filming at MOA. It may help the detective figure out who hurt Micah.”
“Of course. I have the assistant producer’s phone number. I’m sure I shouldn’t give it out, but could I call her and ask her to phone you right away?”
“That would be wonderful,” Avery said.
“Is there anything I should tell her before she calls you back?” Goldie asked.
“You could let her I’m trying to reach an actor in production there. His name is Tyler Chadwick. I’ve tried calling him, but maybe she can have him call me. I’m with the detective now, and it would help a lot.”
“I’m on it,” Goldie said. “Assuming I can get her, expect a call from her or your Mr. Chadwick shortly. The assistant producer’s name is Mallory Fein.”
Art cleared his throat when Avery had hung up. “Care to explain?”
“I went on a date with this actor I met at MOA. He was a little obsessed with the medallion. He asked me a trillion questions about the dragon and the new ruby. I didn’t think much about it then, but he even wanted us to go back to MOA and see if we could get a guard to bring us the ruby so he could get a look at it. Of course I told him that was crazy. And—oh my God.” She gasped as something else occurred to her.
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