Questions were coming at her from all sides. At the same time, she was trying to keep track of David, who was arguing with the first policeman about the sacks from the Varsity.
Of all people, it was Lucius who interpreted her frantic look correctly. He made his way to her side. “Why don’t I take David to my place while you talk to the police?” he said quietly.
She gave him a distracted glance. “Are you sure you wouldn’t mind? I don’t know how long it will take.”
One of the police officers called to her. Still she hesitated.
“Go,” Lucius said. “David will be fine.”
“Did you see anything? Anyone hanging around?” West asked Lucius.
“No. You?”
“Not a thing,” West said. “I’ll take care of explaining to the neighbors. I guess the cops will want to talk to everyone.” He went to a group standing near the porch and steered them away from the scene.
Lucius nodded, his hand at Alexandra’s back, urging her toward her door. “Thank you,” she said over her shoulder. “If you can get the police to release the evidence, those sacks have his supper in them.” She pointed to the sacks that someone had moved to a table beside the front door.
“I’ll convince them.”
“Mrs. Prescott, I’m Sergeant Pendleton. Please come this way.”
As she followed the sergeant into the condo, she dodged a woman who was examining the doorframe. Another man worked on the bookshelves. “There are scratches around the front-door lock. I’d suggest you get a locksmith here as soon as possible.”
“Yes, of course. Do you know any that work at night?”
“Several do. It would be a good idea to have him install a dead bolt, too.”
“I’ll call immediately.”
Sergeant Pendleton gave her an approving nod. “Just a few questions first. You had to unlock the door when you and the boy arrived?”
“Yes.”
“So the thieves—we think there were two—must have broken in, locked the door while they worked and left from the back. That door is unlocked. I’ve sent a man to talk to the people around the swimming pool.”
All of the buildings in the complex were built facing the elliptical road, leaving the large area behind the units as a communal park. “There’s a picnic area back there, too, and cookout grills,” she said.
“One of my men will canvas the complex and question the guard at the gate. If there is a witness, we’ll find him.” He took her arm to keep her from stepping on broken glass. “Aside from the television and stereo, do you see anything missing in the living room?”
She looked at the man blankly. “How can I possibly tell until this mess is cleaned up?”
“A quick walk-through will do for now. We can always add to the inventory later, but the sooner we get the word out on what we do know, the better the chance we have of recovering your goods.”
Alexandra knew the odds for recovery were almost nil. And to be honest, she didn’t care. Things could be replaced. She was just glad that she and David hadn’t been at home when the burglars broke in. Or worse, walked in on them. “Okay,” she agreed.
Something was odd, she thought as she made her way through the rooms. Decidedly odd. The pillows were tossed, the plants lay on their sides, spilling dirt, the covers were off the beds, but nothing was torn or leaking feathers or destroyed. Except for some scattered potting soil and the broken glass from a couple of framed prints, everything was whole. Pick things up off the floor, run the vacuum cleaner, and it would look the same as before, except for the missing TV and stereo.
“It seems curious that my jewelry is still here, and they left this small TV,” she told the officer when they were looking around her bedroom. “Don’t you think so, Sergeant?”
He shrugged. “Most thieves are not known for their intelligence.”
In David’s room the mattress had been pulled off the bed, the desk chair lay on its side. Nothing seemed to be missing but, of course, David would have to verify that, himself. She moved on to the studio.
And gasped at the mess. This room was the worst affected. Paint had been spilled, charcoal ground into the floor, her drawing board overturned.
Then she saw the gap on the shelves. “My sketchbooks are gone,” she said, stunned. “Why on earth would anyone steal sketchbooks?”
“I don’t know,” said the sergeant. He sounded as though he didn’t care, either. But, she saw, he was crouching beside a painted chest she used for storage. What had caught his eye was a partial handprint clearly outlined in charcoal.
Even to the uninitiated, the distinctive pattern of lines and whorls showed up vividly against the ivory enamel. He called out to one of his men, his voice showing the first trace of enthusiasm.
Alexandra left them to it.
“As soon as they’re finished here, I’ll help you clean up,” said West a short time later. They were sitting on the sofa, watching people come and go. The air-conditioning was going right along with them, out the door, to be replaced by August heat and humidity. Alexandra fanned herself with a magazine.
At last the police informed Alexandra that they had finished. She went to the door with Sergeant Pendleton, the last to go. She was relieved. From the sternness of some of their questions, you would have thought she was the suspect.
Another officer awaited the sergeant outside. They conferred for a minute. Then they left together on foot.
She wanted nothing as much as she wanted to take a cool bath and crawl into bed. But in spite of her exhaustion, she called the locksmith. He promised to be there in an hour.
West had helped her right the furniture and pick up the worst of the mess. She finally got rid of him, too.
She noticed, as she was going to knock on Lucius’s door, that one police car remained at the curb. Sergeant Pendleton stood beside it, talking to another man.
“Mrs. Prescott, one more question, please.” He loped toward her. “Did you happen to notice any strange cars around the complex when you came home tonight?” he asked when he reached the porch.
“No—wait. Yes, I saw a van.”
“When? Where?”
“It was pulling out of the gates as we returned from the ball game. I didn’t pay any attention at the time. There are less than a hundred units here and you learn to recognize the cars. But anyone could have bought a new van.”
“It was new?”
“I had the impression that it was. I’m not familiar with models.”
“Do you remember the color?”
She thought carefully. “Dark. Navy blue or black, I think. Why? Did someone else see something?”
“The guard says a van left the complex a short time before we were called. The vehicle drove out without stopping. It may belong to one of the owners. We haven’t checked with everyone yet.
“But the guard insists that he never saw it enter through the gates.” He shrugged. “That may or may not check out. And the van did not have a parking authorization sticker on the bumper.”
Her eyes grew round. “Then if it was them, and if we had been a few minutes earlier, we could have walked in while they were robbing us.”
The statement was so obvious, even to her own ears, that he didn’t bother to answer. “Did you call the locksmith?” he asked her quietly.
“Yes, I did. He’ll be here in about an hour.”
“Good. Well—good night, Mrs. Prescott. I’m afraid this is another random robbery, and our chances of catching the guys who did it are pretty slim. However, there is that partial palm print we found in your studio. Anyway, we’ll call you as soon as we have anything.”
“Good night, Sergeant,” she said numbly. After a minute, she walked to Lucius’s door and knocked.
“It’s open.”
She cracked the door and leaned in. The entrance hall was dark but there were lights in the room beyond. “David?” she called as she stepped over the threshold.
“He’s in the living room,” said a deep voice from beside he
r.
Alexandra whirled, startled suddenly by a large shape looming out of the darkness of the kitchen. Her hand went to her breast.
“Sorry,” said Lucius. He didn’t sound sorry. He sounded amused. Damn him. After all she’d been through tonight, she didn’t care to be the object of his amusement. She looked more closely.
This was not the Lucius Quinlan she was accustomed to seeing. What on earth had he done to himself? The glasses were missing. One dark eyebrow arched provocatively. Seen from this angle, his shoulders seemed so broad. So...so...broad!
“Mom? Is that you?”
“Yes, it’s me,” she answered rather uneasily.
“Guess what, Mom?” David said. He appeared at the living room entrance. His excitement raised his voice a full octave as he hurried toward her. “Luke has a vintage race car.”
She moved forward into the light to meet her son. When she glanced back at the man behind her, he had replaced his glasses and his expression had returned to the bland, noncommittal detachment she’d expected. Embarrassed at her overreaction, she concluded that her impression must have been a trick of the shadows.
“What’s a vintage race car?” she asked absently, touching the boy’s shoulder.
David was holding a large coffee-table book. “Any race car that’s over a certain age. Luke has some extra tickets for the Labor Day races at Road Atlanta and he’s offered them to us. Can we go?”
She stared at her son, hearing nothing but the sergeant’s words. What would have happened if they had walked in on the thieves? She shuddered, thinking that David could have been in terrible danger. He could have been attacked, beaten, murdered.
He was her son; she was responsible for his safety and well-being. Her anxiety built. And her fear.
He seemed to be okay. She had worried that he might be troubled and uneasy, but she was grateful now to see a smile. Clearly, Lucius had found a diversion to take David’s mind off the break-in.
Her son was giving her an impatient look. What had he asked...?
“Didn’t you hear me? Luke has—”
“Mr. Quinlan,” she corrected automatically. “Car races?”
“Your mother has other things on her mind, David. We can discuss this later.”
David was immediately contrite. “I’m sorry, Mom. Are you okay?”
She slanted Luke an appreciative look. “I’m fine, honey. Just shaken a bit.”
“Why don’t you sit down?” Lucius asked her. “I have a fresh pot of coffee. Would you like some?”
She hesitated. “I’ve called a locksmith.” Then she changed her mind. The air-conditioning felt like heaven. “But he won’t be here for a while yet.” She sat on the sofa. “Thank you. I’d love a cup of coffee. Black, please.”
He disappeared into the shadows again. David came to sit beside her and opened the large book on his lap. “See this, Mom?” He swiveled the book so that she could see the colorful photograph of a sleek, red race car, a car of another day, another age. It was distinctive because of its difference. “This is like the car Luke races. Well, sorta like it. His is silver.”
“Honey, you should call him Mr. Quinlan.” Race cars? Lucius Quinlan was a racer?
“I asked David to call me Luke. And I hope you will, too.”
She nodded. Lucius—Luke, she corrected herself—had come back into the room silently. She noticed for the first time that he was in his stocking feet. The fact startled her almost as much as finding that he raced vintage race cars.
He set the cup of coffee, along with a snifter, on a small table beside her. From a decanter he poured a scant inch in the bottom of the crystal glass. “Have some of this first. I’m afraid David finished the hot dogs,” he said, glancing at the empty cups and papers on the coffee table. “Would you like something to eat?”
“No, thank you. I’m not hungry.” She frowned at her son. “David, you know better than to leave a mess like this.”
“Sorry,” he said with a sheepish grin. He started to gather up the wrappings and stuff them into the sacks. “I’ll throw them away.”
“Trash can’s under the sink,” Luke told him.
She took a sip of the fine brandy. The liquid slipped down her throat, warming her as the aromatic fumes reached her nose. She felt some of the tension seep from her muscles. She sighed and set the glass aside. The coffee was fresh and hot, the aroma more pleasing than that of the liqueur. “That’s very good. Do you have children of your own, Luke?”
Luke was momentarily taken aback by the question. He was seldom at a loss, and he was not sure why, on this occasion, he should have been. He was the right age to be a father. “No, I’ve never been married.”
“Oh. I thought—you seem to relate well to kids.”
She was trying to make conversation, trying to get her mind off what had happened. Her hands trembled slightly as she grasped the cup. It was the first sign of vulnerability she’d ever shown in his presence.
He felt an unexpected wave of sympathy. “I like David,” he said, surprised to realize that he meant it.
“So do I.” She smiled, activating a dimple he hadn’t noticed before.
In the silence that followed her words, Luke studied her—her white walking shorts and matching shirt, the baseball cap tipped back on her head, the sunburned nose—and decided that he liked her, too. Wearing that getup, she could have been the very young woman he’d first thought her to be.
David came back into the room and plopped down in a chair, looking very much at home. “You look tired, Mom,” he said.
“I’ve never been burglarized before,” she answered ruefully. “It takes something out of you.” She hesitated. “David, when we came back from the ball game, did you notice a van you didn’t recognize?”
He thought for a minute. “Yeah, I did. Coming out just as we started to turn through the gates of the complex. Do the police think the van belonged to the thieves?”
“They’re not certain. Maybe.”
“Did the police find anything else significant?” Luke asked her.
She tilted her head to one side, pondering before she answered. “I’m not sure,” she said slowly, speculatively. “They don’t seem to consider it significant, but I was surprised that the thieves didn’t touch my jewelry. Or the television in my bedroom. On the other hand, they took my sketch pads, which have no value at all.”
Luke was baffled, too. Why would anyone take her drawings? They certainly couldn’t sell them; her work was too well-known.
“It seems odd to me but the police didn’t seem to feel it was important.” She sipped from her cup.
“Maybe they just liked the way you draw,” David said. “I need to check on my room,” he added, showing signs of impatience. Luke’s efforts to distract him were apparently losing their effectiveness.
Alexandra couldn’t quite squelch a soft groan as she set down the coffee cup and forced herself to her feet. She felt achy; she hoped she wasn’t coming down with something. A summer cold, maybe? “Yes. And I have to be there for the locksmith.”
When they reached the door of her condo, David turned to address Luke. “‘Night, Luke. Thanks for letting me look at your racing books.”
“You’re welcome, David. We’ll talk about the races later. Good night.”
David disappeared. Standing at the door, Alexandra looked at Luke. “I want to thank you again for keeping him occupied tonight. It was a big help.”
“I enjoyed having him,” Luke said absently, as he followed her to the porch. For a reason he didn’t fully understand, he was reluctant to let her go inside. He wanted to keep her talking, at least for a while. “Do you need help cleaning up?”
“West helped me. We picked up the pillows and straightened the furniture. The rest can wait until morning.”
“Of course,” he said sarcastically.
That brought her head up. Her eyebrows came together over those gorgeous green eyes. Clearly, she didn’t like his tone but she let it pass.
<
br /> He decided he didn’t care for the tone much, either. He was letting his dislike for West Chadwick color his attitude, but she needn’t be a target of his mockery. Certainly not tonight.
“You know, as we were straightening the rooms, something else seemed peculiar,” she added thoughtfully as she crossed to the decorative wrought-iron barrier at the edge of the porch and wrapped her hands around the top rail. “At first glance the place seemed to have been vandalized, but nothing was actually destroyed.” She seemed to be talking to herself. “The worst of the damage was in my studio. That’s what doesn’t make sense. One glance could have told the burglar that there was nothing of value in there. And why would they take old sketchbooks? Almost as though they didn’t like me personally.”
Luke looked at her hands, white-knuckled, curled around the rail and knew a sudden urge to cover them with his own. “Who have you satirized lately?” he asked dryly.
She turned, crossing her arms, and frowned at him. He hid a smile, noting that she was visibly irritated, a condition alien to her usual air of smooth refinement. “You know what I do?” she asked coolly.
She drew very perceptive caricatures. Some of them were generic figures. He’d seen a row of them—illustrating stereotypical players in the dating game—on the wall of a popular restaurant for singles in Buckhead.
But others depicted well-known Atlanta personalities. Politicians, sports figures, people in the entertainment fields, they all came under her good-natured, but occasionally penetrating, scrutiny. “Sure. I’ve seen your drawings in the shops around town. You’re good.”
She relaxed slightly, leaned one slender hip against the railing. “Then you should know that my caricatures aren’t malicious,” she told him.
“No, they are not malicious, just keenly perceptive.” He shoved his hands into the pockets of his trousers and looked at her. “You frequently reveal an insight that probably makes your subjects uncomfortable.” He tried a smile, which was ignored.
He’d meant the comment as a sincere compliment but it didn’t seem to pacify her. He turned his head just enough to meet her eyes. “They are funny,” he added.
When he’d first seen her name on a caricature, he’d been amazed. An elegant woman like Alexandra Prescott would surely lack the sense of the absurd revealed in the drawings. He knew she had been widowed for several years; maybe this was the only way she could reveal her sense of humor.
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