He stepped inside the apartment and cast an appreciative glance around. “Nice place,” he murmured.
“Thanks.” She didn’t point out the obvious, that he’d been there less than five days ago. They both knew the last thing on his mind at the time had been her decorating skills.
“I brought drinks,” he said, passing her a small plastic bag with a six-pack of beer inside. “I didn’t know which brand you like.”
“Heineken is great. Thank you.” She started toward the kitchen, saying over her shoulder, “Where’s your jacket? It’s cold out there.”
“I never wear coats unless it’s the dead of winter.”
Althea laughed. “What kind of policy is that?”
He shrugged those broad shoulders, flashing a wry grin. “I think it’s a family trait. My brother Garrison is the same way.”
“Then you and Garrison must have stayed sick growing up.”
“Actually, we hardly ever got colds. Just ask my mom.”
Inside the small kitchen, Althea set the bag on the counter and rummaged around a drawer until she located the bottle opener. As she opened their beers, she watched through the wide alcove as Damien wandered over to the fireplace to study the framed photographs on the mantel. Most were of her posing with her aunt and uncle, their arms around one another as they beamed into the camera. At her college graduation, at their thirtieth wedding anniversary celebration, standing in front of the pyramids during a summer trip to Egypt.
“You must be very close to your aunt and uncle,” Damien remarked after several moments.
“I am,” Althea said as she emerged from the kitchen. “They’re the only parents I’ve ever known. I owe them everything.”
Damien turned as she approached and handed him a beer. “I’m sure they don’t see it that way. I’m sure if you asked them, they’d say you don’t owe them a single thing. They’d probably say they’re the ones who are grateful to have you in their lives.”
Althea smiled softly at him, pleased by his perceptiveness. “You’re right. That’s exactly what they say to me every time I try to thank them for all they’ve done for me. I can barely get the words out before they’re hushing me up, telling me that they have far more to be grateful for.” She smiled again, shaking her head a little. “They’re amazing people. Have you ever met them?”
“I haven’t had the pleasure.” Damien’s mouth curved ruefully. “To be honest with you, I’m a little intimidated. They think Garrison walks on water. I’m afraid I won’t measure up.”
Althea grinned. “Yeah, I can see how that might be a problem for you.”
He chuckled. “Thanks for the reassurance.”
“I’m just teasing you. Garrison saved my life. That makes him a hero in their book. Hell, I was even planning to name my firstborn after him.” Smiling, she tilted her head to one side, regarding Damien thoughtfully for a moment. “But you know what? I honestly believe my aunt and uncle would like you just for who you are.”
“You think so?”
“I know so. And why wouldn’t they? You’re a good man, Damien Wade.”
“Thank you for saying that,” he said softly.
“I meant every word.”
They gazed at each other. The only sound in the room was the soft crackle and hiss of the logs burning on the grate.
With a supreme effort, Althea forced herself to look away, willing her pulse to return to normal. “The pizza should be here any minute,” she announced offhandedly. “I’m starving. You?”
“Ravenous,” Damien murmured, but the low, husky timbre of his voice made her wonder whether he was referring to food—or something else entirely.
She shivered.
Turning away, she walked over to the sofa and sat down. Damien remained by the fireplace, watching her through those dark, penetrating eyes as he slowly drank his beer.
Seeking to lighten the atmosphere—and neutralize the dangerous effect he was having on her—Althea smiled whimsically. “It just occurred to me that you’re the original D-Wade. Did your friends used to call you that when you were growing up?”
Damien nodded, his lips curving in a half smile, as if he recognized her ploy for what it was. “They still do.”
“So can I call you that, too?” she teased.
“That depends.”
“On what?”
“On whether or not I consider you a friend.”
She stared at him expectantly. “Do you?”
He lifted one shoulder in a lazy shrug. “I haven’t decided.”
“What?” she cried, pretending to take umbrage. “Do I have to pass some sort of test or something?”
He chuckled softly. “Maybe.”
“Maybe!” Sucking her teeth, she flagged him off with a wave of her hand. “Whatever. Be that way then. I don’t need to jump through hoops to be your friend, Damien Wade. I have plenty of friends, thank you very much. In case you haven’t noticed, I happen to be a very likeable person.”
His eyes danced with mirth. “Are you trying to convince me or yourself?”
Sputtering with indignation, Althea grabbed a small throw pillow off the sofa and hurled it at his head. Without missing a beat or spilling a drop of beer, he snapped the pillow out of the air, demonstrating razor-sharp reflexes obviously honed by years of practice.
Thoroughly impressed, Althea grinned and began clapping. “Good hands.”
Damien shook his head at her, mouth twitching. “Just for future reference,” he drawled, starting toward her, “you shouldn’t throw flammable objects at someone standing in front of a fire. Remember—only you can prevent apartment fires.”
Althea burst out laughing. “Yes, sir, Mr. Smokey Bear!”
Damien laughed.
The playful exchange was interrupted by the doorbell. Althea found herself resenting the intrusion, then called herself a damn fool for it.
“That must be the pizza,” she said, starting to rise.
“I got it,” Damien said, already striding toward the door before she could protest.
As he passed the sofa, he bopped her gently on the head with the pillow, drawing from her a loud, exaggerated, “Ouch!”
While he paid for the pizza, Althea retrieved paper plates and napkins from the kitchen.
As they sat down in the living room to eat, Damien said, almost too casually, “The delivery guy didn’t seem to need your help getting into the building.”
Althea made a pained face. “I know. I’ve been meaning to talk to the management about that. The building doesn’t seem as secure as tenants are led to believe when they sign a lease.”
Damien frowned with displeasure. “That front desk attendant seems more like window dressing. He barely glanced at me when I walked by. Assuming I was up to no good, he wouldn’t even be able to ID me in a lineup. All visitors should have to sign in with him, otherwise he serves no purpose.”
Althea, sensing a lecture coming on, said quickly and resolutely, “I’m going to call management first thing in the morning.”
Damien searched her face as if trying to decide whether she really meant it or if she was just trying to pacify him in order to shut him up. After another moment he nodded tersely. “You do that.”
Althea bristled at his bossy tone, biting back an urge to remind him of his earlier words to her. I don’t have time to hold your hand or look after you.
The nerve! Was it any wonder she’d lashed out at him after hearing that?
But even in defending yourself, you were dishonest, her conscience pricked her. You described your night together as meaningless, when you know damn well it was anything but that.
But Damien didn’t know that. And as far as she was concerned, he never would.
They ate for a few minutes in companionable silence before Damien, glancing around the room, asked idly, “How’d you get unpacked so quickly? Didn’t you just arrive on Friday?”
Althea nodded, wiping a dab of pizza sauce from her chin. “When my stuff arrived from
Seattle early last week, my aunt, along with some of her friends from church, came over and unpacked everything for me.”
“That was very generous of them.”
“I know. It was a wonderful homecoming surprise. I walked through the door, tired from a long flight, expecting to be greeted by the sight of moving boxes everywhere. You can imagine my shock—and utter relief—upon seeing that everything was already in place. I immediately called my aunt to thank her. She and my uncle were attending a political function in D.C., otherwise they would have picked me up from the airport. Anyway, by the time I finished thanking her, we were both blubbering on the phone like idiots.” Althea laughed softly at the memory. “It was funny, because you could hear the president speaking in the background. When I tried to apologize to my aunt for interrupting, she just giggled and whispered, ‘Baby, don’t worry. He ain’t saying nothing worthwhile anyway.’”
Damien chuckled, shaking his head. “I take it your aunt and uncle aren’t exactly best friends with the president.”
Althea snorted indelicately. “Let’s just say they’re both looking forward to a new administration. As are a lot of people in this country.”
“I’ll drink to that,” Damien said, and they clinked their beer bottles in a mock toast and drank.
After another moment, Damien slanted her a look of mild curiosity. “Do you think your uncle is going to run in four years?”
“Honestly?” Althea pursed her lips, contemplating her half-eaten slice of pepperoni pizza. “I think there’s a very strong chance he will. My uncle is a visionary, whether he’s dealing with our family or chairing a Senate committee. He loves this country more than anyone I know, and he has a lot of great ideas about restoring the economy and repairing our image abroad, among many other things.”
Damien smiled lazily at her. “I take it by that glowing endorsement that you’ve already embraced the idea of being First Daughter.”
Althea laughed. “I don’t know about all that. For starters, I don’t think I’d enjoy being shadowed by the Secret Service. I mean, can you just imagine me interviewing witnesses, going on raids and carrying out arrest warrants with some Secret Service agent looking over my shoulder?”
Damien grimaced, taking a swig of beer. “I see your point.”
She slid him a teasing grin. “On the other hand, if my uncle did become president, then would you be my friend?”
Damien grinned, disarming her with those dimples. “Maybe.”
Althea sputtered out a laugh, then punched him playfully on the shoulder.
After demolishing the large pizza, they cleared away their plates and got down to business. Althea listened as Damien told her about his visit to Patrick Farris’s remote riverfront house in Solomon’s Island.
“So Suzette Thorndike was his second wife?” she clarified.
Damien nodded. “His first wife passed away almost twenty years ago. Breast cancer. They had two sons, Kyle and Corbin. Kyle, the oldest, is an investment broker living in Virginia with his wife and two young children. But it’s the other son—Corbin—that I’m particularly interested in. He’s been in and out of work for the last ten years, which is why he often has to crash at his old man’s place. The neighbor said he mostly keeps to himself, doesn’t really interact with anyone apart from his father.”
“A loner,” Althea murmured. “Fits the profile.”
Damien nodded. “That’s what I thought, too. And his unstable employment history could point to financial trouble, which bolsters your blackmail theory. Suppose Farris and his son are in on it together. They both walk away with a sizeable chunk of Spencer Thorndike’s fortune. Money problems solved.”
“But what about the note? Why bother sending the note?”
“To throw us off. To make us think there’s some psycho copycat out there, which changes the scope of our investigation. If we’re not focusing on ransom as the kidnapper’s motive, then that means we’re not knocking on their door.”
Althea frowned. “But they’d have to know we’re exploring all angles, and considering who Claire’s father is, ransom tops the list of possible motives. Which reminds me. I went to see Spencer Thorndike this afternoon to ask him some follow-up questions, and he informed me that he’s offering a $500,000 reward for information leading to Claire’s whereabouts. He’s holding a press conference outside his home tomorrow morning to announce the reward.”
Damien frowned. “Half a mil. The hotlines are going to be lit up with tips from the public—three times the amount of calls they’re receiving now.”
“Tell me about it. But on the bright side, maybe all we need is one legitimate tip to give us the break we so desperately need. But getting back to Farris. When does the neighbor expect him back?”
“Thursday afternoon. And I plan to be there to welcome him.”
“I’m going with you. Maybe we could even do a little sightseeing while we’re there, check out any vacant or abandoned buildings and warehouses in the area.”
Damien nodded. “Sounds like a plan. So what did you ask Thorndike about?”
“Patrick Farris, for one. I wanted to find out if there was any love lost between the two men. Surprisingly, Thorndike didn’t have too much to say about his wife’s ex-husband. He said by the time he met Suzette, she’d already gotten over her divorce. Easier to do, I guess, when you make out like a fat cat in the divorce settlement,” Althea added sardonically.
Damien chuckled. “Just couldn’t resist, could you?”
Althea grinned. “You know it. Anyway, since Suzette and Farris didn’t have any children together, they didn’t have to deal with each other once the divorce was final. They were able to go their separate ways. When I asked Thorndike what he thought of his predecessor, he just shook his head and said it takes a pretty sick individual to molest his patients the way Farris did. So I asked him point-blank if he thought Farris could be responsible for Claire’s disappearance. I could tell by the look on his face that the thought had never occurred to him. He asked me if we had any reason to believe Farris could be involved. I told him no, but we were exploring all possibilities, and given how acrimoniously Suzette’s first marriage ended, naturally we had to consider her ex-husband a possible suspect.”
“What did Suzette have to say about this?”
“She wasn’t there. Thorndike said he was going to run the idea past her when she got home. I’d love to be a fly on the wall during that conversation, just to see Suzette’s reaction. If she lets Farris off the hook too quickly, that’s a red flag. Not that I said this to Thorndike, of course. I did, however, casually inquire about Suzette’s family. Do you know what he said?”
Damien’s mouth twitched. “No, but I assume you’re going to tell me.”
Althea made a face at him. “He said that he’d never met any of Suzette’s family members. Her parents didn’t approve of her leaving home at seventeen, so they pretty much disowned her. She hasn’t had contact with her family in years.” Althea paused. “I don’t know about you, but I’m willing to bet there’s more to the story than that. At the very least, I think Suzette is hiding something about her past.”
“You may be right. I’ve got someone looking into it. He’s actually down in Crisfield this week talking to Suzette’s former friends, classmates, and neighbors, discreetly gathering as much information as he can. I hope he’ll have something for me soon.”
Althea nodded, satisfied. “Another reason I went to see Thorndike was to ask him about a summer job Claire had last year.” She told Damien her theory about the kidnapper targeting one of Claire’s mentors, just as Anthony Yusef had targeted Imani eight years ago.
“If our guy is following the same pattern,” she posed, “then isn’t it possible that someone close to Claire could be his next target?”
Damien frowned, absently stroking his stubbled chin as he mulled over the question. “I hadn’t thought of that angle before, but you’re right. It is possible. So, assuming this is a copycat crime, that wou
ld mean the mentor, not Claire, is the primary target.”
Althea nodded. “Possibly. So if we identified the mentor, maybe we could come up with a new list of potential suspects—people who are connected to the mentor, someone who might have an ax to grind.”
Damien’s frown deepened. “Maybe, but it’s a bit of a stretch, don’t you think? I mean, would the mentor’s enemy go to such extreme lengths to get revenge?”
Althea stared at him unblinkingly. “Anthony Yusef did.”
Damien studied her for a moment but said nothing.
He didn’t have to. He knew she was right.
Althea continued, “I asked Thorndike if he could think of anyone Claire might consider a mentor. A teacher, a riding instructor, a former supervisor. Yes to the first, no to the other two. He said Claire’s favorite teacher at school was Mr. Unger, her music appreciation instructor.”
“But he’s a man, so that doesn’t fit the victim profile.”
“Right. Thorndike also mentioned a congressional aide that Claire met two years ago during her brief stay with her mother. Courtney Reese, a twenty-seven-year-old congressional aide to Senator Rich Horton. Apparently Courtney and Madison Thorndike frequently work together on environmental legislation. During Claire’s visit, her mother invited Courtney over for dinner, and the two girls hit it off right away. Thorndike says Claire really liked and admired Courtney. They e-mailed each other every now and then, and Claire even drove to the District on a few occasions to meet Courtney for lunch.”
“Okay,” Damien said, stretching out his long legs as he settled more comfortably on the sofa, “so we’ve potentially identified the mentor. Now what? Do we go to her and warn her that she may be in danger?”
“Why not?”
“What if we’re wrong?”
Althea frowned. “But what if we’re right? Don’t you think she deserves to know that she could be the next target of the psycho who abducted Claire?”
“Of course. But we have to walk a fine line here, Althea. We don’t have any proof that Courtney Reese is in danger.”
Althea stared at him in disbelief. “We don’t need proof. We have a note from the kidnapper, and we have a set of circumstances that are too similar to be coincidental. Why are you backtracking all of a sudden?”
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