“He’s too good a driver. I don’t care what Rourke thinks. Tony never drove that Jeep last night.” Pierce shook his head—gingerly, as if trying to rescramble his thoughts. “Tony grew up in Denver—it usually snows there more in April than we get in February.”
“So? Drivers go off the road in Colorado.” She smiled and flipped on the grinder, and let it rip without giving Pierce a warning.
“Jesus, Quinn!” He yelped.
A sense of power invaded her. When she finished slicing and dicing their nerves, she measured out coffee like a mature person and spoke with what she considered restraint. “We know Tony went to The Plaza last night. Maybe he found zilch. You asked him to check on me. He couldn’t bring himself to disappoint you about Rex. Didn’t even realize he almost mowed me down and took off for Toganoxie. Hit a snowdrift or another light—”
“Christomighty, Quinn!” Pierce lurched in his chair, as unsteady as a geriatric patient, rocking forward, trying to propel himself to his feet. “Tony would call me if he hit that light pole. He would. He knows I’d help him.”
Pierce’s raw confusion and fear felt like a vise squeezing air from Quinn’s lungs, cutting off oxygen, hijacking reason. She longed to throw her arms around him, cry for him, ease his pain. Pain she understood. Let anyone imply Michael lacked good judgment, and she’d lash out with the same venom.
Head averted, Pierce was already sinking back into his chair. She hesitated, measuring the distance between them. It would be so easy to take the first step...
“Tony hasn’t done a damn thing wrong.” Pierce’s jaw cracked and she jumped.
“Okay.” Any question of touching him instead of protecting herself evaporated. She opened the fridge, removed a carton of milk and held it against her chest.
“Sorry I took your head off,” he mumbled. “I confused you with Olsen.”
“Oh, geez. Thanks.” The humor in her laugh sounded forced. Pathetic. Lame.
“The confusion of an idiot.” Pierce jumped out of his chair and charged at her like a rabid rhino, invading her space. “I wouldn’t blame you if you tossed me out on my ass.”
His nearness brought a flash of the earth rotating around the sun on Douglas Prescott’s gold clock, and she had to curl her toes under to maintain her balance. Pierce looked at her in silence. She caught his flinch as she spoke in the gentlest tone she could manage, “Reporting Rex must’ve put Tony under a lot of stress.”
Pierce’s head barely moved in agreement, but his jaw muscles clenched. The clench failed to stop the tic under his eye. Your point being? rang his unasked question.
Wanting to move closer, wanting to take his hand, squeeze his fingers, silently promise him Tony was fine, she squeezed the milk carton. “What if...what if it was too much stress?”
The tension around his mouth and eyes gave way to blatant disbelief and pity. The dismissal he made in the back of his throat—a grunt or snort or primitive noise proclaiming you’ve gotta be crazy—said it all, but he made sure she got the message. “No way.”
“I understand—”
“Tony loved nailing Rex. He thought I should make sure the bastard got twenty years to think about stealing from people who never hurt him. Tony had his priorities straight.” Affection and pride swelled Pierce’s baritone and pinched Quinn’s heart.
Small tremors twitched in her arms. “Is there any chance someone stole his Jeep?”
“Why?” The single word rang with suspicion, matching Pierce’s frown.
“Monday night—after the attack on the golf course—I saw a black Jeep—”
“What? You never mentioned that. Did you see the driver? Was it Tony? What about the license?”
On the defensive, Quinn fired back. “I thought it was kids. Necking. I didn’t see the driver, and I didn’t check the license plate.”
Easier said than done when helping a full-grown man into her house. Quinn kept her thoughts to herself.
Pierce exhaled, then laughed. “Tony would never ambush me.”
What about hanging around your house? she asked mentally. Frames of the black Jeep following the Corvette across Brush Creek unwound in slo-mo. A coincidence, she’d wanted to think at the time—yet she’d played cat-and-mouse games that seemed silly after the Jeep failed to follow her off Southwest Trafficway. She set the milk on the counter, seeing the Jeep weave in and out of traffic.
“He might lay a trap for me,” Pierce said in a voice proclaiming boys will be boys. After a beat, he shook his head. “But Tony would never deliberately hurt me. That wasn’t Tony on the golf course.”
“I can’t remember how tall—”
“The bastard was a dwarf.” Pierce’s eyes flashed, daring her to contradict the statement.
Nodding, Quinn waited, sure he hadn’t finished.
He hadn’t. “There’s a logical reason for Olsen finding Tony’s phone.”
“I agree. Mrs. Taylor is Martha’s Stewart’s clone. There’s no way that phone’s been in that sofa a week.”
“See?” Triumph sent Pierce’s voice soaring. “Logic rules.”
“Okay.” Quinn repressed a sigh. How did she bring the conversation back to the Jeep?
“Whoever vandalized the house obviously stole Tony’s phone.” A glare. “My bet’s on you-know-who. Who else had a better opportunity to waltz off with Tony’s phone?”
Quinn groaned. “Ever hear of a double standard? Tony’s innocent until proven guilty, but Rex is guilty until proven innocent.”
“I know Tony.” Pierce got right in Quinn’s face.
His breath tickled her nose, but she focused on making one point. “Michael knows Rex.”
“Not the way I know Tony.”
“Michael and Rex have known each other since kindergarten.”
Unwilling to admit defeat, Pierce curled his lip.
Quinn leaned forward, shocked by the red threads in his eyes. “We agree losing our phones amounts to suffering a major stroke. Why didn’t Tony report missing his second brain?”
“Easy.” Pierce snapped his fingers. “He probably has two, maybe three phones. One for work. One for women. One for whatever.”
“Ahhh.” Quinn nodded, dizzy from their convoluted argument. “Back to logic.”
“He’s probably holed up somewhere with the light of his life.” Pierce stared out the window as if seeing Tony, shook his head and brought his gaze back to the kitchen. “You don’t buy the idea he’s holed-up somewhere, do you?”
“No more than you do,” she whispered.
The bittersweet fragrance of mocha amaretto filled the room. Pierce exhaled. “Black coffee’s my only hope.”
“In a minute.” The tremors in her arms had moved to her chest and legs.
Miz Melodrama Queen pulled out a chair, remembering the basics of Psych 101. Avoid looming over someone when delivering bad news. Establish eye contact. Touch the one about to receive the bad news.
Sitting, Quinn decided, was about what she could manage.
“You’re finally going to tell me what’s on your mind,” Pierce said.
“You always told me I should never play poker.” Her heart skipped hard.
“I promise I won’t kill the messenger.” He took her icy hand in his icier one.
Dry-mouthed, she said, “Remember, I drove your ’Vette to work yesterday morning.”
He nodded—the gesture impatient and abrupt. Get on with it.
“A black Jeep followed me most of the way—all the way across Southwest Trafficway.” She paused and hoped he’d missed the tiny quiver undercutting her confidence.
Pierce flashed her a look that yelled, Stop pulling my chain. “Sounds like there’s a black jeep around every corner.”
Quinn flushed, let the temptation to walk away fade, said, “You think two black Jeeps in twenty-four hours are a coincidence? One on my cul-de-sac, the other one outside your house?”
Pierce opened his mouth, but she talked over him. “I can’t remember the last time I saw a
black Jeep before Monday night.”
“Guess you’ve missed Tony’s at work. His parking space is next to mine.” Pierce’s smooth, seductive voice of reason brought blood rushing to her ears.
“When I come to work at oh-dark-thirty, I have other things on my mind than male toys.” She dialed back the volume, speaking more slowly. “It took four years and a dead battery for me to notice your ’Vette. As phallic symbols go, cars don’t turn me on.”
“My point exactly. Two black Jeeps do not an invasion make.”
She tapped her top lip, waited, said, “I might agree if the Ward Parkway driver had driven behind me. He didn’t. He dodged all over the place. He didn’t want me to see his face.”
Pierce started to roll his eyes, caught himself, stopped. “Tony can save us this entire going-nowhere conversation. I’ll drop you at work, find him and take him to the cops. Once they clear him, will you believe more than one black Jeep exists in the universe?”
****
The phone rang and Quinn all but levitated across the kitchen. Faced with Pierce’s direct question, he suspected she’d rather dance in hell than deal with his barely repressed fury. He loved Tony. She loved Michael. How could she accuse Tony of stalking her without proof?
She looked at Pierce over her shoulder and collided with a kitchen chair. She yelped, but caught a back leg. A regal wave commanded him to stay put. She slammed the chair upright. The glow of righteousness shimmered around her. She grabbed the receiver as if grabbing the gold ring on a carousel.
Perfect timing, Michael. Pierce forced the rim of the coffee mug against his lips and swallowed the thought. The cold brew tasted as bitter as old coffee grounds.
Quinn surprised him by staring at the LED. Her face shut down. The skin tightened across the bones on her face. The circles under her eyes resembled prunes. She pressed her lips together and held the receiver at arm’s length as if the phone leaked radioactivity.
Sour coffee flooded Pierce’s mouth. Not Prince Michael, but his faithful minion Rex.
Damn, just thinking about the weasel spilled enough acid into Pierce’s touchy stomach to grow an ulcer. He stared into the empty mug and massaged the burn under his left breastbone. His stomach calmed down. A little. His gut still churned, convincing him Rex Walker—somehow, someway—masterminded the convenient appearance of Tony’s phone.
Uh-huh. And that hunch, plus three bucks, would buy a small latte. Pierce stood and sauntered toward the coffee pot. He held his mug in front of him, but eavesdropped shamelessly. Word-fragments pulsated in Quinn’s agitated whispers. Her corpse-like stiffness telegraphed the need for a caffeine jolt.
Pierce filled another mug and carried it to her. Too bad she can’t inhale it. He set the mug on the countertop and raised an eyebrow.
She turned her back and shouted, “Why would Michael stay home today?”
“Don’t worry about me,” Pierce whispered. “I’ll entertain myself.”
Frowning, she faced him, slicing her finger through the air an inch from his nose, saying into the receiver, “I’ll call him later—”
Pierce tapped the face on his watch. No more time to soothe poor Rexie. Snow was falling again—not the blizzard of last night—but he needed to take off for Tony’s. Now. Some deep part of him had hoped she’d offer to go along, but that hope belonged in a kid’s daydream.
She stared at his watch and stopped talking, her eyes bleak, her thumb pressed hard against her bottom lip. She nodded as if Walker could see the gesture, shifted her gaze downward, nodded again, then said, “I understand, Rex. I’ll wait for Michael to call me.”
Pierce squeezed the handle on his mug and took a step backwards. The temptation to kiss the hurt taking over her face was beginning to feel reasonable—even after last night’s disastrous ending. God, getting out of bed, driving without speaking, hoping—
“Let’s review the strategy,” she said, her professional voice giving no clue to her vulnerability. “Arrive ten minutes early. Expect to wait. Edward Roslyn’s notorious for short first interviews. I’ll call him this afternoon—”
The line between her eyebrows came back. Pierce imagined erasing the scowl. Not because it ruined her looks. But because the little creep shouldn’t hold that kind of power.
Her frown deepened. She shook her head. “This afternoon. Calling earlier makes you look over-eager.”
“Hang up.” Pierce leaned toward her and spoke in a normal voice. So what if the weasel heard him?
Quinn threw him a look that screamed, Leave. Her unspoken challenge cha-chaaed in Pierce’s head. Why leave now? Pushing back offered too much fun. Took his mind off her certainty Tony—had Pierce wrapped around his finger. Curious, he played stupid. Not picking-his-nose stupid, just dumb-ass, smiley-face stupid. Courting death, he ignored a second ball-freezing glare and slugged back coffee.
“Listen to me,” she said.
Reflexively, Pierce set down his mug and stood up straighter. How many times, in six years of elementary school, had he heard that tone from the nuns at St. Joseph’s?
Quinn’s tone hardened. “Talking salary at this juncture isn’t wise.”
Yessss. Pierce made a fist and shot it in the air.
No visible sign she’d noticed. If anything, her tone was more clipped, definitely curt. “Expecting a ten-K increase without a glowing recommendation from Pierce is dreaming.”
Creepo apparently didn’t get it. Quinn waited a heartbeat before saying, “Fine. Talk salary. Shoot yourself in the head.”
She hung up. Within seconds the phone rang.
Pierce made a low sucking noise.
“Shut. Up.” Quinn pressed a knuckle against her bottom lip but picked up the receiver on the second ring. “Stop wasting my time, Rex. You don’t want to listen to my advice, don’t.”
Her face and ears turned scarlet, but her eyes flashed. “Call Michael,” she said in a tone Pierce remembered from his own evisceration. “I promised I’d help you before I realized you need a new brain.”
Pierce laughed and gave her two thumbs up. Finally, some backbone. Once she read the weasel’s file, she’d wonder how she’d risked so much for such a creep.
She closed her eyes and rubbed her forehead. “I am not abandoning you.”
Adrenaline launched Pierce forward. Fists at his side, he roared, “Creep!”
A vein bulged in Quinn’s temple and her fingers curled around the phone, draining the blood from her knuckles. Pierce tensed, half expecting her to throw the receiver at him.
Instead, she stomped to the sliding glass door, her voice rising with each step. “That’s not fair. I said I’d help you. I can’t if you sabotage me.”
Snow fell faster, blanketing her backyard in the loveliness of a Hallmark card. Pierce watched her back as she stared at the scene, listening to Creepo.
“I’ll call you before noon.” The fire in her voice had evaporated. “Before I call Edward.”
She ended the call not by pressing the OFF button, but by holding it down with her thumb as if squashing a mutant cockroach.
Touching her now, Pierce realized, would be like touching a match to dynamite. So he hung back, amazed she could stand with her shoulders and back as brittle as icicles hanging from the rafters. He said, “You are the world’s best sister.”
“That should keep me warm tonight.” She stared at the snow another heartbeat before turning with the slow, jerky movements of an old woman. Her face was as frozen as the landscape. “I have some questions for Tony. I can be ready in five minutes.”
****
It was 9:09 but Pierce reined in his impatience and let Quinn take charge of fixing hot chocolate. Just in case, she’d said, making a vague reference to the Donner Party.
God, being stranded with Quinn would make his day. He scraped snow from the car windows, feeling the first twinge of weather nerves. He estimated Tony’s place in the middle of nowhere was about thirty miles from Quinn’s driveway. New layers of white meant more black ic
e, lower visibility and a drifted, unsalted, two-mile county road to Tony’s house.
With a little luck, the dumb-ass drivers will stay home.
Quinn climbed in, buckled her seatbelt and aimed her remote at the garage door. “I wish Michael would call. I don’t want to be in the boonies when Luce goes into labor.”
“We can always turn back if he calls.” Pierce flipped on the wipers and eased into the deserted cul-de-sac, careful to avoid brushing Quinn’s hair as he anchored one arm across the back of her seat. “I bet we find Tony in bed with the flu. The flu explains why he didn’t call. Being sick provides the perfect alibi—”
“Did you bring Rex’s file?”
“You asked me to bring it, I brought it.” His tone was borderline curt.
“Good.” Quinn pointed at the Neighborhood Watch sign. “The black Jeep parked there Monday night. It’s a jog from the hole in the hedge, but it’s not that far.”
“If we weren’t pressed for time, I’d show off here. Get out, check for tire tracks in a foot of new snow.” He made his tone light, hoping she’d forget he’d snapped at her. “You know, like on CSI?”
“Never watch it, but go ahead. I’ll act impressed.”
“Next time.” He wanted to say something that would kick her mood up a notch. Maybe show some enthusiasm about being alone with him. Maybe...his mind shifted gears. Dammit, her baggage weighed heavy enough without adding his ego. Coddling Michael and covering for Rex would throw Miss Mary Sunshine into a blue funk.
Pierce eased off the gas, feeling the wheels spin, then steady on the slick snow-packed street. “Rex’s folder’s in the glove compartment. It’s your copy. Make notes if you want.”
Snow mixed with sleet hit the windshield, but they rode in silence. He concentrated on the ice-covered Kaw River Bridge bisecting Johnson and Wynadotte counties. He doubted she noticed the frozen water below them. The weasel’s file apparently mesmerized her.
He coughed. She continued reading—as if alone in the car. An occasional truck reassured him they were traveling in the New Millennium and not exploring in the eighteenth century with the French, the first European mapmakers of the Indian territory. After Quinn had kicked him out of her life, Pierce spent many long summer weekends kayaking and canoeing on the Kaw. Usually with Tony, his ski and tobogganing bud.
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