by Mary Burton
Her gaze skimmed the small square tables covered with crisp white linens. Even the napkins were cloth, pressed neatly into rectangles. On each table was a small hurricane lamp with an unlit candle.
Oddly, the restaurant had always made her feel at home. ‘Your dad is right. I always liked the place just like it is.’
‘Don’t let Mom hear you say that.’
Audrey Kier was a force to be reckoned with. A former stage actress, she had a flare for drama, which was accentuated by her short silver hair and still-trim body. She was outspoken, generous, and fiercely loyal to her family. Cross one of hers and you crossed her.
Lindsay’s unease returned. ‘Maybe this isn’t such a good idea.’
Zack grabbed his sunglasses and tucked them in his breast pocket. ‘You’re not afraid are you?’
Challenge punctuated each word. ‘No.’
He smiled. ‘Then stay and have lunch.’
He was daring her. ‘Fine.’
Zack’s brother, Malcolm, pushed through the kitchen door. Dressed in black, Malcolm possessed the same gray eyes as his brother, but his build was more muscular. Zack was the runner; Malcolm, the bodybuilder.
Malcolm frowned, clearly not happy to see Lindsay. ‘Zack. Lindsay. What’s up?’
Zack grinned. ‘Looking for some lunch.’
Malcolm glared at Zack as if to say: We’ll talk later. ‘There are a few things brewing on the stove.’
If Zack noticed his brother’s dissatisfaction, he ignored it. ‘Great. We’ll have two plates of whatever you’ve got. What are you doing here today?’
‘Mom’s got Dad wrapped around the axle about the party. I had a few days off so I offered to fill in today.’
Zack grinned. ‘You swore after high school you’d never work in the restaurant again.’
Malcolm shrugged. ‘Never say never, right? Go ahead and pick a table and I’ll send Eleanor out with bread. Pasta and marinara sound good?’
Zack looked at Lindsay, his eyebrow lifted. ‘Work for you?’
Malcolm could have offered rusty nails on a plate and she’d not have argued. She smiled. ‘Sure.’
Zack guided Lindsay to a back table tucked in a corner. He pulled out a chair for her, waited while she sat, then took the seat nearest to the wall – he always liked his back to the wall, eyes facing the door. This quirk was a holdover from his undercover days.
‘Well, that’s a first,’ she said as she sat.
‘What?’
This close she could smell his soap. She loved the simple, masculine scent. ‘You held out a chair for me.’
He opened a napkin. ‘Even an old dog can learn a new trick.’ Extra meaning punctuated the comment, and she didn’t know how to respond. An uneasy silence settled between them before he broke it. ‘How secure is your apartment?
She opened a pack of crackers. ‘K-bar in the sliding glass door. Dead bolts on front and back doors. Extra long screws in the doorjambs. Not real high tech but effective.’
‘Lose the key under the flower pot yet?’
Lindsay nodded. ‘I’m willing to admit it was stupid to keep the key under the pot. It is now gone.’
Zack seemed satisfied. ‘Ever had any trouble with anyone connected to the shelter? Anyone ever follow you home?’
‘No. That hasn’t been an issue. But I’ve been called every name in the book by enraged husbands and boyfriends. Even the victims can get nasty when I push them to testify against their abusers. But that’s all par for the course. Nothing new.’
‘What about the woman who was killed by her husband about nine months ago? What was her name? Rogers?’
‘Pam Rogers. And I blame myself for that one.’
He frowned. ‘Why?’
‘I should have seen it coming. Pam was extremely codependent and terrified of living without her husband. I told her time and again not to call her husband, but she couldn’t let it go. Thirty minutes after I left for the day, she called him. A half hour after that he picked her up. He was hitting her before they were in the car. The volunteer on call telephoned me. We called the police.’
‘She was found dead the next morning,’ Zack said.
‘Yes. I went to her funeral. One of her brothers approached me. He was angry and blamed me for what had happened. I remember someone from the crowd dragging him away.’
‘She was an adult, Lindsay. You couldn’t have stopped her.’
‘But if I’d been there I could have talked her out of calling.’ The but-ifs stalked her.
His voice softened. ‘You can’t be there twenty-four/seven.’
She shook her head. ‘I still remember the pain in her brother’s eyes.’
‘What was his name?’
‘Simon Palmer.’
‘Where does this guy live?’
‘Richmond. Southside, I think. He’s an accountant.’
‘You had any contact with him since his sister’s funeral?’
‘None.’
The doors to the kitchen swung open and a young waitress with honey blond hair swept into the room with a tray of water glasses, bread sticks, and plates of pasta. Lindsay recognized Zack’s older sister, Eleanor, immediately. Eleanor was thirty-three years old, vivacious, and had Down’s syndrome. She had as much pride as the other Kiers and was determined to be as independent as possible.
Lindsay beamed. ‘Eleanor!’
‘Hi, Lindsay,’ she said, grinning.
When Lindsay had met Eleanor, Eleanor had been living in her parents’ house but had wanted a place of her own. Her fiercely protective family had vetoed the idea. It had been Lindsay who’d suggested that the room over the Kier family garage be converted into an apartment. The idea had been a hit, and within months the room had been turned into a fully functioning apartment. Eleanor had been thrilled. So had her parents.
Eleanor set her tray on a stand and served them.
Lindsay then stood and hugged Eleanor. ‘You look wonderful.’
Eleanor grinned broadly and hugged Lindsay back. ‘You look skinny.’
Lindsay laughed. Eleanor had no pretense and always said what was on her mind. The honesty was refreshing. ‘So everyone keeps telling me. I guess I’d better eat.’
Zack stood. There was softness in his gaze when he looked at his sister. He was a year younger than her, but he’d always been her protector. He’d once told Lindsay that Ellie was the reason he’d become a cop.
‘So what are you doing here this afternoon, Ellie? I figured you’d be helping Mom and Dad with the party.’
Eleanor made a face. ‘No way. Mom is driving us all crazy. She wants the party to be perfect. And Dad is mumbling a lot under his breath.’
Zack smiled. ‘What else is new?’
‘Nothing.’ Eleanor waved for Lindsay and Zack to sit. ‘Can I get you anything else?’
Lindsay smiled. ‘No, this is great.’
Zack nodded. ‘We’re good.’
Eleanor leaned close to Lindsay and said in a stage whisper, ‘Zack is real sorry about your big fight.’
Zack coughed. ‘Would you beat it, Ellie? Lindsay and I have business to discuss.’
‘Marriage business?’ Eleanor said, hopeful.
Heat rose in Lindsay’s face. She didn’t dare look at Zack, but she could feel his gaze on her. ‘Just business.’
‘Zack, you need to fix this marriage,’ Eleanor said.
Zack cleared his throat and glared at her. ‘Ellie.’
She matched his glare. ‘What?’
‘Butt out.’
She grinned. ‘No way, José.’
‘Ellie,’ he warned.
‘Okay, okay, I’m going. But I’m going to be listening at the door.’
When Eleanor vanished into the kitchen, Zack said, ‘She can be a little outspoken.’
Lindsay broke a breadstick in two. ‘I always liked that about her.’
He laughed. ‘I do too, most times.’
She took a bite of pasta. It tasted like heaven. She didn’
t realize how hungry she was. Before she knew it, she’d eaten half of the pasta on her plate.
Zack set down his fork. ‘Ellie’s right, you know.’
‘About what?’
‘Sooner or later, we’re going to have to settle this marriage business.’
Chapter Sixteen
Tuesday, July 8, 2:00 P.M.
These days it was the little things that reminded Nicole of how much she’d lost during her marriage and was only now regaining in increments. Walking through the park. Ordering an ice cream cone. Having money that she’d earned in her pocket.
She still felt shaky about life in general, but she was discovering how much she’d forgotten how good it felt to make decisions and to be independent.
She strolled down the Carytown district sidewalk. This was her favorite section of town. She loved the early nineteenth-century row houses that were painted bright colors and housed ethnic restaurants and curio shops as eclectic as their patrons.
Nicole moved past the smoothie store, the chocolate shop and into her favorite French bakery. She purchased a croissant and a café au lait and savored both before wandering back outside. Down here, she could almost pretend her life was normal.
Her gaze drifted to a familiar FOR RENT sign posted above a Pilates studio that was sandwiched between a jewelry store and a restaurant. Again, she imagined reopening her photography business.
Giving rein to impulse, she climbed the narrow steps of the building to the second floor. She followed a RENTERS INQUIRE HERE sign to a half-open green door. She knocked.
‘Come in!’
Nicole pushed open the door and found a tall woman dressed in a loose-fitting pants-and-shirt ensemble. She had long black hair and dark brown eyes that reminded Nicole of a cat.
‘Can I help you?’ the woman said.
‘I saw your FOR RENT sign.’
The woman smiled and extended her hand. ‘That’s wonderful. My name is Fiona Moore. I own the building.’
‘Nicole Piper.’ She shook Fiona’s hand, grateful she hadn’t stumbled with her new name.
‘Would you like to see the space?’
Her throat felt dry. It really was madness to entertain owning a business. ‘Yes.’
The woman grabbed keys from the desk drawer. ‘Follow me.’
Nervous, Nicole tightened her fingers around the strap of her bag. ‘Great.’
Fiona moved with the grace of a dancer as she walked down the hallway. She unlocked a door, pushed it open, and flipped on the lights. ‘So what kind of business do you have?’
‘I’d like to open a photography studio.’ Soft scents of lavender and fresh paint swirled as she stepped into the all-white room distinguished by high ceilings, chair molding, hardwood floors, and a bay window that overlooked Cary Street. The space was small but the southern exposure lighting was exquisite. Immediately, she imagined furnishing the room with simple pieces that she could use as props for her portraits. The place had so many possibilities.
‘The space is only about three hundred square feet,’ Fiona said. ‘But there is a kitchenette with a large sink that could be converted into a darkroom. That is, if you need a darkroom. So much photography is digital.’
Nicole strolled into the center of the room. She pictured cameras on tripods, lights, and backdrops. ‘I can take digital, but I prefer film. There’s a richness that comes through when I develop the photos individually.’
Fiona smiled. ‘You’re an artist.’
At one time art was all she was about. Now it was a luxury she couldn’t afford. These last two months she’d learned to be brutally practical and ruthless. ‘How much is the rent?’
‘Seven hundred plus utilities.’
Nicole tried not to wince. Once she could have afforded the price. ‘I’m just getting started and poverty is a fact of life right now.’
Fiona wasn’t put off by her honesty. ‘Do you have a portfolio?’
Nicole moved out of the room. No sense dreaming about what wasn’t to be now. ‘I’ve a collection of recent work I’ve done since I came to Richmond. All portrait work.’
‘I’m looking for a photographer to take pictures of me and the studio. Big marketing push for the studio in the fall. I’d love to see your work.’
Excitement rose inside her. ‘Sure.’
‘I can’t pay much.’ Smiling, Fiona locked the door behind them. ‘You’re not the only one on a tight budget.’
Nicole mentally leafed through her pictures. Already she’d taken several dozen portraits. What she had to show didn’t measure up to the caliber of her old stuff, but it was still good. ‘Might take me a couple of days. I could come by next Monday.’
Fiona brightened. ‘Ten?’
She thought about her work schedule. ‘I can make that.’
Fiona held out her hand. ‘See you on Monday at ten, Nicole Piper.’
A wide grin tugged at Nicole’s lips. ‘Great.’
The thought of freelance work filled her with hope for the future. She didn’t have the money to open a business now, but she’d taken the first step toward it.
Nicole hurried down the stairs but was so distracted she nearly bumped into a man. He had dark hair slicked back off his face and Rayban sunglasses.
For just a split second, she thought the stranger was her husband, Richard.
Heat from the sidewalk shot upward, and sweat began to trickle down her bare legs. ‘Excuse me.’ Her voice cracked.
The man nodded. ‘No problem.’ He kept walking.
She stared after him. He wasn’t Richard. Richard was 3,000 miles away. Yet, her heart hammered in her chest. She started walking, but her gait wasn’t as confident. The ease she’d felt just seconds ago had vanished.
She’d not seen Richard in nearly three months, but that didn’t mean she was safe. She knew her husband. He was out there looking for her, and if she wasn’t very, very careful he’d find her. She glanced back at the FOR RENT sign. What had she been thinking? A business was just too risky.
She opened the cell phone Lindsay had given her and turned it on. She usually kept the phone off because Richard had used her old cell to keep tabs on her.
Her hands trembling, she dialed the number of the woman who’d helped her escape Richard: Claire Carmichael. As the phone rang, she wasn’t sure what Claire could tell her. Maybe that Richard was still in San Francisco … that he’d forgotten about her.
Claire’s voice mail picked up. When the beep sounded, Nicole panicked and couldn’t speak. Lindsay had warned her about any contact with people from her old life. She closed the phone.
Let sleeping dogs lie.
Better to be safe.
For the millionth time, she wished Richard was dead.
San Francisco, 11:15 A.M. PST
Richard Braxton had chosen his home because of the stunning view of San Francisco Bay. The original house on the lot had been old, filled with ‘charm,’ according to the historical society, but it hadn’t suited his vision of the home he deserved. So he’d had the house razed. There’d been an outcry, protests, lawsuits even, but he’d maneuvered through it all.
The showpiece house he’d created, with its steel and sleek modern lines, didn’t suit the narrow-minded tastes of his neighbors, who preferred brick and boxwoods. But that didn’t concern him. Richard Braxton did what he wanted, when he wanted.
Richard understood his greatest skill was his ability to see the potential; to know when a house, a market, or a woman was worth his attention.
Potential had been the reason he’d been drawn to the lot and it had been the reason he’d been attracted to Christina, his wife. Christina was a beauty, a stunner, and he had known from the moment he’d first seen her in that rundown photography studio that he could make her into something special.
Training her had not been easy. She had a fierce and spirited nature, and it had taken so many lessons to mold her into the vision he’d had for her. In the last few months they’d been together, he’d begun to
believe that he had nearly succeeded. She no longer argued with him. She dressed perfectly in the tasteful Chanels and de la Rentas. She’d learned to be punctual, to keep her makeup perfect, and had tamed that thick mane of black hair.
Perfection had been in his grasp.
And then she’d vanished. That fool chauffer had let her slip away.
How long had she been planning to run from him?
The thought tormented him daily. He replayed every moment they’d shared those last couple of months. He thought about the books she’d read, the movies she’d seen, and the people she’d spoken to, looking for clues. He’d been insanely busy with work during that time and had been distracted. But he’d thought she’d been transformed and there was nothing to worry about.
For her to run, there had to be someone else. She had to have taken a lover.
A soft knock on his study door had him turning to find Vincent Malone standing at the threshold. Vincent wasn’t a tall man, but his wiry body was compacted muscle. His Italian double-breasted suit complemented his frame, and his ice blond hair, pulled back in a ponytail, accentuated vivid green eyes. He was Richard’s right-hand man. He knew all his dirty secrets. For the last two weeks, he’d done nothing but search for Christina.
‘Anything come of that lead Jimmy gave us?’ Richard said.
Vincent closed the study door behind him. ‘I’ve had men canvassing the area and showing her picture around. No one has seen her.’
Richard moved to his large mahogany desk that he’d had specially made in Spain. ‘So that’s it? She just vanished?’
Vincent smiled. Like Richard, he savored a good hunt. ‘Everyone leaves a trail, Mr Braxton. The trick is being able to find it.’
‘Has there been activity on a credit card or cell phone?’
‘No. There’s been no activity on her cards, phones, or Social Security number. And I’ve had computer experts check every chip in her computer. Nothing. I’ve still got men looking in every airport, bus and train station, and car rental place. But there’s been no sign of her.’
Anger was nearly driving him insane. Killing Jimmy had made him feel good for a while. But his well-being hadn’t lasted long. ‘So we’ve got shit.’