by Ryan, Jenna
She slid out, tossed him the keys. “I’ve seen worse. It’s all down to perception. This place has a holding area for shopping carts. A lot of street people like that.” Dropping her sunglasses in place, she smiled. “You coming or staying?”
“How is she with ex-cops?”
“Don’t know. Maybe we should have brought your friend Comet along as a buffer.” She stepped over garbage spilling from a split bag, waved at the swarm of flies buzzing around it. “Stop looking at me, Marlowe. She wanted to come here.”
Marlowe reached around her to push open the front door.
The potbellied man at the desk didn’t look up from his magazine. “You got a warrant?” he growled.
Darcy smiled. “Is that a prerequisite for all visitors?”
He raised his eyes, ran them over her twice, then asked, “Who do you want?”
“Matilda.”
“Seventeen’s her room, but it won’t do you no good to go there. She’s down in the hole with her cart.”
“The hole?” Darcy repeated.
“Keep walking, hang a right outside. You’ll see it.”
All this, Darcy reflected, to talk to a woman who probably couldn’t tell them anything more than they already knew.
She led the way down the corridor, then on through a trash-strewn alley to what had probably been an underground parking lot. A cloud scudded across the sun, and a gust of wind blew several used food wrappers into a miniature funnel at the entrance.
“Matilda?” she called into the shadows.
No one answered.
“Matilda?” she tried again. “It’s Darcy Nolan. We talked on Sunday.”
Still nothing. And no sound except for distant traffic noise, flies and a few muffled shouts.
“I’m not going to hurt you.” She squinted into the dark. “I just want to talk to you about the man who grabbed your cart. He—” She broke off when her foot caught on something and nearly sent her sprawling.
Marlowe’s hands on her waist prevented the fall.
Rebalancing, she pushed the hair from her cheeks. “Note to self. Always carry a flashlight.”
“Or wear flat shoes.”
“You’re such a man.” A cloud rolled in, accompanied by a low peal of thunder over the river. The garage suddenly turned eerie. “Matilda? The desk clerk told us you were here.” Darcy glanced down as her foot hit something again. She stopped, bent low, crept forward. “Uh, Marlowe?”
He swore under his breath. “Don’t touch her.”
Darcy’s heart pounded as an outline took shape on the concrete. The outline of an old woman lying in a puddle of blood.
Chapter Six
Darcy pressed her fingers to the pulse in Matilda’s neck. “She’s alive.”
“Call it in.” Marlowe made a circle of the area. It read more like a grotto than a parking lot. The light that had trickled in earlier was now being obliterated by clouds.
They hadn’t heard a shot, but they had heard raised voices. Had they interrupted something?
He thought he spied a movement far ahead, was sure of it when he heard the slap of rubber soles on concrete.
“Can you handle this?” he asked Darcy.
She nodded, kept talking to the 911 operator.
He took off toward the rear exit. The guy had a fifty-yard head start, and he’d have memorized the escape routes.
For the second time in three days, all Marlowe had was sound to guide him. A door opened, and for a split second, the runner was visible. He shot through the opening and appeared to turn right.
By the time Marlowe got there, the guy was gone. But going right took him down a filthy alley to a street that ran parallel to the shelter.
He spotted him a block farther on. Darting into traffic, the man used his baseball cap to flag down a cabbie who had to slam on his brakes to avoid hitting him.
“Not safe yet, pal.” Marlowe cut through a side alley to the cross street.
The cab was just turning the corner when Marlowe emerged. The vehicle was moving away from him, but he got close enough to note both vehicle and plate numbers.
Winded and thoroughly pissed off, he pulled up, grabbed his cell and dialed.
“Detective Reade.”
“Seventh House Street Shelter,” Marlowe told him. “Witness is down. Shooter escaped in a yellow cab.” He repeated the vehicle and plate.
“Got it. I’m en route. Did you recognize the shooter? Was it the guy from the park?”
“Yeah, it was him.” Marlowe gave the wall of a derelict apartment building a frustrated whack. “Round up the cabdriver. He’ll confirm the description.”
“This one’s getting ugly,” Val said. “Whoever’s after Darcy doesn’t give a damn about human life. Is Maco that ruthless?”
Marlowe started to jog back. “Yeah, he’s that ruthless. He’s also been in and out of the hospital a dozen times over the past few months.”
“We got that same information, but it’s a slippery slope where doctors are involved. You think he’s terminal?”
“Could be.”
“Bet you also think this has gotten way too personal.”
Marlowe pushed through a door that was suspended by a single rusty hinge. “I’m not going there, Val.”
“Understood, and I’ll back off, but you have to see this isn’t the same as Lisa. Darcy’s more than capable—”
Swearing, Marlowe cut the connection, jogged through the shadows toward the flashing lights of the ambulance.
The sirens were off, but he could still hear them in his head—the combined wail of police, fire and ambulance vehicles as they’d converged on the tarmac. Music played in the background. Children squealed. Machinery clanked.
He blocked it, picked Darcy out of the crowd and focused. If he slammed his injured arm into a concrete column with enough force, he could use the immediate pain to offset the deeper one.
But what, he wondered as his sights narrowed from ten people down to one, could he use to offset Darcy?
MATILDA WAS GOING TO live. The bullet hadn’t hit any major organs. She’d lost a lot of blood, but that just made subduing her easier for the hospital staff.
Although it was dark when Darcy got home, she spotted Mrs. Brewster’s nephew sitting on her landlady’s stoop. He had an iPod in one hand, a sandwich in the other and a canvas pack plopped at his feet. He had charcoal smudges on his face.
She smiled and walked toward him. “You’ve either been sketching or sweeping a chimney.”
He grinned. “I set up in the park today. But I don’t think Aunt Hannah appreciates my abstract art. She said I should consider a different style of painting, and I can start with her houses. Specifically with your house. I’m supposed to walk around it and examine the trim. I said I’d do it after dinner because she said you were working tonight.” He nodded at her hedge. “I cut the tops down another six inches this afternoon. Now everyone can see your front door.”
“Yes, I noticed that. Thank you.”
A black vehicle pulled in behind hers. “That’ll be Marlowe. Do you want to come inside? I can give you something to wash that sandwich down.”
“No, I’m good. But thanks.” Cristian stopped. “I almost forgot. I saw a light on in your house when I got home. It went out, but with all the trouble, I figured you should know. Uh, hi,” he said to Marlowe, who was pocketing his keys.
Marlowe held his hands out to the sides as the younger man disappeared into the boardinghouse. “Was it something I said?”
Darcy piled her laptop, camera and three large research books in his arms. “He’s just shy. You probably make him feel young and awkward.”
“He’s older than you are, Darcy.” Ignoring her glare, Marlowe nudged her along the path. “Yes, I checked him out.”
“You investigated Mrs. Brewster’s nephew?”
“He just happened to show up on her doorstep the day before you got back from Central America.”
“Which naturally makes him a hit man
.” She shook her head. “Cristian doesn’t look anything like the man in the Yankees cap. That guy is or was a boxer. I saw a nose that had been broken several times and a major cauliflower ear. Cauliflower,” she repeated. “Not dog-bitten.”
“Would you rather be cautious or dead?”
She disengaged the alarm. Marlowe had a point. Not that she’d admit it. Instead, she changed the subject. “I went through the names Val gave me this afternoon. I didn’t recognize any of them.”
With his free hand, Marlowe helped her push on the stuck door. “That’s the client list Lugo’s paralegal gave him. My guess is there’ll be some different names in Lugo’s laptop.”
“Clients who paid him under the table?”
“It’s been done before.”
“I know.” She paused with her finger on the light switch, shook off a twinge of nerves.
“Something?” Marlowe asked.
“The seeds of paranoia, if I’m not careful.” She rescued her laptop and camera before they hit the floor. “Cristian thought he saw a light on over here when he got home. I don’t know when that was or where he saw it…” She sighed when he pulled out his gun from the back of his jeans. “And you’re going to look, aren’t you?”
He arched a brow at the staircase. “Bedrooms?”
“Is that a question or a suggestion?”
The gleam in his eyes heated more than her skin. “Both, but in that order.”
“Marlowe, the alarm was on when we came in. Would an intruder have thought to rearm it?”
“If the plan was to blindside you, yes.”
He was going to go through every room, so she might as well accept it. And truthfully, she’d feel better knowing the house was empty.
It took him twenty minutes to inspect all the corners, closets and cubbyholes. In the basement, Darcy rested a shoulder on the wall and watched the cobwebs flutter.
“Have you ever owned a home before?” she asked when he reappeared.
“No.” With one last sweep of the shadows, he shoved the gun under his shirt. “Why?”
“Curiosity, mostly. You’re an enigma to me, Marlowe. I’m piecing your character together.”
“You’ll find you’re missing a few pieces.”
“I’m sure I’ll find lots of things. So far, I can see you’ve got baggage. Easy read there. You were a good cop. Also easy. You don’t want to care about people, but you do, which annoys you because you think not caring should be easy. Why, I’m not sure. Some sort of trauma or bad experience, I assume.”
She started up the stairs, aware that she was pushing more than she should. But she wanted to understand him.
She turned at the top. “I can hear your teeth grinding from here. You’re thinking that who you are is none of my business, that if you wanted me to know you’d tell me. My rebuttal is, if I wanted to know and didn’t care enough to tell you to your face, I could ferret out the details on my own. I’m an investigative journalist. Ferreting’s what I do, and details are my specialty. Ask Frankie Maco.”
Because she wanted to gauge his reaction before she crossed too many lines, she walked backward as she spoke.
He kept his eyes on hers and his expression even. Old houses had shadows, and he used the ones in hers to maximum advantage. He didn’t speak until she’d backed herself quite literally into a corner of her kitchen.
A faint smile tugged on his lips. “You talk a good game, Darcy, but I know when I’m being prodded.”
She smiled. “And here I thought I was being subtle.”
“Did you?”
She couldn’t have dragged her eyes from his if she wanted to. Couldn’t have stopped him from trapping her in the corner, with his hands braced on either side of her head and his lower body pressed into hers.
Good thing she didn’t want to stop any part of this.
He inclined his head slowly, still holding her gaze. He had the most incredible aura about him, something that went deeper than his looks.
Desire balled in Darcy’s stomach, hunger clawed through it. Heat flowed over her skin. All that from a mere touch. Imagine what sex would be like.
When he still didn’t kiss her, she ran a light finger across his chin. “You’re fighting yourself way too much, Marlowe. It’s a kiss, not a lifetime commitment.”
She felt his breath on her lips and considered taking the first bite. She would have if she hadn’t sensed something stronger than hesitation. “You know, you’re not exactly feeding my ego.”
To her surprise, he wrapped his fingers around her nape, gave her a quick kiss and murmured, “There’s someone here.”
Tuning in, she listened. A silent moment later, she shook her head. “What did you hear?”
“Something upstairs.”
“Old houses—” A protracted creak halted her.
“Rear staircase?” Marlowe drew his gun.
She indicated a closed door. “The hinges need oiling, and the fifth and the tenth steps squeak.” When he started toward it, she snagged his T-shirt. “I’m coming with you.”
He regarded her for a moment, but stood aside and let her ease the door open.
The stairs were steep and narrow. They emerged at the end of the second-floor hallway, less than five feet from her bedroom.
Was the shooter inside with a gun aimed at the door?
Taking her by the shoulders, Marlowe set her against the wall. “Stay there.”
Returning his attention to the door, he sized up the wood, gave the knob a twist and the edge a hard kick.
Darcy expected something—bullets or a body—to fly out of the darkness. What she got was another creak, this one from inside the closet.
She regarded the second door. “Okay, that’s weird.”
“Window’s open.”
“Yes, I see that.” She set a hand on the knob.
“One quick yank,” he told her.
She counted down from three. Pulled. Waited. Then watched in baffled silence as Marlowe slowly lowered his arms.
Unsure, she peered around the edge.
And for the second time that day found herself looking at a woman’s body on the floor.
“MRS. B?”
The woman inside had her legs drawn up and her arms wrapped tightly around her knees. She offered them a wide smile. “Hello, dear.”
It was one of those rare occasions when Marlowe had to work at hiding his amusement.
Darcy simply stared. “You’re in my closet.”
Hannah’s smile faltered. “Yes, I am.”
“Why?”
The older woman extended a hand to Marlowe. “Can you help me? Thank you.” Regaining her feet, she smoothed her muumuu. “The thing is, Darcy dear, I thought you were a burglar.”
“A burglar.”
“We’ve had break-ins in the neighborhood. Not recently, but at Christmastime. You might have been in Bermuda about then. Oh, I’ve always wanted to go—”
“What are you doing here, Hannah?” Marlowe interrupted.
She set a hand on her collarbone. “Well, I was—I came to water Darcy’s plants, of course.”
“My plants,” Darcy repeated. “But I’m not out of town.”
“Not now, no. I just thought it would help if I kept doing what I’d been doing while you were in Central America.”
“That’s, uh, very nice of you.”
“You see, I thought you were working tonight. That’s why I came when I did. Everything was fine until I heard noises downstairs. Well, I couldn’t know it was you, so naturally, I hid.”
Marlowe set a shoulder on the wall. “We searched the closets, Hannah. You weren’t in this one when we came up the first time.”
“No, I wasn’t. I was—” she started to gesture, but withdrew her hand “—somewhere else.”
“We went through the whole house when we got back,” Darcy said. “Attic to cellar.”
A long breath rushed out. “It’s an old house, dear. There’s a room, a small one, between the master here
and the stairwell.”
“You mean a hidden room, with, like, a secret panel?”
Darcy sounded delighted, Marlowe not so much. “Where is it?” He steered Hannah toward the door. “Show me.”
“It’s not large,” she insisted. “No more than five feet by four, and heaven knows, I have no idea what it was used for.” In the corridor, she ran her fingers along the chair rail before pressing upward on the wood. A thin section separated to reveal a space with nothing in it except dust.
“I waited until I thought you—or rather the burglar—was gone, then I came out. I was trying to leave when I realized there was still someone here. I didn’t know what to do, so I waited. When you started coming up the stairs, I ran into Darcy’s closet.”
“Well, there.” Darcy brought her hands together, looked from Marlowe to Hannah. “Mystery solved. You were doing a good deed, and it turned into a comedy of errors.”
“Exactly.” Hannah seemed relieved. “I’m so glad you understand. Oh, but it must be late. Eddie will be wondering where I am. He sometimes ventures out of his cave during the seventh-inning stretch.” She headed down the hall with a backward wave. “I’ll let myself out. You carry on as if none of this happened. And have no fear, your plants will never die of thirst while I’m around.”
Darcy watched her go with more tolerance than Marlowe. He gave her an appraising look as she disappeared down the main staircase.
“Any of that story work for you?” he asked.
“Well, she does water my plants when I’m away. And she owns the house, so she has a key. There are a couple things, though.”
“Like the open window?”
“For one. I never leave windows open when I’m not home.”
Taking his hand, she drew him back into her bedroom with its muslin curtains, its large sleigh bed and even larger oak armoire.
In the middle of the floor, she executed a full circle. “Look around, Marlowe. Do you see plants in here? Clocks yes, plants no. In fact, you won’t find a plant anywhere upstairs. I put them in the solarium when I went to Paris last April, and never brought them back up.”
“Does Hannah know that?”
“Pretty sure she does. I’ve gone away about six times since then. And that’s not the only riddle.” Turning him ninety degrees as she passed, Darcy walked to the open closet. “I have a lot of accessories—shoes, belts, hats, purses—and I keep most of them in here. But this is something I’ve never owned.” Bending to scoop an object off the floor, she draped it over her hand. “I believe,” she said serenely, “this is called a garrote.”