"When's the last time you spoke to him?" she asked.
"Probably two or three weeks ago. I meant to get back in touch, but I've been traveling."
She frowned as Damon jotted something down on the notepad and then pushed it over to her: Did he tell anyone about lake cabin?
"Did you mention the lake house to Peter?" she asked. "Because I don't know how anyone knew I would be there. The cabin was supposed to be a safe place." Her words reminded her that Vincent could have been the person who sent someone to kill her.
Damon sent her a warning look, obviously reading something on her face.
He wrote down on the paper: Relax. Don't give anything away.
"No, I didn't mention the cabin to Peter," Vincent replied. "On our first call on Wednesday night, he told me about Alan, and he asked me if I knew any of your friends or if you were in touch with Cassie. I told him that I didn't know who you spent time with and that Cassie was in London. He got in touch with me on Thursday to tell me about the shooting at the cabin and to ask me why I hadn't told him about it. I didn't actually think about the cabin when he first spoke to me. I haven't been there in a long time, and, to be honest, I was so shocked by the news about your father, everything else went out of my mind. I couldn't believe that Alan was dead. I'm very sorry, Sophie. I know how close the two of you were, and I cannot believe that someone killed him or that anyone is after you."
He sounded sincere, upset about her dad, worried about her. A week ago, she never would have doubted him; now, she just didn't know.
"Can you tell me why you're not talking to Peter?" Vincent asked.
"My dad left me a message telling me not to trust anyone."
"I don't understand. Did he say why or who?"
"Unfortunately, no. He sounded panicked, like he was in danger, and obviously he was. He didn't tell you why he was in financial trouble?"
"No, I'm sorry he didn't. I did ask. He just said it was trouble that had been building for a while. That's all he would say. Look, Sophie, we need to get you somewhere safe. I want you to come to Paris," Vincent continued. "Cassie and I will take care of you. I know your father would want me to do that."
"I'd only put you in danger."
"I can handle that."
"But Cassie can't. And I'm not sure I could get on a plane. My photo is everywhere. Everyone is looking for me."
"We could arrange for a private plane. I can make that happen. I have money and connections. Come to Paris. Let everything else cool down. We can figure out this problem together."
She hesitated, somewhat tempted to take him up on his offer, but it didn't really seem realistic.
Damon wrote down: Say maybe…play along.
"Possibly," she said, not sure why Damon wanted her to play along, but she would do what he asked. "I need to call you back. I can't stay in any one place for long."
"I can have a plane ready to go in two hours. Can you get to Teterboro, New Jersey?"
She licked her lips as Damon shook his head.
"No, not that fast," she said.
"How long would you need?"
Damon gave another warning shake of his head.
"I'm not sure. I have to go. Please don't say anything about this call to anyone."
"Of course not," Vincent said. "But I'm very worried about you trying to do this alone. If someone at the FBI is involved in your father's death, you're going to need help."
"I'll be all right."
"Sophie, wait," Cassie cut in. "Please don't say no to my dad's offer. I really want you to be safe, and I'm scared for you."
"I know you're scared; I am, too, but I have to do this my way. I'll be in touch. I just can't talk right now. Someone is coming." She hung up the phone before they could say anything more and let out a breath. "What do you think? Do you believe Vincent didn't rat me out about the cabin?"
"His answer was definitely plausible. He could have been shocked as he said about your father's death, and the cabin wasn't in his mind at that moment."
"But?" she asked, seeing doubt in Damon's eyes.
"FBI agents don't usually forget things like safe houses. At any rate, I didn't want you to give him any indication of where you were. Just saying how long it would take to get to Teterboro could have pinpointed our location."
"I'm sure he'd be stunned to know I'm in his house."
"We won't be for long. We need to move and get another phone."
"Again?"
"Vincent could easily have the FBI ping this number."
She pushed the phone across the table as if it were a snake about to bite. "I don't think he'll do that. He knows now that my dad warned me not to trust anyone. He'll be careful who he talks to. At least, he said he would."
"I hope that's true." Damon turned the phone off and removed the battery. "We'll toss this somewhere on the way to Brooklyn."
"Do you think I should have taken Vincent up on his offer to get out of the country?"
"I think you should keep it in mind. But not until we know for sure we can trust him."
She picked up the IDs from the table and returned them to the suitcase. As she was slipping them into the interior pocket, something shiny caught her eye. It was buried deep in the netting in the pocket where the IDs had been. "I found something."
"What is it?"
She freed the metal from the net and pulled out a key. "Where do you think this goes? Another storage unit?"
He looked at the key, then at her. "Maybe an apartment in Brooklyn?"
Her heart sped up. "Do you think so?"
"It's as good a bet as any. It was with the passports. Let's straighten up this place and then go."
She put the key into her pocket but left the IDs and the cash in the suitcase. Then she zipped it up while Damon started washing their dishes.
They spent the next several minutes making sure there was no evidence that they'd ever been in the house. She didn't have time to strip sheets or throw towels into the laundry, so she made the bed, trying hard not to think about the night she'd spent there with Damon, which wasn't an easy feat. But they were back to business, and the night seemed like a lifetime ago now.
After taking care of the bed, she straightened the towels they'd used in two of the bathrooms, wiped down the sinks and counters and then returned to the kitchen.
"Now we just have to hope your gadget will start Jamie's car," she told him, as they prepared to go out the back door.
Damon held up a car key. "We won't have to. I found this in the study."
"We're doing good on keys today. Our luck might be changing."
"That would be nice."
She followed him into the garage, and they stashed the suitcase in the trunk, and then got into Jamie's car. They used the garage opener that was still in the vehicle to exit and then closed the doors behind them as they pulled into the drive.
Within minutes, they were on their way back to New York City. It felt both strange and oddly reassuring to be in Jamie's car.
"I'm glad we're in this car," she said. "It makes me think Jamie is watching out for us."
"I hope so. We can use all the help we can get."
Eighteen
The drive from Greenwich, Connecticut to Brooklyn, New York took almost two hours with heavy traffic and dodging maneuvers on surface streets to throw off potential tails.
Damon felt confident that no one had picked them up anywhere on the way into Brooklyn, but now that they were getting closer, his senses were on hyper alert.
Sophie had chatted a bit on the first part of the ride, mostly about Cassie and Jamie and her relationship with the Rowlands. He could tell she was worried she'd made a mistake in contacting Cassie and Vincent, but he thought it had gone well.
Vincent had shared information regarding Alan's financial problems, which could explain why Alan had crossed a line—if that's what had happened. But why Alan had had money problems was another question. If he hadn't been willing to tell Vincent, one of his good friends
, maybe it was gambling or drugs or blackmail, something Alan would have been embarrassed to share.
He certainly didn't believe it was Sophie's schooling that had put Alan over the edge. It was bigger than that. But it didn't appear that too many people were actually that close to Alan. Even Sophie had admitted to seeing her father only a few times a month and knowing little about his private life.
That wasn't unusual. Sophie was an adult with a busy life of her own, and Alan probably wouldn't have spoken to his daughter about other women in his life, unless there was someone serious.
No woman had come forward in the wake of Alan's death, at least not immediately, not that first night. That might have changed by now. He'd been out of touch for a while. But Bree hadn't mentioned it, either, and he would have thought finding Alan's girlfriend, if there was one, to be noteworthy.
So, who was Alan Parker? It was clear he'd had secrets, he'd worn a mask, he'd shown people what he wanted them to see. He was afraid that Sophie's battle to save her father's reputation might be a futile one, but no words would convince her of that. She would take it to the end, because she had to know, and he had to know, too.
He understood why Alan might have felt the need to keep some things in his life private, to have a public persona that might be different from his private one. He was certainly guilty of that. He rarely let people into his life.
But he'd let Sophie in…all the way in…
He took a quick glance at her. She was looking out the window, tapping her fingers nervously on her legs. She was on edge, and she had every reason to be. He wished he could take her back to the place they'd been last night when passion and pleasure had dominated their thoughts, when problems and fears had vanished with a kiss.
When he was with her, he was a thousand percent with her. She took up all the space, all the oxygen in the room. She became everything—a rather terrifying thought.
He needed to stop thinking about the night. It was gone. And they were no longer hiding out in a safe place. He would need his wits about him to keep them both safe. Caring about Sophie too much in this situation could make them both vulnerable. He had to be objective, analytical, anticipatory…he couldn't let emotions cloud his judgment.
He needed to go back to thinking of Sophie as a job.
He just didn't quite know how he was going to make that happen.
Sophie shifted in her seat, then looked down at the phone where she had the list of directions. "We're getting close. A few more blocks now."
"Just let me know when to turn."
"It's a left on Kent Street. It's a mile from here."
"Got it. My realtor mentioned I should look at Brooklyn when I first moved here. She said it was the up-and-coming place to live, but I wanted to be closer to the office. Now I'm thinking I should have taken a look."
"It's definitely trending," Sophie said. "I have two friends who live around here. One is an artist but works at a museum in Manhattan for her day job. The other runs a dance studio. They both love it. They have a view of the Manhattan skyline and are close enough to get to work, but they also have more space, which is nice. My apartment is teeny tiny." She sighed. "I wonder if I'll ever see any of my friends again."
"I'm sure you will."
"I'm not sure at all."
He couldn't blame her for her doubts. Her life now was as far from her previous one as it could possibly get. Would she return to her normal life? That would depend on who was after them and how powerful they were. One thing he knew for sure—taking out the two shooters at the New Haven storage center was not going to be the end of it.
Someone else would be coming after them; They had to be ready.
"Next one is Kent," she said.
He took the turn and drove past several spectacular wall murals, which added to the eclectic and artistic feel of the neighborhood.
"Turn left at Hickerson, and we're there," Sophie said.
"Got it." He found the address they were looking for and drove past the building and around the block, wanting to get a lay of the land before parking. He doubted anyone would be looking for Jamie's car, but he couldn't be too careful. He ended up in a spot about fifty yards away from the building and across the street. "Maybe I should check it out first."
"No way. I don't like waiting in the car. I think we need to stick together."
"We don't know if someone lives in that apartment."
"If the key fits, then I'm guessing no one does. And I've got the key."
He smiled at her proud expression, thinking back to the first time they'd seen each other at the cabin—when she'd held a gun to his head. "You still don't think I can take things from you, do you?"
"I don't think it will come to that. I really don't want to stay here alone, Damon. I got freaked out yesterday when you went into the store to get the phone."
He could understand that, and he couldn't deny that he preferred keeping her close. "Then let's go."
As they got out of the car, he grabbed the suitcase, and they walked quickly down the block. The street was filled with modest apartment buildings, most of which appeared to be well-kept. There were probably better parts of town, but also areas that were far worse. It was the kind of neighborhood where anyone could blend in, and he suspected that Alan had picked it for that reason.
There was no security on the front door to the building, and there appeared to be four units inside: two on the first floor, two on the second.
"Now what?" Sophie asked. "How are we going to know which apartment it is?"
He perused the names on the mailbox. "What's the name on the passport?"
"One of them was Framingham, the name we used at the lake house, and the other was Bennett."
"I've got a Bennett in Unit #3. I'd say that’s us." He led the way upstairs, stopping at the first apartment door. He put the suitcase down, then took the key from her hand and pulled his gun out. "Stay behind me," he told her. Then he inserted the key into the lock and turned the handle.
The door swung open. He raised his gun and took a step inside, glancing in every direction, then moving farther into the room. "Hello, anyone here?" he called out.
The only answer was silence, and it didn't feel like anyone was there. It was quiet, and the place smelled musty, as if no one had opened a window or a door in a while. The living room had a couch, a chair, and a television. There was a round wooden table by a narrow kitchen galley. He moved into the bedroom and saw a queen-sized bed that was unmade and an adjoining bathroom. He checked both rooms. There was no one there, but he did notice male shirts and slacks hanging in the closet.
"Those could belong to my dad," Sophie said. "The maroon shirt looks familiar." Her gaze moved from the closet to the bed. "Why would my father sleep here? He has a lovely townhouse in Chelsea. It has two bedrooms, and it's much nicer than this."
He tucked his gun back under his shirt. "Maybe he was here late at night, or hiding out when things started heating up."
"Heating up?" she asked in bemusement. "Only a week ago, he called me and asked me to come to his house and watch a ballgame with him this weekend. It sure didn't sound like he was on the run or in hiding."
"Then things changed fast."
He strode over to the dresser and pulled out the drawers. Underwear and T-shirts were in one drawer; the rest were empty. He shoved the last one closed and then stepped back to look around the room. His gut told him that there was something in this apartment, something beyond clothes…There was a window seat by the window. He strode across the room and pulled off the cushion, which had been attached with Velcro straps to the wooden bench. There was a large horizontal cut-out in the wood and a gold latch. He pulled the latch up and found himself staring at a safe with a coded lock.
"A safe?" Sophie said in amazement.
"We need to get inside. Do you know any of your father's PINs? It looks like a four-number lock."
She frowned as she mulled over his question. "He used my mom's birthday sometimes—
1012."
He tried that. It didn't work. "What else would he use?"
"I don't know."
"What about his anniversary, date of graduation, an old address, a memorable holiday?" he asked.
She stared back at him. "My bike lock was 1492 to rhyme with when Columbus sailed the ocean blue, a question I missed on my history test."
He punched in 1492 and the lock clicked. He opened the safe and found himself staring down at a box of papers, folders, photos…
His pulse leapt. He pulled out several loose photos lying on the top and put them on the bench.
"Oh my God," Sophie muttered, as she picked up the first photo. "This is me. I'm—I'm leaving my office building at NYU."
He glanced at the other photos, all shots of Sophie going about her daily life, at work, at home, out with friends. Anger ran through him as he thought about someone following her, watching her.
"I don't understand," she said in confusion. "Why was my dad taking photos of me?"
"Your dad wasn't taking pictures. Someone else was," he said grimly. He turned one of the pictures over and saw the words scrawled on the back: Any time we want. His stomach turned over.
"What does that say?" she asked.
He really didn't want to tell her, but she had a right to know. He handed her the photo. "Someone wanted to let your father know they could get to you—they knew where you lived, where you worked, where you spent your time."
Her face turned white. "Why didn't my dad tell me? Why wouldn't he warn me to be careful? Why didn't he go to the police if he couldn't trust the FBI?"
Sophie's voice rose with each word, and he saw the hysteria building in her gaze. He stood up, grabbed the picture out of her hand and tossed it back on the bench. Then he took her hands in his.
"Look at me, Sophie."
Her wild gaze couldn't seem to find a place to settle, but finally it swung back to him.
"We don't know everything yet," he said forcefully. "You can't jump ahead. We have to take this one step at a time."
"Every step I take makes me more afraid. How can I keep going? God! What else are we going to find?"
Perilous Trust Page 20