by Lori Wilde
Shoes represented walking and walking meant freedom and freedom meant escape. She stayed in motion in order to suppress her guilt and regret over her actions.
She thought of all the men she’d dated. The men she’d wounded. She’d never meant to hurt any of them. She’d never even really been aware that she was causing them pain. She’d just been going merrily about her life, never recognizing that she’d actually been motivated by fear and anxiety.
Hiding beneath the cover of the next good time. While all along she’d been blindly, impulsively pursuing fun, without once considering the cost of her impulses.
Now Sam had turned the tables on her.
And it really hurt on the other side.
For the first time ever her “eat, drink and be merry” philosophy felt more like “play now pay later.” She’d had her fun, the piper wanted his due.
She got off at her subway stop and trudged up Canal Street. Sadly, she thought of her Manolo Blahniks lost somewhere in the Catskills. First her shoes, now her man. It was turning out to be a crappy week for holding on to things. She should have checked her horoscope.
“Evenin’ Cass,” said the cheerful woman who mopped the floors in her building.
Cass forced a smile. “How are you, Sue?”
The older woman’s eyes twinkled. Sue was a single mom, who took community college classes in the morning and cleaned in the evenings to make ends meet. “Good, very good actually. I finished my last computer class and I’ve got a job interview next Monday.”
“That’s wonderful news.” Cass brightened.
“I can’t thank you enough for encouraging me to go back to school.” Sue looked directly at her. “Your support has meant a lot to me and while it’s been tough at times, the effort has been worth it.”
Cass blushed, embarrassed. “It was all you, Sue. I don’t deserve any credit.”
“There were days when your belief in me was the only thing keeping me in school. And thanks for telling me about Suited for You. I would never have been able to afford nice interview clothes on my own.”
“You’re welcome. I’m glad they could help.”
Sue leaned on her mop and peered at her. “Are you okay? You don’t seem your usual self.”
“Rough day at work,” she mumbled.
“I’m sorry to hear that. Anything I can do to cheer you up?”
“Just hearing about your job interview has already lifted my spirits. I know you’re going to ace it.”
“That’s so kind of you.”
She gave Sue a quick hug, and then trudged upstairs to her apartment, trying her best to think happy thoughts but failing miserably. While she was happy for Sue, she couldn’t forget what she’d almost had with Sam.
Key in the lock. Almost inside her sanctuary. Home. Where she could collapse on her bed and let herself cry if that’s what she wanted.
Except when she pushed open the door, she found chaos instead of comfort.
Cass gasped and looked around.
Her cozy little home had been trashed. Kitchen chairs overturned. Glass broken in the sink. Refrigerator left hanging open, condiments spilling out onto the laminate flooring.
Wearily, she kicked the door closed with her foot, dropped her purse and sank to the ground.
Well, hell. This just iced it.
SAM SAT ON A STOOL in the evidence lab. His shift was finished but he couldn’t let go. The only fingerprints the lab tech had found on either the jewels or the inside of the envelope belonged to Cass. She couldn’t have looked guiltier if she were walking around with a giant red downward-pointing arrow above her head.
Therein lay the problem.
It was all too handy. Too tidy. Too neatly tied up.
If Cass had stolen the jewels, then why send them to herself? And then call him to report it?
It made no sense.
And the main thing he couldn’t reconcile was how she was able to rob Stanhope’s. The auction house boasted state-of-the-art surveillance equipment and his research into Cass’s background told him she possessed no skills in circumventing complex security systems.
He could buy her as the Blueblood Burglar. She’s at a party, goes up to use the ladies’ room, detours by the hostess’s bedroom, steals a necklace or a toe ring or ankle bracelet from the jewelry box on the dresser. No one’s the wiser until the party’s over.
Sam had never believed that the two cases were related, but now his leading suspect in the Blueblood Burglaries had received jewels from the Stanhope caper. Mailed to her from an anonymous source. Much too coincidental.
Unless someone was trying to frame her.
But who?
And why?
He kneaded his temples with his fingers. He was so tired, he couldn’t think straight but he wasn’t willing to give up. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t shake the overwhelming feeling that he was missing something significant.
One by one, he picked up the pieces with his gloved hands, examining each under the light again and then matching them to the descriptive list of jewels stolen from the Zander collection. Every item was here and accounted for except for the White Star.
Why was it not with the rest of the gems? Where was the White Star? And maybe, most importantly, what was the amulet worth to the right person?
Sam held the antique onyx brooch under the high-powered lamp and for the first time noticed something dark on the sharp end of the stick pin.
Frowning, he narrowed his eyes.
Was that blood?
Excitement surged through him. By damn, it sure as hell looked like blood.
Don’t get too fired up, he cautioned himself. The brooch was old. The blood could belong to Zoey Zander.
Still, it was the first good lead that didn’t automatically point to Cass as the culprit.
“Hey, Joey,” he called to the lab tech. “Have you tested for trace evidence on these items from the Stanhope robbery yet?”
“No, I’ve been swamped, but they’re next on my list. So far, they’ve only been dusted for prints.”
“Could you look at this a minute?”
The technician pried himself from the project he was working on and ambled over. “Find something?”
“This look like blood to you?”
Joey bent over to peer at the broach under the high-powered lighted magnifying glass. “Affirmative.”
“Think it’s enough for a DNA sample?”
Joey smiled. “Does the Pope…”
“Wear a funny hat? Yes, he does. Can you put a rush on it?”
Joey looked back at the project he’d just abandoned. “Working on a double homicide, here Sam. You’re gonna have to wait.”
“Do what you can, will ya? I need it sooner rather than later.”
“I’ll do my best.”
“Thanks.” Sam stood up and reached for his jacket. Finding the blood on the brooch had given him a second wind.
“Hey, bloodhound.” One of the rookies stuck his head into the lab.
“Yeah?”
“Your uptown hottie just called. She says someone broke in to her apartment.”
“What?”
The rookie repeated himself, but it had been a rhetorical question.
Sam was already out the door.
13
IT TOOK SAM nearly half an hour to get to Cass’s place. Traffic jammed the streets and he finally abandoned the patrol car he’d jumped in outside the precinct. He jogged the last few blocks, praying she was all right, that she hadn’t surprised the thief in the process of robbing her apartment.
A hundred thousand horrible images flashed into his mind. He tried to erase them, tried to tell himself everything was okay. But he was a cop and he knew too much to convince himself she was okay until he saw with his own eyes that she was unharmed.
He flashed his badge to the doorman, took the stairs two at a time to get to her apartment. Panting hard, he banged on her door. “Cass, it’s me, Sam. Open up.”
Sh
e pulled open the door, peeked nervously out at him. “I didn’t know they were going to send you. I figured you’d already left for the day.”
He was so glad to see her, to find out that she was all right, that it was all Sam could do not to cover her face in kisses in a total meltdown.
Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail and her face was scrubbed free of cosmetics. She wore sweatpants, an old Yankees T-shirt—which made him smile in memory of their Mets versus Yankees conversation in the Catskills—worn thin from so many washings and a pair of dark green slouch socks. In one hand she held a broom and dustpan.
The girl next door.
This whole other side of her, unexpected and delightful, escalated his emotional turmoil. The cop arm-wrestling with the man. A rational mind brawling with a lover’s heart.
“The Cinderella chic is working for you.” He struggled to sound light and hide his inner conflict. “May I come in?”
“Sorry to look like such a mess.” She glanced down at her attire. “After having my space violated I just had to take a long hot shower and slip into my favorite lazy clothes so I could feel more like me.”
More like me. The words were resonant with meaning. Was Princess Glam, at heart, really just an ordinary woman?
“I like it,” he said gruffly.
“Come on in.” She stood aside, didn’t look at him directly, as if she was afraid to make eye contact.
I’m afraid too, he wanted to say, but he couldn’t find a way to say it.
Sam looked around. The place had been tossed, but not by professionals. It looked more like someone venting their rage. His nose twitched. Underneath the pungent cleaner she was using he caught the scent of a damp, earthy, woodsy smell that seemed familiar but he couldn’t identify amid the stronger chemicals.
“You shouldn’t have started cleaning up,” he said, the cop in him winning out for the moment.
“Oh.” She blinked. “I didn’t think about disturbing the evidence. Honestly, I wasn’t sure the NYPD would even be interested in my little break-in.”
“Anything missing?”
“I don’t think so. I looked all through my things and I couldn’t find anything missing. A lot of stuff is smashed up, though. I checked my roommate Elle’s room and whoever did this didn’t touch her stuff, so apparently it was personal.” She was talking excessively. Sam understood why.
“You’re certain nothing is missing?”
“Pretty sure, but I’ll double-check.”
He followed her to her tiny bedroom, stood in the doorway, watching while she went through the room again, opening drawers, searching closets. The intruder had strewn her clothes all around. A pair of scarlet thong panties hung from the mirror, a purple bra was draped over a lampshade. Her shoes had been dumped in a heap in the middle of the floor. Books pulled from shelves. Papers scattered.
Cass spotted something on the floor, paused and snatched it up. It was a school yearbook. A loose photograph fluttered out and landed at Sam’s feet.
He bent to pick it up. It was a picture of Cass when she was fifteen or sixteen with another young girl. They were the same height, both thin and vibrant but where Cass was blond, the other girl was a brunette. They had their arms slung around each other and were posing in front of a bright red Mustang convertible.
Sam flipped the picture over. On the back, in the loopy scrawl of a teenage girl were written the words: Nikki and Cass, friends forever.
“Nikki?”
“Old friend.” Cass leapt across the room, snatched the photograph from his hand, stuffed it back between the pages of her yearbook. She kept her head down and she was breathing hard.
What in the hell was that all about?
Sam wouldn’t push. The photograph wasn’t related to the break-in. It was none of his business. She was entitled to her secrets.
They stood on opposite sides of her chaotic bedroom, her plump sleigh bed sandwiched between them. He studied her, intrigued.
It was the wrong time, the wrong place, the wrong everything, but her beauty was luring him in, pulling him down. He knew better, and yet he could not resist looking at her. With her Wedgwood-blue eyes, full pink lips and leggy figure, she fluoresced.
Cass plopped down on the edge of her bed and drew a pillow to her chest. “Everything is such a mess, I honestly can’t say for certain whether anything is missing or not.”
“I noticed the lock on your front door didn’t appear to have been forced.”
“No.”
“Do you ever leave your windows open?”
“In the heat of the summer sometimes, but I haven’t opened them this year.”
Sam walked to the window, almost brushing her knees as he went past. She shrank back from touching him and that just made him feel bad. Was her reaction from the shock of having her apartment upended or was it more personal? Was she that disturbed by the thought of their legs coming into contact?
Shaking off his thoughts, he peered out the window at the fire escape below and started to get queasy just looking down four floors. The window was latched from the inside. If the intruder had come in through here, he had locked the window behind him and left through the front door.
Unless Cass had locked the window.
Unless she’d ransacked her own place and made the whole thing up.
Sam shifted uncomfortably, not wanting to believe that. “Does anyone have a key to your place?”
Her face was mobile in its responsiveness, her smooth forehead corrugating in a frown when she was deep in thought, her lips tightening, her head bobbing up and down to register her agreement. “My parents, my sister, Morgan, and my roommate, Elle.”
“Could your roommate have come back from her tour early?”
Cass shook her head. “I just spoke to Elle last night. She’s in Vancouver.”
“Did she give out a key to anyone?”
“I don’t know. But her room wasn’t plundered. Just mine and the rest of the apartment.”
“How about your sister? Do you two get along?”
“Morgan would never trash my place. She’s six years older and always acted like a second mother. Besides, she lives in Connecticut. I can’t see her popping up here on the train, trashing my apartment and zipping off again.”
“Anybody you know could have gotten hold of your key? Family, friends, acquaintances? Who’s been in your place recently?”
“Basically you’re saying I should suspect everyone.”
“Yeah.”
Unless of course this was all staged for your benefit, his cop voice pointed out.
“That’s what your life is like, isn’t it? The way your mind thinks. You always have to assume the worst about people.”
Sam grimaced. She was right. He did have to assume the worst about everyone. Including her.
“Oh, this just sucks.” Her shoulders trembled and Sam feared she was going to start crying. She looked so vulnerable, so incredibly fragile that he couldn’t resist comforting her. Plunking down beside her on the bed, he drew her gently into the crook of his arm.
She leaned her head against his shoulder and dammit, he was lost. Sam didn’t care where the evidence pointed. She could not be a thief. He felt it in his gut, in his heart, in his soul. She was not playing. Her emotions were real. He could feel every one of them in each shuddering breath she took.
“It’s okay.” He patted her head. “You’ve been through a lot. You can cry if you want to.”
And cry she did, burying her face against him and sobbing her heart out.
Her despair twisted him all up inside. He was used to seeing her upbeat, flirtatious.
“Come on, sweetheart. It’s all right.”
“I’ve had a very crappy week,” she said.
“It’s only Wednesday.”
“Still.”
“I thought the weekend was pretty damned great. Well, except for the falling out of the tree part.”
She pulled away. “That’s not how you acted when I cam
e to see you.”
“I’m sorry about that.”
“Why did you break things off with me?”
He told her part of the truth if not all of it. “You’re out of my league, Cass Richards. I knew I couldn’t keep a woman like you interested for long. I guess I figured break it off with you before you could break it off with me.”
“Oh, Sam.” She reached up to stroke his cheek with her fingertip.
“Be honest, Cass. You’ve admitted you’re not into commitment and I like you too much to get in any deeper, knowing that our affair could never lead to anything serious.”
“Never say never,” she murmured. “Or that’s what my mother keeps telling me.”
“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he vowed. “Please forgive me if I did. It was self-preservation.”
She canted her head. “You’re not like most cops.”
“No?”
“You’re not cynical or hard-boiled.”
“What am I?”
“Pragmatic.”
“That’s not very flattering.”
“It’s a compliment. I wish that I could be more sensible. Maybe I wouldn’t end up on window ledges or climbing trees for amulets. I have this terrible habit of looking before I leap.”
“Except when it comes to intimacy,” Sam said.
“Yeah,” she agreed. “Except for that.”
“Intimacy and I aren’t on the best of speaking terms either, if that makes you feel any better,” he said. “It’s hard, laying yourself open to another person, really trusting them completely.”
“How hard is it?” She giggled.
“There you go, making fun.”
“You’re right,” she admitted. “I do tend to turn the conversation light when things get too serious. Bad habit.”
“There’s a cure.”
“Really?”
“Yeah,” he said tentatively, wondering how she would respond to his suggestion, nervous about how this was going to play out. “We could each tell the other something intimate about ourselves, something we rarely talk about. Or we could confess something that’s been bothering us, something we’ve wanted to tell each other but haven’t been able to find a way to do it.”