by Nora Roberts
little cause to criticize your work. You are prompt, you are efficient, you are—in most cases—thorough.”
“Thank you, sir.” But Winesap only heard the words “most cases.” He felt fear. “I do my best.”
“I believe you do. Which is why I find myself so disappointed today. I believe you did your best, and it wasn’t quite enough.”
“Sir?” Winesap’s voice was a squeak.
“You perhaps haven’t found the time in your busy schedule to read the morning paper?”
“I glanced at the headlines,” Winesap said apologetically. “Things have been a bit hectic.”
“One should always make time for current events.” With his eyes glittering on Winesap’s face, Finley stabbed a finger at the newspaper on his desk. “Such as this. Read it now, Abel, if you will.”
“Yes, sir.” All but shaking in terror, Winesap approached the desk and took the paper. The article Finley referred to was circled over and over again in blood-red ink. “ ’Body discovered by hikers,’ ” Winesap began, and felt his bowels loosen. “ ‘An-an unidentified body was discovered several days ago in a r-ravine—’ ”
Finley snatched the paper away with a snap. “Your reading voice is weak, Abel. Let me do it for you.” In flowing, melodious tones, Finley read the sketchy report, ending with the standard line about the police investigating. “Of course,” he added, smoothing the paper out on his desk, “we would be able to identify the body, wouldn’t we, Abel?”
“Mr. Finley. Sir. It was found miles from here. No one would possibly . . .” He cringed, lowering his eyes.
“I expected better from you, Abel. That was my mistake. You were not thorough,” he said, spacing each word carefully. “They will, of course, identify the body sooner or later. And I will be forced to answer more questions. Naturally, I’m confident that I can handle the police, but the inconvenience, Abel. I really believe you should have spared me this inconvenience.”
“Yes, sir. I’m terribly sorry.” Winesap thought of the miserable drive into the mountains, the hideous trek with the body dragging behind him. His shoulders sagged. “I can’t apologize enough.”
“No, no, I don’t believe you can. However, since I have considered your work record carefully and found no unsightly blemishes, I will try to overlook this one. You’ll be leaving for the east in a day or two, Abel. I trust you’ll handle Miss Conroy with more finesse than you handled Mr. DiCarlo.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you. I’ll be . . . thorough.”
“I’m sure you will.” Finley offered a glittering smile that made Winesap think of sharks feeding. “We’ll put this unfortunate mistake out of our minds. I don’t believe we need to discuss it again.”
“That’s very understanding of you, Mr. Finley.” Cautious, Winesap backed out of the room. “Thank you.”
“Oh, and Abel.” Finley enjoyed watching the man stop on a dime and cringe. “I really think, under the circumstances, you should return the caddy spoon.”
“Oh.” Winesap’s face fell. “Of course.”
In much better spirits, Finley leaned back as the door closed respectfully. He’d been in a state of mental turmoil since reading the article, and now calmed himself by doing his deep-breathing exercises. There was nothing quite like yoga for soothing the soul.
He would have to keep a closer eye on Abel, he thought sadly. A much closer eye. If things got too sticky over DiCarlo, he would simply throw dear, devoted Abel to the wolves like so much dead meat.
But he sincerely hoped it wouldn’t be necessary.
He wasn’t worried for himself. When a man was rich enough, and powerful enough, Finley mused, he was above the common reach of the law.
The police couldn’t touch him. No one could. And if, by some minor miracle, they came too close, there would always be small prey—like Abel—to throw off their scent.
But he was a forgiving man. Smiling, Finley took the etui he’d brought back to his office with him from his desk and fondled it. A very forgiving man—sometimes to a fault.
As long as Abel followed instructions carefully and managed Miss Conroy, there would be no need to kill him. No need at all.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-EIGHT
It was good to be home in the simple routines of each day. Dora comforted herself with that and tried not to think of the meeting with Mr. Petroy she still had to face.
She hadn’t realized she was ordinary enough, mundane enough, to wish for a lack of adventure. But the bald truth was, she wanted her simple life back. More, she wanted the chance to be bored.
At least Jed hadn’t noticed her lack of appetite. Dora was certain he’d have made a few choice remarks if she hadn’t covered it so well. The same held true for the female art of cosmetics. Her eyes might have been shadowed, her skin pale and drawn, but with facials and creams and powders, she presented a very competent mask.
She hoped it didn’t slip until after Thursday.
She was rubbing at the throbbing between her eyes that the doses of aspirin seemed unable to ease when the shop door opened. Nothing could have made her happier than her father’s smiling and slightly tipsy face.
“Izzy, my sweet.”
“Dad, my own true love.” She stepped away from the counter to kiss him, then found herself pressing her face against his shoulder and hugging him fiercely.
He returned the embrace. Though concern clouded his eyes, they were smiling again when he drew back. “All alone, little girl?”
“Not anymore. It’s been a slow morning. Want some coffee?”
“Half a cup.” He speculated, watching her move to the coffee service and pour. He knew his children—their faces, the tones of their voices, the subtleties of their body language. Isadora was hiding something, he mused. He would find out what easily enough.
“Your mother sends me as ambassador.” He accepted the cup, then pulled out his flask to add a generous dollop of whiskey. “To extend an invitation to cocktails and conversation to you and your young man.”
“If you’re referring to Jed, I think he might object to the description, but accept the invitation. When?”
“Thursday night.” His brow lifted as he saw something flicker over her face. “Pretheater, of course.”
“Of course. I’ll be happy to check with him.”
“I’ll extend the invitation myself. Is he upstairs?”
“No, I think he’s out.” She sipped her coffee, grateful when a couple of window shoppers passed on without coming in. “You can check with him later, if you like.”
Quentin watched her toy with the sugar bowl. “Have you had a lovers’ tiff?”
“We don’t tiff.” She managed a smile. “We do fight now and then, but tiffing isn’t part of our ritual.” She picked up a cookie, put it down again. “You know, I’m feeling a little restless today. Do you want to take a walk?”
“With a beautiful woman? Always.”
“Let me get my coat.”
Quentin’s eyes narrowed in speculation, wondering if his hand-picked partner was making his little girl so unsettled. But he was all smiles again when she returned, buttoning her coat. “I seem to recall someone who enjoys busman’s holidays. Perhaps we should take a little ride over to NewMarket and check out some shop windows.”
“My hero.” Dora flipped the Closed sign over, then hooked her arm through her father’s.
He bought her jelly beans, and she didn’t have the heart not to eat them. They stayed outside, enjoying the cold and the cobblestones, the cosmopolitan air of the window displays. Dora knew she was feeling better when she was tempted by both a Limoges box and a cashmere sweater.
The wind whistled through the bare trees as they sat on a bench to enjoy more coffee. Quentin’s was again stiffly laced.
“Shall I buy you a present?” he asked. “It always made you smile when you talked me into some little trinket.”
“I’ve always been mercenary, haven’t I?” Amused at herself, she leaned her head compan
ionably on his shoulder.
“You’ve always loved pretty things—and appreciated them, as well. That’s a gift, Izzy, not a flaw.”
She felt foolish tears prick at her eyes. “I guess I’m having a mood. I always thought Will had the moods.”
“All of my children had wonderful moods,” Quentin said staunchly. “It’s the theater in your blood. Artists are never easy, you know. We aren’t meant to be.”
“What about cops?”
He paused a moment to drink, to enjoy. “I see law enforcement as an art as well. Some would say science, of course. But the timing, the choreography, the drama. Yes, it’s quite an art.” He draped a comforting arm around her. “Tell me what you’re feeling, Izzy.”
And she could. She had always been able to tell him what she felt without fear of criticism or disapproval. “I’m so in love with him. I want to be happy about it. I nearly am, most of the time, but he doesn’t trust those kind of emotions. He doesn’t have any experience with them. His parents didn’t give him anything of what you and Mom gave us.”
She sighed and watched a young mother wheel a stroller over the stones. The toddler inside was rosy-cheeked and laughing. The yearning tug came quickly, with equal parts surprise and discomfort. I want to do that, she realized. I want to spend an hour pushing my child in the sunlight and smiling.
“I’m afraid we can’t give each other what we need,” she said carefully.
“First you have to discover what those needs are.”
Wistfully, she watched mother and child roll away. “I think I have a pretty good handle on mine. How can you expect a man whose childhood was a study in misery to take the first step toward creating a family of his own? It isn’t fair for me to push him toward that step, and it isn’t fair for me to deny myself taking it.”
“Do you think only people from happy families make happy families of their own?”
“I don’t know.”
“Jed’s grandmother seems to think he’s already taken that first step, and is cautiously debating over the second.”
“I don’t—” She stopped, straightened to frown at her father. “His grandmother? You’ve spoken to her?”
“Ria, your mother and I had a very nice visit while you were in California. A lovely woman,” he added. “She’s quite taken with you.”
Dora’s eyes slitted. “It appears I have to remind you that I’m a competent adult, and so is Jed. I don’t think it’s right that you would sit around discussing us as though we were slow-witted children.”
“But you are our children.” He smiled benignly and patted her flushed cheek. “When you have children of your own, you’ll understand that the love never stops, and neither does the concern, the pride or the interference.” He beamed at her. “I love you, Izzy, and I have great faith in you.” He pinched her chin. “Now, tell me what else is worrying you?”
“I can’t.” And she was sorry for it. “But I can tell you it should be resolved in a few days.”
“I won’t pry,” he said. At least not when she was so obviously on her guard. “But if you don’t look happier soon, I’ll sic your mother on you.”
“I’m smiling.” She bared her teeth. “See, couldn’t be happier.”
Satisfied for the moment, he rose. After tossing his empty cup in a wastebasket, he held out a hand. “Let’s go shopping.”
“She’s a ball of nerves.” Jed met Brent in the gym so that he could release some tension by pummeling the heavy bag. “She won’t admit it, but she’s tied up inside.” More than a little tied up himself, Jed gave the bag a rapid series of sharp punches. As he’d been delegated to hold the bag steady, Brent grunted as the power sang up his arms. “I’m not helping.”
“We’re moving on it as fast as we can.” Brent felt sweat trickle down his shirt and wished he’d talked Jed into meeting at some nice coffee shop. “After Thursday’s meet, we should be able to keep her out of it.”
“It’s not just that.” Jed moved from the heavy bag to the light, relieving Brent immeasurably. Eyes narrowed, Jed sent the bag flying into a blur. “She’s in love with me.”
Brent took off his glasses to clean the lenses of fog. “Is that supposed to be news?”
“She needs more than I can give her. She should have more.”
“Maybe. Is she complaining?”
“No.” Jed blinked sweat out of his eyes and kept his fists flying.
“Then relax and enjoy the ride.”
Jed whirled on him so swiftly, so violently, that Brent braced for the blow. “It’s not a fucking ride. It’s not like that with Dora. It’s—” He broke off, furious at the smug smile creasing Brent’s face. “Don’t play me,” he said very softly.
“Just testing the waters, Captain.” When Jed turned over his gloves, Brent obligingly unlaced them. “Speaking of which, the unofficial word is that you’ll be back in command the first of the month. Goldman’s sulking.”
“He’ll feel better when I sign his transfer papers.”
“Oh, let me worship at your feet.”
A grin tugged at Jed’s mouth as he flexed his fist. “We’ll make an official announcement on Monday. And if you try to kiss me in here, pal, I’ll have to deck you.” He picked up a towel to dry his face. “For now, Goldman’s in charge. Is everything set for Thursday?”
“We’ll have two men in the shop. Another pair outside, and a surveillance van a half block away. As long as Dora follows instructions, we’ll pick up every word.”
“She’ll follow them.”
Spending an hour with her father had given Dora a need for family. She indulged it by closing the shop an hour early and spending the evening at Lea’s. The din from the family room soothed her soul.
“I think Richie’s definitely improving on the trumpet,” Dora commented.
Head cocked, Lea listened to the wet musical blats with a mixture of pride and resignation. “There’s a band concert at school in three weeks. I’m saving you a front-row seat.”
“God bless you.” There was a series of muffled thumps from the next room, what was—if you had enough imagination—a stirring cavalry charge and an excellent rebel yell. “I needed this.” Content, Dora slipped onto a stool by the counter.
“I’d be happy to leave you in charge for a couple hours.” Lea added another touch of burgundy to the stew she had simmering.
“I don’t need it that much.” Dora drank a hurried sip of wine. “No. I spent some time with Dad this afternoon, and it made me think what it would be like if he wasn’t so handy. That’s all.”
“Something’s going on.” Frowning, Lea tapped the spoon on the side of the pot, set it on a spoon rest shaped like a duck. “You’ve got that line between your eyebrows. And you’re pale. You always get pale when you’re worried about something.”
“You’d be worried too if you had to find a new accountant right before end-of-January inventory.”
“Not good enough.” Lea leaned closer, probing. “You’re edgy, Dory, and it has nothing to do with business. If you won’t tell me, I’ll have to turn Mom loose on you.”
“Why does everyone threaten me with Mom?” she demanded. “I’m unsettled, okay? My life’s taken a couple of odd turns. I’d like my family to respect my privacy enough to allow me to work out my own problems.”
“Okay. I’m sorry. Really.”
Passing a hand over her face, Dora took a cleansing breath. “No, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have snapped at you. I guess I’m still a little jet-lagged. I think I’ll go home, take a hot bath and sleep for twelve hours.”
“If you don’t feel better tomorrow, I can come in early.”
“Thanks. I’ll let you know.” She started to slide off the stool as the knock sounded on the back door.
“Hi.” Mary Pat stuck in her head. “I came to pick up my share of the monsters.” She listened a moment to the shouting and the blare of the trumpet. “Ah, the patter of little feet. Wonderful, isn’t it?”
“Have a seat,
” Lea invited. “Unless you’re in a hurry.”
“I’d love a seat.” She sighed as she took the one beside Dora. “I’ve been on my feet for eight straight hours. We had two codes back to back.” She took a deep breath of air. “God, how do you manage to raise kids, hold down a job and cook like that?”
“I have an understanding boss.” Smiling, Lea poured Mary Pat a glass of wine. “She gave me the day off.”