his unlit cigarette along the photo of Saura and her uncle. “But the broad I’m thinking of never dressed like this,” he said, outlining her simple, slim-fitting rose-colored gown. “Black was more her color. And her hair was usually blond. Sometimes red.”
The blade of unease John had been fighting from the moment he’d learned her identity drove deeper. A socialite going single-handedly after a notorious criminal…something so didn’t add up. “And you thought she was dead?”
“Everyone did.”
“Who’s everyone?”
T’Paul ripped a match from the book and dragged it along the inside strip. “No one in particular, it’s just no one saw her anymore. She just—vanished, like some of those casino owners who ticked off the Russian Mafia. I figured a pretty thing like her must’ve gotten mixed up with something she shouldn’t have.”
Or some one.
John reached for the pictures he’d taken of Saura and Lambert, resisted the urge to fold them in his hands. “Might be her,” he conceded, trying to fit the pieces together.
Saura Robichaud was a woman of secrets. She was clever and she was guarded. But she was also…vulnerable. It wasn’t a word he liked—and he knew damn sure it wasn’t a label she would appreciate. But he couldn’t shake the memory of her in those ridiculous pajamas.
“Here’s what I need you to do. Follow her. Find out where she goes. Who she sees. How long she stays.” He paused as the waitress delivered his beer, slid her a five, then picked up the bottle and took a long sip. “She’s got an apartment in the warehouse district.” He set the bottle onto the table. “Find it.”
Saura slipped her hand into the pocket of her bulky jacket and closed her fingers around the small tape recorder. She’d retrieved it with ease, had returned to her house less than ninety minutes after slipping down the alley. She’d entered the same way she exited, then slipped through the darkness to her closet, where the closed-circuit monitor had revealed a man slumped against the iron fence of a vacant house across the street. A vagrant, perhaps.
But she didn’t think so.
Now she lifted her face to the cool morning breeze, knew her brother, a nature photographer, would appreciate the way the sun glinted against the watery carpet of duckweed. Along the shores of the no-name lake, frail-looking cypress trees jutted up against the gray sky, providing shelter for a handful of egrets. Winter had stripped the oak and maples of their leaves, but along their naked branches clusters of buds waited for the temperature to warm.
Following the narrow path, she was careful to keep her feet from crunching down on twigs or leaves. A heaviness hung in the air, something between mist and fog. She’d dressed accordingly, braiding hair with a tendency to curl into a long strip down her back.
From the moment she’d heard the audiotape she’d retrieved in the quiet of predawn, she’d known what she had to do. Now as she skirted around the rotting carcass of a fallen tree, she knew she was close. Around her the silence deepened, creating a stillness that should signify she was alone. But she knew she was not.
To her right, a heron called to its mate. Or maybe that was an egret. Cain would know, but Saura wasn’t sure. Didn’t care, either.
Beyond a single weeping willow, an old wood structure sat recessed from the main path. She headed toward it, but rather than going for the door, she slipped next to the darkened window and looked inside. A table, a soda can, a book and a laptop computer. That was all.
Her heart kicked hard, but she did not go inside. Instead she followed a walkway to the rear of the fishing shack—and through the narrow streams of sunlight saw him.
He stood on the edge of what once had been a pier, two rotting boards jutting out like a diving board over the cold water of the lake. He wore only a pair of baggy gray shorts, a red bandanna and the silver chain holding the dog
The blade of unease John had been fighting from the moment he’d learned her identity drove deeper. A socialite going single-handedly after a notorious criminal…something so didn’t add up. “And you thought she was dead?”
“Everyone did.”
“Who’s everyone?”
T’Paul ripped a match from the book and dragged it along the inside strip. “No one in particular, it’s just no one saw her anymore. She just—vanished, like some of those casino owners who ticked off the Russian Mafia. I figured a pretty thing like her must’ve gotten mixed up with something she shouldn’t have.”
Or some one.
John reached for the pictures he’d taken of Saura and Lambert, resisted the urge to fold them in his hands. “Might be her,” he conceded, trying to fit the pieces together.
Saura Robichaud was a woman of secrets. She was clever and she was guarded. But she was also…vulnerable. It wasn’t a word he liked—and he knew damn sure it wasn’t a label she would appreciate. But he couldn’t shake the memory of her in those ridiculous pajamas.
“Here’s what I need you to do. Follow her. Find out where she goes. Who she sees. How long she stays.” He paused as the waitress delivered his beer, slid her a five, then picked up the bottle and took a long sip. “She’s got an apartment in the warehouse district.” He set the bottle onto the table. “Find it.”
Saura slipped her hand into the pocket of her bulky jacket and closed her fingers around the small tape recorder. She’d retrieved it with ease, had returned to her house less than ninety minutes after slipping down the alley. She’d entered the same way she exited, then slipped through the darkness to her closet, where the closed-circuit monitor had revealed a man slumped against the iron fence of a vacant house across the street. A vagrant, perhaps.
But she didn’t think so.
Now she lifted her face to the cool morning breeze, knew her brother, a nature photographer, would appreciate the way the sun glinted against the watery carpet of duckweed. Along the shores of the no-name lake, frail-looking cypress trees jutted up against the gray sky, providing shelter for a handful of egrets. Winter had stripped the oak and maples of their leaves, but along their naked branches clusters of buds waited for the temperature to warm.
Following the narrow path, she was careful to keep her feet from crunching down on twigs or leaves. A heaviness hung in the air, something between mist and fog. She’d dressed accordingly, braiding hair with a tendency to curl into a long strip down her back.
From the moment she’d heard the audiotape she’d retrieved in the quiet of predawn, she’d known what she had to do. Now as she skirted around the rotting carcass of a fallen tree, she knew she was close. Around her the silence deepened, creating a stillness that should signify she was alone. But she knew she was not.
To her right, a heron called to its mate. Or maybe that was an egret. Cain would know, but Saura wasn’t sure. Didn’t care, either.
Beyond a single weeping willow, an old wood structure sat recessed from the main path. She headed toward it, but rather than going for the door, she slipped next to the darkened window and looked inside. A table, a soda can, a book and a laptop computer. That was all.
Her heart kicked hard, but she did not go inside. Instead she followed a walkway to the rear of the fishing shack—and through the narrow streams of sunlight saw him.
He stood on the edge of what once had been a pier, two rotting boards jutting out like a diving board over the cold water of the lake. He wore only a pair of baggy gray shorts, a red bandanna and the silver chain holding the dog
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