by Meg Tilly
Gabe didn’t even smile.
She sighed. This stakeout business was not nearly as exciting as it appeared in the movies. She’d been sitting in the coffee shop down the block from Alexus’s gallery for what seemed like an eternity. Once Gabe had settled her there, he’d left with the cryptic comment that he had a few errands he needed to run if she was determined to stick to her foolhardy plan for tonight.
She was, of course.
At first she’d opened her mouth to argue about his description of her dashing, daring plan, but then she’d closed it again. No need to quibble over minor details. Besides, as the hours ticked by and the afternoon slipped away, she was starting to get the uncomfortable feeling that he might be right.
“Well, now that you’re here, I can take these off,” she said as he settled into the chair opposite her. “Since you have a clear view of the place.” She removed her sunglasses and placed them in their case in her purse. The wearer might be able to see behind oneself, but they weren’t the most comfortable sunglasses in the world. Zelia sighed. Hopefully, now that she had kept the sunglasses perched on her nose for more than an hour, Gabe wouldn’t feel his money had gone to waste. “I’m going to get another tea. Want anything?”
He declined.
She swung by the bathroom, which was starting to feel like an old friend. Three large teas will do that to a woman. Then she decided to mix things up with an iced mocha coffee and a Boston cream doughnut.
* * *
* * *
AS NIGHT STARTED to fall, Gabe moved them to a different table, tucked in the shadows near the bathrooms. They sat side by side so they both had a clear view of the gallery.
At first she thought he’d moved them because her frequent treks across the coffee shop to the bathroom were starting to embarrass him.
Wrong.
Apparently, Mr. Writerman was a details guy and realized that once it got dark outside, the interior of the coffee shop would be illuminated. Sitting in the window would be like being actors on a stage. “Best at this point to mimic stagehands,” he pointed out. “Making things happen, invisible and silent, tucked in the wings.”
“Ah,” she had said, nodding wisely. “Yes.” But that salient fact had never crossed her mind.
Unfortunately, in her indignation over the move, she’d inadvertently highlighted the fact that she was peeing a lot. Which—in hindsight—would certainly qualify as an impress-the-hell-out-of-the-hot-guy misstep.
The idea of breaking into a secured building had seemed like a great idea when she was grouchy about being denied access to Alexus’s office, but now she was having second and third thoughts.
“Maybe this is crazy—”
“Maybe?” Gabe said, a little too pointedly for her taste, so she didn’t elaborate. Didn’t say, I’ve chickened out. Let’s go home. Didn’t say, When I said I was going to break into the place, I forgot to mention that I have no idea how one goes about doing that. Just took another slug of her drink that was now tepid, feeling as if her body was so hydrated it could float away. She checked the time on her phone. Feinstein & Co. should be closing any minute now.
“Here we go,” Gabe said, his large hand covering hers. Tristan had appeared at the front door, accompanied by an elderly couple.
“Ah,” she said lightly, as if his touch wasn’t causing a jolt of electricity to shimmer up her arm, down her torso, where the sensations settled in a pool of pulsating warmth low in her abdomen.
Zelia sat there, her hand under his like it was no big deal, as they watched the elderly couple chat with Tristan. She exhaled slowly. She hadn’t realized how desperately lonely she was. How much her body craved to be touched.
Tristan smiled at something the elderly woman said, then assisted the couple into their waiting limo, a chauffeur shutting the door behind them. The limo pulled into the traffic. Tristan reentered the building, then reappeared seconds later. He locked the door and took off at a brisk pace down the sidewalk, turned right at the corner, then disappeared from view.
“Time to head out.” Gabe released her hand and rose to his feet. He slung his satchel over his shoulder. Something metal clanked as the bag settled against his hip. It was bulkier than it had been earlier.
“Is that a gun?” Zelia tipped her head discreetly in the direction of his satchel.
“No.” Gabe picked up the large plastic shopping bag from under the table and tucked it under his arm. “If I were packing, I wouldn’t have it banging around in my bag. That would be asking for all kinds of trouble. Ready?”
She nodded, pulled on her sweater, picked up her purse, and followed him out into the cold night air. She wasn’t ready. Would never be ready. Her breath was shallow and her mouth felt as if it had been stuffed with cotton batting. They were making a terrible, terrible mistake, and it was all her fault.
The weird thing was that for all of Gabe’s doomsday mutterings, as the time for action grew closer, it was as if something in him shifted. The man seemed calm and filled with a laser-like focus.
“Gabe?” She had to scamper slightly to catch up. “I was thinking—mmrrph. What the hell are you doing?” she squawked, because he had suddenly pivoted, grabbed her arm, and pulled her into the darkened arched doorway of an old brick building.
“Shhh . . . keep your voice down,” he whispered. His warm breath was fanning softly against her temple. Because it was dark, it was hard to make out individual features, but she could feel the height and strength of him. Could smell the warm, clean male scent that emanated from him, wanted to lean into and be surrounded by his essence. “We don’t want to attract attention.”
Ah . . . She smiled, a frisson of excitement tingling through her. He’s in super-spy mode. My own private 007 has pulled me in here for a “good-luck” kiss. She tilted her head back in anticipation of the sensuous warmth of his lips taking possession of hers. But instead of pulling her closer, the contrary man stepped away.
She heard the rustle of plastic and then he pushed something soft into her hands. “Put this on.”
“What is it?” Zelia asked, a little embarrassed and grateful for the cover of darkness.
“A hoodie.”
“Oh. Thanks,” she said, attempting to return it. “That’s really kind of you. I am cold. That is true.” Her teeth were chattering slightly. “But I’m not that cold.”
“Zelia—”
“I don’t do hoodies,” she said kindly.
He sighed. “Zelia. The illegal act of breaking and entering would not be classified as a fashion-forward event. Put the damn hoodie on and make sure that the hood is pulled over your forehead so your face is obscured.”
“But it’s dark. You said we were going to attempt to enter through the back alley. Who’s going to see us?”
“Hopefully, no one. However, from the time we enter the alley until I can black out the security cameras—”
“Security cameras . . .” She swallowed hard.
“There will be an approximate five-second gap,” he continued dryly. “During that time, it would be best if your face was covered so you aren’t easily identifiable as the person who committed said crime.”
“Yes. Of course.” Zelia hastily donned the sweatshirt and pulled the hood down low over her forehead. The extra layer did add a welcomed warmth. “Good heavens. I had no idea Alexus had a security system. It seems like such a safe area. How did you figure that out?”
“Walked by, kept my phone down by my side, finger on the video button.” He pulled a second hoodie out of his plastic bag and put it on. “Once I was around the block, I took a look, zoomed in, and bingo. Security cameras. One over the back door, a second overlooking the alley.”
“Wow.”
“There’s also a discreet one over the front door.”
“There is? Unbelievable. How many times have I walked through that door and never noti
ced?”
“I wouldn’t be too hard on yourself. Prior to this there would’ve been no reason to clock it. Do you have something you can tie your hair back with?”
She glanced down at the curls that were tumbling out from under her hood. “Yes, I see what you mean. Would be a dead giveaway.” She dug into her purse, found her tortoiseshell clip, pulled her hair back into a makeshift French twist, and secured it. Then she replaced the hood over her head. “Better?”
He nodded. Slung his satchel back over his shoulder. “Let’s head out.”
Head out?! A wave of panic engulfed her. She grabbed his arm. “But if there’s a security system, even if you ‘black out’ the camera, won’t an alarm go off?”
“And that, my friend,” he said, pulling his hood down to cover his face, “is the million-dollar question.”
* * *
* * *
“YOU KNOW,” ZELIA whispered as Gabe sprayed black paint over the second camera above the back door, “I feel kind of sorry for Tristan. His boss died, and the gallery’s future and his job are uncertain. Of course he’s going to try to micro-control the things that he can—where are you going?”
Instead of scaling the fire escape or jiggling the door handle, Gabe had moved farther down the building. She quickly followed. “Wh-what are you doing?”
“You’re the one who—” Gabe had donned rubber gloves, pulled a screwdriver out of his satchel, and was removing the screws in a panel on the back of the building that was almost invisible in the darkness.
“Jesus,” she muttered. “You have eyes like a bat.”
“Ah. Please. Stop with the romantic talk. I might get a fat head. Here, hold this for a second.” He handed her the screwdriver, dropped the screws in the front pocket of his jeans, and then removed the metal panel. “As I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted, you’re the one who wanted to look around her office, so I’m doing my damnedest to get you in.” He flipped open the lid of the plastic box nestled inside. “Not sure if the alarm is attached to the phone line or the Internet. Best to disable both,” he said.
“You know what? I’ve been thinking, and I don’t know if we should—”
He gave a hard yank on a thick black cable line and a thinner phone line to disconnect them both, the loose wires dangling in his hand. “There we go.” He flipped the box shut and moved to the back door. “Put these on,” he said, withdrawing another pair of gloves from his satchel and handing them to her.
Her heart was pounding so hard she could hear the blood rushing in her ears. “I’m not sure this is wise.” She could already see the news headlines blaring: Art Expressions Gallery Owner Caught Red-Handed with Famous Crime Author Gabriel Conaghan Breaking into Colleague’s Office. Murder! Sex! Sin!
“It’s up to you,” Gabe said, facing her. “We can turn around right now. Go home. Drop the investigation. Or we can take advantage of the building being empty and look around. Your choice.”
Twenty-two
THEY MADE THEIR way up the back stairs. Zelia had a death grip on his arm. He didn’t blame her for being scared; he was a little freaked out himself. The only place he’d ever broken into was his godmother’s house. That had been with her blessing and with her alarm system’s password safely stowed in his pocket. Disarming the Feinstein & Co. system felt like he was attempting a high-wire act with no safety net below.
The alarm wasn’t blaring. Hopefully a silent signal hadn’t been triggered at the monitoring station.
The beams from their flashlights created bobbing orbs of light on the concrete stairs and the lower part of the walls. They’d left the light switches off. Best not to draw unwanted attention to the building. Zelia hadn’t spoken a word since they had stepped over the threshold. Probably shocked at how easily he’d broken into the building. Showcasing your misbegotten skill at breaking and entering is probably not the best way to wow a woman.
“Where’s her office?” he asked as they reached the top of the stairs.
Zelia paused, then jerked her head toward a door that was ajar on the right side of the hall. She let go of his arm, wrapping her arms tightly around her chest as if she had contracted a sudden chill. Clearly, she was scared. Best to dive in. Dread only made things worse.
“Ready?” he asked, keeping his voice calm and matter-of-fact.
She nodded.
As they entered the office, he heard Zelia’s sharp intake of breath. Didn’t blame her. Tasting death on the air was difficult in the best of times. That it was her friend who had died made it even worse. Gabe had ridden shotgun with Rick several times, walked through crime scenes, the morgue, the courthouse, jail. It had disturbed him in the beginning, but with repeated exposure he’d developed some sort of psychic callus, because he barely registered it anymore. Just slipped into writer mode and focused on the idiosyncratic details that made each situation unique.
Although, in this instance, it was he who would be attempting to collect evidence rather than watching his brother and his partner do it. Also, there was the inescapable fact that if he and Zelia were caught they’d soon be residents in the jail rather than ride-along visitors.
Until this moment, he hadn’t been sure if this was a wild-goose chase. Thought perhaps his subconscious was using the reason for the trip back East as an excuse to spend time with Zelia, hoping to get closer. But once he stepped into Alexus’s office and felt the cold slap of nausea-inducing violence shimmering around him, he was certain. Zelia had the right of it. Alexus had been murdered.
Facts, he reminded himself. You must deal in facts, not suppositions.
“Anything look out of place?” he asked.
He watched as Zelia braced herself, squared her shoulders, and scanned the office. “No. Not at first glance. It looks like it always does. It’s just—” She shook her head. Her exhale was shaky. “It’s almost as if . . .” She hesitated, her lower lip caught between her teeth. “I can feel her presence here. Like she’s waiting, can’t . . . can’t move on.” She squeezed her eyes shut, but she wasn’t quick enough to stop the sudden tears from escaping. She turned her back to him, shoulders shaking, her breath coming out in ragged, shallow gulps.
Should I offer her comfort? Give her a hug?
He stepped toward her.
Paused.
I don’t want her to think I’m using her vulnerability to hit on her. Shit. Troy Masters would totally know what to do in this situation. Damn it all. Life is so much easier when lived on the page.
“Do you need a hug?” His voice came out gruffer than he’d wanted, as if he were reluctant to touch her. In actuality, he wanted nothing more than to scoop her into his arms and kiss away her tears.
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine, Zee. You’re crying.”
“Oh, what the hell.” She whirled to face him. “You’re right. I’m not fooling anybody. Yes. I’m crying. My heart is hurting so bad, but I’m angry, too, that she’s not here and I’m left with all these frikkin’ questions.” Her arm slashed out as if it were a sword, and then the ferocity drained out of her and all that was left were tears. “I miss her, Gabe,” she whispered. “I miss her so damn much. And yes, I would very much like a hug, please.” The last words were muffled, because his arms had already enveloped her. Zelia’s face burrowed into his shoulder, dampening the fabric of his sweatshirt.
When her tears finally subsided, the room was quiet, with just the sound of their breath. “Do you have a tissue?” she asked, her voice subdued.
“No.” Should have thought to bring some. “Sorry.”
“No worries.” She gave his chest a gentle pat, as if he were the one needing comfort. Then she exhaled slowly and stepped away. “I’ll be right back.” Her elegant spine was ruler straight as she exited the room.
When she returned, her face was dry and her expression calm. She shoved a fistful of what appeared to b
e toilet paper and a paper towel into her purse. Clever girl. Thinking ahead. Not wanting to leave DNA behind.
“Probably best if we change out your gloves,” he said.
“Right.” She peeled off the old ones and stuffed them in her purse. “Thanks.” She took the new nitrile gloves from his outstretched hand and donned them, then glanced around the office. “I’d like to take the laptop,” she said. “I know it’s stealing, but there might be something on it that will help us in our search.”
“I agree,” he said. He saw her shoulders soften.
“I also think—as disagreeable as the task will be—that if the dumpster hasn’t been emptied, we should go through it before we leave.”
* * *
* * *
ZELIA HELD THE flashlight steady and watched, fascinated, as Gabe held the magnetic wand over the back-door handle. He gently swirled the tiny black particles over the metal. As with the glass coffee table, the sofa, and the doorknob that separated the gallery from the back of the house, black fingerprints began to emerge. A few more swirls and the fingerprints were clear and defined. “There we go,” he whispered. He straightened and pressed the button at the top of the wand, causing the remaining magnetic particles to fall into the small container he held beneath it. He screwed the top on, placed the container and wand in his satchel, then removed the wide, clear tape, tore a piece off, and carefully applied it to the handle, smoothing it down. Then he lifted the tape off in one clean stroke, applied it to the three-by-five-inch white card, and quickly jotted down a few notes.
“I think that will do it for the inside,” he said as he placed the card in the envelope with the others.
He held out his hand to her as if asking her for a waltz. “Ready to dumpster-dive?” he asked, an apologetic grin curving his lips. A dimple briefly appeared among the dark stubble that graced his face, then vanished like a shooting star. But the memory of it remained, causing a joyous ache in Zelia’s chest.
