Secretive Stranger

by Jennifer Greene

  “I didn’t expect to see you here. I also didn’t think the car was even of interest. I thought the police examined it after Jon’s death.”

  “They did, and found nothing suspicious. But obviously the person who broke in was desperate enough to hope there might be.” Ferrell stubbed out a cigarette and motioned Cord to move out of the wind, where he could light up another. “We need a little talk time.”

  “It sounds like you’re buying my breakfast.”

  Ferrell shot him a long-suffering look, but Cord didn’t care. He’d left Sophie specifically when he needed time with her, missed his first class, had his whole life disrupted-again-by problems that were none of his choosing.

  The corner bistro where they settled didn’t mollify his impatience, but the place did serve blueberry bagels and had damn good coffee.

  Ferrell wanted to horse trade. After all this time, he finally gave up the name of his client. “Senator Bickmarr. Wife, Tiffany. They didn’t have a marriage made in heaven, even before he got elected, but they put it back together for the sake of ambition, and they’re both plenty ambitious. Whether you knew it or not, she was one of the honeys your brother videotaped. She wasn’t having as good a time in Washington as she’d hoped. Senator’s known for having a temper, also for thinking he’s got a play at the White House in a few years.”

  Cord went for a second bagel. “So you think he killed my brother?”

  “No. I thought she did. Bickmarr hired me to protect himself, his wife, their future. He seemed to believe his wife did this. The cops weren’t onto her, because they didn’t recognize her from the CDs, but there was her proven affair with your brother. There’s her fear of exposure, and his blackmailing her. There was a lot of evidence suggesting she’d do anything to bury the evidence.”

  “But obviously, you don’t think she’s the killer, or you wouldn’t be here.”

  “Correct. Where the police stand on the whole investigation, I can’t speak to. I don’t totally know. But I know where my people were. They’re alibied. I’m certain. And because I had to be certain, I checked out the other initials and names and ‘hint’ words you gave us. The only one I can’t get any clue about is ‘Penny.’”

  “I met a Penelope Martin,” Cord mused.

  “If it’s her, that’d be peachy keen.” Ferrell, for the third time, lit up a cigarette. “But I need to know. The more I look into this, the more I find that your brother was a grade-A bastard. The number of women he was playing, he should have had stock in Viagra. I don’t care, you understand. What I care about is my people. First job was making sure neither was guilty of a crime. Second job is making sure their names stay out of the limelight when the murderer’s finally found.”

  Cord finally realized what Ferrell wanted from him. Ferrell had given up the senator’s name in hope that Cord would keep silent about the senator and his wife down the road. Hell, his brother was the guiltiest party, so Cord wasn’t about to throw ink stains on anyone else. “I have no reason to be a problem for your senator, or his wife. If they’re not guilty of murder, anything I find related to them can go in a bonfire as far as I’m concerned.”

  “I figured you were a straight shooter. So I just need you to know what I’m looking for. What I’m trying to protect. What’s at stake for other people-” Out of nowhere, Ferrell muttered a swear word.

  Cord glanced up, to see George Bassett coming toward them. The detective pulled up a chair, plunked it down with an impatient look at Ferrell. “This meeting wasn’t supposed to start without me. And there’s a limit to how much involvement you’re entitled to in police business, Ferrell.”

  Cord suspected that was true, by the law-but not necessarily true in the reality of Washington politics and power. Whatever, Bassett posted his elbows on the table and gave him the next earful.

  “It’s my stage now. You listen to me. Not him.” Bassett wasted no more time on Ferrell. “This case is about to explode. If you didn’t figure it out when you saw your brother’s car, our perpetrator is running out of places to look. She’s getting desperate.”

  “She?” Cord echoed. It wasn’t a new conjecture that the killer was a woman, but Bassett hadn’t put it down in indelible ink before.

  “Yeah. It’s a woman. We told you, from the autopsy, that your brother was hit twice, once with a blunt object hard and sharp enough to push him down the stairs. Forensics came through with more than that. From the angle and strength of the blow, they’re certain it was a right-handed woman. Above average in height, but not particularly strong. The height’s not possible to determine completely, because there’s no way to be certain where the two were standing on the stairs.” Bassett revealed a few more details, but Cord interjected as soon as he had the chance.

  “It’s not Sophie.”

  Bassett hunched closer. “The only woman with prints in his apartment is Campbell. She was all over the place, in the kitchen, on his mailbox, in the bathroom.”

  “You told me that before. But she also naturally explained all that. She was around all the time to bring in the mail when he was gone.”

  “And that’s part of the picture. All those home videos-almost none of them were set in your brother’s place. He didn’t piss in his backyard very often, looks like. But that’s the thing, because again it leaves Ms. Campbell as the only one we can pin down as being inside his apartment on that specific day.”

  Cord quit drinking coffee, quit eating, went still as a statue. “He wasn’t blackmailing her, wasn’t sleeping with her. I think you’re dead right that this is coming to a head, that the blackmail victims are likely getting just as desperate as the murderer. Which is all the more reason why you need to quit wasting time looking at Sophie. She’s not on the radar.”

  Ferrell spoke up for the first time since Bassett arrived. “She could have been a partner in your brother’s blackmailing…enterprise. The actor in those movies was your brother. He sure as hell was too busy to be holding the camera.”

  “Anyone can set up a camera. There didn’t have to be a live person involved. You’re totally barking up the wrong tree.”

  Bassett took a pull on his coffee, left a latte mustache on his upper lip. “She’s got a handful of women friends she sees. Right and left, we ruled out a bunch of women we were looking at, all had tight alibis. But two names keep coming up with question marks. Penelope Martin’s one.”

  “I know.” Ferrell had already brought up that name.

  “The clue was the ‘Penny’ on the list you gave us. Pretty obvious that could have been a nickname for Penelope. Couldn’t identify her for sure from the video-she’s brunette, of a size, of a body, lots of body, but her face is too hidden for us to identify her. Anyhoo. She’s a lobbyist, into trouble every way you look-a suggestion of bribes, of favors. Some men would call her a ballbuster. Point being, she seems like a real weird friend for the mousy-looking Ms. Campbell to have.”

  “Mousy-looking?” Any other time, Cord would have laughed. He’d forgotten how he had the same impression the first time he met Sophie. She did have a gift for being invisible. It protected her, he realized, but now that same insight made him uneasy. Her skill at coming across as invisible could seem a suspicious issue, from the cop’s point of view. “You said there was a second woman close to Sophie who you’re looking at.”

  He glanced at Ferrell, who’d never mentioned that second woman. But Bassett had clearly come to horse trade, just as Ferrell had. “Yeah. There’s this Jan Howell.” A spray of bagel crumbs drifted down Bassett’s tie. He flicked them off. At least most of them. “Something’s off about her.”

  “What?”

  “I don’t know, but I’m telling you, something is. Everyone we’ve been checking out has a past full of indiscretions. Motive. Ambition. Secrets. Most to do with Washington. God, I hate this job and this city.”

  Cord blinked. “Then why are you here?”

  “Because I love this job and this city,” Bassett answered, as if this were obvious
. “Back to this Jan Howell. She’s not kosher, I’m telling you. You can’t trust a trust-funder, always has money to blow, no way to track it. She’s a party girl. Dabbles in art, in politics, in do-gooder crap.”

  “Well hell, why not just hang her right now? Talk about a suspicious character,” Cord said, deadpan.

  “Make fun all you want. She’s not what she seems. And she hung at parties where Jon was. People saw them. They knew each other. And Sophie was the link between the two of them.”

  Cord said slowly, “Let me see if I’ve got this straight. You think this Jan Howell must be a murderer because her parents have money and she doesn’t have a real job?”

  “Okay, okay, you think I’m shooting blanks. But I’m telling you. You gotta get more information out of this Sophie Campbell. Before it’s too late.”

  Cord heard the ominous note in Bassett’s voice, stood up. Before leaving, he passed on the account numbers from the Cayman Islands. Bassett and Ferrell both pressed for the rest of the CDs, but Cord wasn’t up for any more discussion. He had work issues he had to deal with; he needed to see his father; and damn it, he wanted to get back to Sophie as soon as he could.

  The meeting stuck in his mind like porcupine quills all day, though. Bassett and Ferrell were still scrapping for information. They had plenty. They kept getting more. But the bottom line was that they still hadn’t pinned down the killer. It seemed to Cord that one obvious reason was how everyone was worried about everyone else’s business…only, no one was worried about Sophie.

  Except him.

  And by late that afternoon, he discovered exactly how scared he should have been for her.

  Sophie exited the metro with a spring in her step. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d gotten home this early in the afternoon. She wasn’t totally done for the day. She really wanted to dig into some solid translating work, but she could still do it at home. And whenever Cord could pull free from his day’s commitments, she’d be there.

  They had a lot of conversations to finish.

  A lot of serious, troubling problems framing their time together. But they did seem to be together. A wonder to her. The hem around her heart was still stitched with worries, concerns, fears-reality. But she’d never felt like this before, for any man, and she was going to let her heart soar on Cord, with Cord, for as long as it could.

  A healing, blinding sun brushed her shoulders as she charged up the steps, unlocked the apartment door. Inside, she grabbed her mail, then vaulted upstairs. Talk about a silly mood. She all but danced inside, kicked off her shoes, started to hum-some silly, corny love song-and aimed for the kitchen.

  God knew, she had to do a solid chunk of work. Yet she was still humming as she put on a full kettle to boil, set out a mug and tea, turned on her computer. “Caviar?

  “Come on, Cav, I know I’m home early, but you could at least wake up from napping, you ungrateful hair bucket…” Waiting for the water to boil, she went in search of the scrawny reprobate. For a feline who’d prowled the streets for years, Caviar had certainly turned into a spoiled, stay-at-home slug-although he always, always came out to greet her, if only to whine and meow about her leaving him all day.

  She glanced in the bathroom, where he sometimes hung out on top of the towels…then by the laundry, where he loved nestling in on top of dirty clothes…

  “Cav?” Amazing that he wasn’t snuggled on her bed-another of his favorite spots.

  He wasn’t there, either, but one glance at the rumpled bed made her think she had time to change sheets-the pink ones were the softest, but maybe too girly? So maybe the dark purple ones. And in the meantime, since she was already in the bedroom, she aimed for the closet, thinking she’d put on her lavender sweater, as well. She was pretty sure she’d folded it on the top shelf, where…

  The blow hit the middle of her back from behind. The shock of it stunned her more than the pain. Knocked forward, she stumbled, her face pushed into the nest of clothes on hangers. Another blow followed the first-a blow that pushed her farther into the closet. That fast, the closet door slammed shut.

  She heard the click of the lock-at the same time she heard a plaintive meow from the far depth of the closet. For a moment she couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, couldn’t imagine what was happening. All too fast, though, her brain started processing the crisis.

  Someone had already been inside the apartment when she got home. That someone had hit her with a hard, thin object-like a fireplace poker?-and locked her in the closet.

  That someone was still in the apartment.

  Okay, okay. The thing to do was not panic. Figure this out. What to do, what to do…

  She sank down. The closet floor was a mess of shoes and purses. Something sharp poked her thigh. A hanger. Her back still stung, the banging pain refusing to ease, making it hard to concentrate. A cold draft seeped from the cracks; clothes brushed her face and neck, and before she could find a way to settle, Caviar leaped for her, not purring, just seeking her warm body to protect him.

  She stroked the cat, knowing now why Caviar had been hiding. Minutes passed. Then more minutes.

  She heard nothing from the other side of the door, but whether her assailant had left or was still there, she couldn’t know, couldn’t guess. She was afraid to make a sound, afraid not to.

  It was a woman, she thought. There was a second there, where she’d felt hands, thin hands, nails. Woman’s nails. And there was a scent. Not perfume, but a familiar, woman scent, a shampoo or makeup product. Not hers. But the scent was familiar. Someone she knew used it.

  Instead of reassuring her, the knowledge that the assailant could be a friend, someone she knew, seemed even more terrorizing.

  Somehow, some way, the person had to be connected to Jon-why else would she be in her place, now or before? And what the assailant wanted was just as obvious. Whatever Jon had been blackmailing her for. Or whatever linked her to Jon’s murder.

  It was like knowing the alphabet, yet somehow being unable to create a word. Sophie had clues but no answers. She had reasons but no means to stop herself from being prey.

  Thinking slowed her heart rate, at least for a good two minutes. Maybe three. Her throat was so dry, she craved water. Her back hurt; she was cramped and chilled and miserably uncomfortable.

  All that nonsense distracted her for a short stretch, too.

  Slowly, though, it seeped in on her.

  Panic.

  Splashes from the past blurred in her mind, only the past wasn’t a haunted nightmare this time. It was an echo of what really happened. The fire. Her parents trapped, with nowhere to go, no way to save themselves.

  If there were a fire, Sophie wouldn’t be able to escape. No one knew she was locked in here. No one even knew she was home this early.

  She’d been to this exact same spot before-a place where panic was so big, so dark, so thick and oxygen-stealing, that there just was nothing else. Cord, she kept thinking desperately. Find me. Find me, please.

  That was her last coherent thought before the fear sucked her in and took over completely.

  Cord bounded up the stairs and thumped on Sophie’s door. When there was no answer, he knuckled the door again.

  After a third time, he turned around in a grump and dug out the key to his brother’s place. They hadn’t arranged a specific time to get together that night, so it was pretty stupid to feel his heart clunk. He was worried, that was all. Worried about the acceleration of events; worried about the cops weeding out so many suspects, yet not enough to pin down the guilty party-or parties; worried about Sophie’s relationship with the two women on the cops’ list, Penelope and Jan; worried that no one seemed to recognize Sophie for what she was-not a villain, but an angel. Not a suspect, but an innocent, vulnerable, incredibly wonderful woman.

  The woman he’d fallen in love with-in spite of Jon, in spite of Zoe, in spite of every damn thing that was crazy and going wrong right now. Cord pushed open the door to Jon’s apartment and stomped
in. He dropped his jacket and aimed for the kitchen, to battle with his brother’s fancy coffeepot again.

  It wouldn’t kill him to wait a while to see Soph. He just wanted her there. So he’d know she was okay. So he could tell her about seeing his father that afternoon. Almost unwillingly, he felt a smile coming back. His father was sore from the fall, but doing fine. Cord had dreaded telling him more of the bad news about Jon’s past, but out of the blue, their father-at least for the day-had forgotten Jon. So Cord told him about Sophie instead. How she looked, how she walked, who she was, what she did.

  His dad, even in the brain fog that tore at Cord’s heart most days, had finally said that all this Sophie talk was getting silly. Did Cord even realize he was in love with the woman? When he was he going to bring her around? At the time…

  Cord suddenly lifted his head, the coffeepot in one hand, a mug in the other. He thought he’d heard a strange sound. A muted thump.

  But when he went completely still, the sound didn’t repeat. He forgot it, carted his coffee into the computer room and started switching on all the electronics. The sooner he dove into every file and floorboard in Jon’s place, the better. There was no talking about the future until this mess with his brother was resolved. Hopefully, when Sophie got here, she’d take on the books. He dreaded the accounting stuff.

  He opened a desk drawer, scrounged for a scratch pad…then halted. He heard the same vague thump again. He stood up restlessly, listened again.

  Nothing. Weirded out now, he unearthed his cell phone, punched in Sophie’s cell. Naturally, he only got her voice mail. If the cops hadn’t black-inked a worry about those two women friends of hers, Cord wouldn’t think anything of it. She didn’t have a time-clock sort of job. Stopping by the cleaners could have held her up. Anything could have slowed her down.