by Deeanne Gist
Public service? Wash mouthed. He sat on the edge of Logan’s desk, making no effort to mask his interest.
Logan cleared his throat. “Listen, about last night. Detective Campbell was a little out of line.”
“You think?” A bite in her voice.
“Could I make it up to you? Maybe over a cup of coffee?”
Wash lifted his brows.
“I’d rather not.”
Logan swiveled his chair so his back was to Wash, but he still held the photo pinched between his fingers. “Just a quote, a sound bite, would be all I’d need.”
“I thought you wanted to make it up to me.”
“I do.”
“But you also want a sound bite.”
“If you don’t mind.”
On her end of the phone, a trolley car bell drowned out her next few words. “ . . . just answer your questions over the phone?”
He ran his thumb up and down the edge of the photo. “We could do a sound bite over the phone, but I’ve always thought apologies should be done in person.”
A hum of silence.
He sensed her wavering. “There’s a Starbucks on—”
“What about City Lights?” she said, her voice resigned. “You know that one?”
“City Lights?” He glanced at Wash, raising an eyebrow in question.
“It’s on Market between Meeting and King,” she said.
“Right.” Logan checked his watch. “What time?”
“Can you do it right now? Otherwise, it’ll have to be tomorrow afternoon.”
“Now is fine. I’m on my way.”
“Looks like she’s gonna make you grovel.” Wash snapped a picture, then indicated the tables outside City Lights.
Rylee pulled out a chair and sat at one of them, glancing through the big bay window.
“Oldest female trick in the book—make ’em come to you.” Wash focused his zoom. “ ’Course with a girl like that, groveling would be a pleasure.”
Logan quickly scanned the menu chalked on the blackboard. “Let me have two coffees of the day, please.” He placed some bills on the counter. “You stay here, Wash.”
“What? Is me being out there gonna cramp your style?”
“I was thinking about her.”
Wash grinned. “You sure you don’t need a witness? In case she calls the police on you again?”
Logan narrowed his eyes.
“All right. All right.”
Logan dropped his change in the tip jar, picked up the mugs and a couple of creamers, and then pushed out the door.
She waited at the table, her eyes hidden behind sunglasses. A dark-wash denim mini-skirt sheathed her thighs, and her frilly top left her shoulders and arms bare.
He started to smile, then stalled midway. At her feet, a tiny white and gold dog stared up at him, the leash hanging limp in Rylee’s slender hand.
“I can’t bring him inside. Don’t worry. He doesn’t bite.” She leaned over to scrub the thing’s head with her nails. “Do you, boy?
Do you?”
“I didn’t realize you were working.”
She straightened. “I’m always working. Will Tippy bother you?
You’re not allergic, are you?”
He shook his head, trying to ignore the tightness in his chest. “I got you a cup of basic black and some creamers. If you’d rather have something else . . . ?”
“No. I love black.” She ventured a sip, then nodded. “Thanks.”
He settled into the wrought-iron chair next to hers but opposite the dog, then leaned onto the table, close enough to inhale her scent, close enough almost for their arms to touch. “Listen, I’m sorry about the way things went down last night. I usually see Nate either in his office or on the baseball field. If I’d known how . . . excited he was going to get, I never would have enlisted his help.”
She crossed her legs, swinging her foot back and forth. Her flats were fire-engine red. “What made you think you needed help? I told you I had Toro. I told you I wouldn’t let him get you.”
He could have launched into an account of his sad history with canines and even shown her some traumatic childhood scars, but he bit his tongue instead. Apologies were best unqualified. “It was wrong of me. I’m sorry. And I’m sorry for the way Nate acted.”
Her foot stopped. He wished he could see her eyes.
“He’s a real jerk, your friend.”
“We all have our moments.”
“Are you making excuses for him?”
“No. He was totally out of line, and I’m both sorry and embarrassed.” She pushed her sunglasses up onto her head. The sunlight shrank her pupils, leaving brown irises the color of toffee. The camera hadn’t done them justice.
Her voice was so soft, he almost didn’t catch her words over the sound of traffic. “I really was scared. This Robin Hood thing is freaking me out. Stuff like that isn’t supposed to happen south of Broad.” She searched his eyes. “You have no idea how frightening it was to have you and your photographer pop out at me like that.”
He curled his hand around his mug. “I know. And I’m sorry for that, too. We were going for a kind of dramatic angle for our photos. That’s why you didn’t see us right away.”
As apologies went, it definitely ranked up there. And he seemed sincere. But his motive was still suspect. Was he genuinely sorry, or had he apologized simply because he wanted his sound bite? Or worse, what if his detective buddy put him up to it in order to fish for information?
Tippy wandered toward a communal canine water bowl under the front window, the leash lengthening as it went. The dog lapped up the liquid, then made his way toward Logan.
He looked different without his baseball cap. A thick mop of brown hair streaked by the sun lay in artful disarray, the ends curling slightly in the humidity. His chocolate-colored eyes were surrounded by eyelashes longer than hers, yet there was nothing feminine about him.
His eyebrows looked as if an artist had made a quick slash with his brush to frame each eye. A defined nose and jaw drew her eyes to his mouth. Subtle grooves on each side hinted at a lifetime of smiles.
He eyed Tippy as the dog scratched its ear, paw thumping Logan’s shoe after each scratch.
She snapped her fingers. “Come ’ere, Tippy.”
Logan’s shoulders relaxed the tiniest bit. He flipped his notebook open, setting it on the table in front of him. “So.” He cleared his throat. “Are we good?”
“Depends.”
“On what?”
“On whether or not the detective sent you here to question me.”
“Nate?” He reared back. “Why would he do that? Nate conducts his own interviews. I have nothing to do with his work and he has nothing to do with mine.”
She bit her lip, still unsure.
He held out his hand. “Let’s start over, okay? I’m Logan.”
The appeal in his eyes was impossible to resist. After a slight hesitation, she reached out. His hand was warm to the touch. “I’m Rylee.”
“You had quite a morning, I hear.”
She took another sip, then placed her mug down gently. “Yes, I did.”
“You know the Bosticks, then. The people whose jockey got stolen?”
She nodded. “It was kinda surreal, seeing it there at the church.
I was, like, Wait a minute—I recognize that thing. Then, like an idiot, I offered to take it back to them. There could be fingerprints, and I put my hands on it.”
He pulled a digital recorder from his pocket and set it on the table. “Do you mind?”
“No, I guess not.”
He pressed the record button. “This statue, it was the first of the thefts. Did you talk to the Bosticks about it?”
She gazed up at the striped umbrella they sat beneath, tapping into her memory. “I remember Mr. Bostick saying they were going to change the door locks, which was funny because the guy had jimmied the window overlooking the garden. When I asked him what was wrong, he showed me the ment
ion in the paper.” She turned to him. “I guess you wrote that?”
“I did.”
“You know how you said which night the break-in occurred?”
He nodded.
“Well, that was actually the night they discovered the statue was missing.”
“It wasn’t stolen on—” he flipped through his notebook “—August ninth?”
She shook her head. “They don’t know exactly when it went missing.”
“How could that be?”
“You could only tell from the outside that there was damage to the window. When the thief shut it again, it was unnoticeable from inside.”
“And the perp came in from the garden?”
She blew on the warm liquid in her mug, sending waves across its black surface. “The Bosticks travel a lot. They have a beautiful garden, but I think the gardener and I are pretty much the only ones who ever go out there.”
“You’d think they would notice the statue was gone, though.
It’s two feet tall, right?”
“Yes, but I can see why they didn’t miss it right away. Their place is like a museum. A lot of those historic houses are, but that one in particular.” She flicked the hair from her eyes and smiled. “You know how they realized it had been stolen?”
“I don’t, actually. I based my article on the police report and a couple of phone conversations with Doug Bostick, who made it sound like the crime was reported as soon as it happened.” His eyes had widened slightly, calling attention to caramel accents radiating from their centers.
“I can see how you thought that, but the day they called the police, Mrs. Bostick was telling her husband she wanted to hire a new maid service. In the middle of this discussion, she goes over to the table where the statue was, and starts pointing out the dust on everything. And she sees this square section, perfectly dust-free.
‘What was standing right here?’ she asks, and he can’t remember.
They went all through the house and finally it came to her, the bronze jockey. Isn’t that something?”
“It is.” He made a note, his arms and shoulders crowding the circular tabletop.
Tippy circled the gap between their chairs. Rylee moved her Vera Bradley bag, grazing Logan’s arm by accident.
She jerked back, but he didn’t seem to notice.
“There’s a lot of stuff in that house more valuable than a bronze statue,” she said, resting her hand over the spot where they’d touched.
“Same with the box that was stolen from the Sebastians.”
“You know the Sebastians?”
“Yes. They’re a new client of mine.”
He made another note. “And the jewelry casket? You’d seen it before the theft?”
She shook her head. “I’d never been upstairs before that day. But Karl said it had been in his family for years.”
“I’ve been trying to get ahold of him.”
“You know what really bothers me?” A spark of irritation flashed through her. “How the thief donates his spoils to charity, and suddenly this . . . crime starts looking quaint. Stealing from the rich, giving to the poor. People think it’s funny.”
“It is pretty unique, you have to admit.”
“Well, you didn’t see the expression on Karl’s face when he discovered the box was missing. Whoever did this took more than a jewelry box from that family.”
He copied down a few of her phrases. She watched his hands form the letters in a surprisingly neat script.
Whoever did this took more than a jewelry box from that family.
“Look at this.” She dug through her shoulder bag and produced her key ring. It reminded her of the kind a jailer in an old movie would have swinging from his hip. She moved her fingers deftly through the stacks of color-coded keys, isolating a series set apart by pink adhesive dots. “Before the break-in, I had just the one key for the Bosticks, and now there’s three. Three locks on every door.”
Logan stared at the key ring. “So wait a second. You have keys to the Sebastian and Bostick places? You go in and out?”
“Of course I do. People don’t just meet me at the door and hand their dogs over. Some of them are out of town, some work during the day, some of my elderly clients have difficulty with the stairs. And some just don’t want to be bothered.”
“And all those keys.” He indicated the thick stack radiating around the ring. “Those are to other people’s places around town?”
She straightened, well aware of what he implied. “I offer a specialized service.”
“To Charleston’s elite.”
“I work south of Broad, if that’s what you mean.”
“Exactly. The old money.”
“And the new. A lot of my clients are out-of-towners who just come to Charleston as a getaway.”
“Pretty expensive weekend house.”
“Like I said, valuable is a relative term.” Uncomfortable with the direction of the conversation, she checked her watch. “Listen, I need to get going. Do you have what you need?”
“Sure. I appreciate you meeting me.” He hit the stop button on his recorder and stood.
He had to be around six foot one. She hadn’t noticed it when he was up on that statue. But standing next to him, she realized he topped her by several inches and she was five eight in her bare feet.
Tippy jumped up, tail wagging.
Rylee hesitated. “I did want to say that I’m sorry Toro chased you up that statue.”
He smiled. A boyish good-natured grin. “No problem.”
She moistened her lips, unsure if she should shake his hand or exactly what. In the end, she gave an awkward wave and led Tippy down the sidewalk in the direction of Market Hall.
Chapter Five
Toro nosed the gate, anxious to begin their nighttime run.
“Rylee?”
She turned.
Mrs. Davidson stood at the threshold of the front door in a flowing silk caftan and matching house slippers. “Maybe you shouldn’t go out there alone, not with these robberies going on. A young woman, all by herself—” She shivered. “I hate to think about what could happen.”
Rylee answered with a broad smile, ruffling the fur at Toro’s neck. “I’ll be all right. Toro here will watch out for me.”
Waving, Rylee skated into the night, not giving Mrs. Davidson a chance to reply. Her concern was touching, but even at night, Rylee knew the city, knew its twists and turns, its hidden gardens, its alleyways and shortcuts.
Ducking under a low-hanging branch, she cut down a cobbled path, Toro surging forward. Now that she knew it had only been Logan and his photographer lurking in the shadows last night, her fears had mostly disappeared.
Then Toro stopped, bringing her up short.
A silhouette of a man at the other end of the alley ducked into the shadows. A streetlamp flickered, the swaying tree canopy baffling its light.
“Stay, boy,” she whispered, tightening her grip on the leash.
Goose bumps raised along her forearm.
She reached under the flap of her messenger bag, digging around until her hand gripped her flashlight. No way was she calling 9-1-1 again.
She thumbed on the flashlight. A cone of light illuminated the wooden slats of a partition fence.
She swept the beam left and right.
Nothing.
But she could feel his presence.
Toro growled, crouching on his haunches, though he seemed reluctant to charge into the unknown.
“It’s okay, boy.” She smoothed his head. “Come on. Let’s turn around.”
They circled with caution, retracing their steps.
A rustle of branches. She whirled, shining the light again.
Nothing to see.
Her heart raced. Part of her wanted to turn and run. But she had Toro by her side. And she wouldn’t let her fears drive her off the streets she loved.
She switched the light off but kept it firmly in hand, then set a brisk pace, shaking the leash
to get Toro moving. They made for the golden streetlamps of Meeting Street, away from the fragrant, secluded gardens tucked into the side alley.
More shuffling over her shoulder. A dash from tree to tree. A footstep sliding over the cobbles.
She imagined the shadow gaining on her, ghostly hands reaching out.
The hair on the back of her neck tingled, but she kept moving. Ready to shine her light on any noise too pronounced to write off as just the wind or a stray cat.
I’m being followed.
The thought seemed crazy. But this wasn’t her imagination. She’d seen the silhouette. She’d heard the movement, in spite of his effort to go unnoticed.
They reached Meeting Street and headed toward Broad, where even at this hour they were bound to encounter a stray tourist, some late-night partygoers, or even a couple out walking the dog.
She glanced behind, and there he was.
Just the crescent of a head eclipsing the light of a streetlamp. Lurking at the alley entrance. She was too far to away to make out any features. It could be anyone.
Then he was gone.
She felt a shiver run through her. All her strength ebbed away. Toro brushed her hip, panting softly, and she nearly fell.
They continued to Prices Alley, where the Davidsons lived, encountering no one. At the alley entrance, she stopped, gazing through the darkness for a glimpse of King Street.
He could have doubled back, cut through to King, and then made his way to the opposite end of Prices Alley.
She flicked the flashlight back on, throwing the beam ahead of her.
She saw nothing amiss, but these streets interconnected. They were full of nooks to hide in. He could stalk her like game and never reveal himself.
Taking a deep breath, she glided forward. Toro loped along, undisturbed by doubts, his bulk reassuring her.
She reached the gate, hustled the mastiff inside, and breathed a sigh of relief.
The ordeal was over. In the warm light of the Davidsons’ kitchen, she removed her rollerblades. Surrounded by familiar objects, she could almost convince herself it was all a mistake. Just a man out walking whose path had crossed hers.
“Are you all right?”
She looked up.
Mrs. Davidson stood in the archway, her silk tunic billowing about her ankles, her reading glasses perched at the end of her nose. In her veined hand, she held a closed paperback, her finger marking the page.
