by Deeanne Gist
Logan rolled his eyes. “Give me a break, Nate.”
“So where’s your sidekick?”
“Wash? He’s meeting me here. And don’t call him that to his face.”
“I was talking about Rylee Monroe.”
“I wouldn’t say it to her, either. Now are you going to fill me in on what’s happening here or not?”
Campbell jabbed a thumb over his shoulder. “What’s it look like?”
It looked like a crime scene.
Logan glanced up and down Prices Alley. No signs so far of the tv news crews. Only a matter of time.
“Could I at least get a statement from you?”
Campbell jutted his chin. “Yeah. I’ll give you a statement. At half past five this morning, the neighbors called 9-1-1 to report the alarm was going off. The couple that lives here, the Davidsons, weren’t home. First officers on the scene found the door open, went inside, saw what looked like a Category 5 hurricane. Demolition derby on steroids.”
“Was anything taken?”
The detective shrugged. “How should I know? It’s like ground zero in there.”
“Why didn’t the security company respond?”
“The owners didn’t have the alarm monitored. Pretty stupid, if you ask me. Houses like this go for four or five million these days.
It’s not like they can’t afford it.”
“Wouldn’t the alarm have gone off as soon as the door was breached?”
“Yeah. The neighbors finally called it in, say, ten minutes later. We responded within ten, and there was no sign of him . . .
or her.”
“He didn’t have a lot of time on his hands, then.”
“Unless she had keys. Took her time. Then set off the alarm on her way out.”
In the interest of gathering as much info as he could, Logan ignored the veiled reference to Rylee. “So you’re treating this as another Robin Hood burglary?”
“What do you think?”
“And George Reid?” Logan asked. “Did you have him under surveillance this morning?”
A woman’s voice came from the other side of the fence. “That’s what I want to know.”
They turned to find Sheila Santos, a middle-aged woman in pinstripes, standing just in earshot. Her jacket was too snug to close, revealing a shiny badge on one side of her belt and a crooked holster on the other. Her dark hair was skullcap short, her makeup heavy as lead.
Nate started walking. “Look, I’d love to stay and chat, but—”
“So he didn’t do it?” Logan asked Santos. “Does that mean the police are his alibi?”
“—as you can imagine, I have actual detective work to do.”
Nate’s hand moved for the gate latch, while Logan gave Santos an inquiring look. But she kept her lip zipped.
“Wait.” Logan turned back to Nate. “Can’t you get me inside?” He considered the question, then sighed. “Of course I can.”
He opened the gate and went through. Logan started to follow, but the gate slammed shut, blocking the path.
“But I don’t want to.”
Logan draped a hand over the fence. “Come on, Nate.”
A heartless smile. “Tell you what. You just sit tight out here, and once we’re done, maybe the family will invite you in. They made it back home just a little while ago. Now if you’ll excuse me.” He made a beeline for Santos, escorting her inside the house.
After the brush-off, Logan set up shop on the sidewalk, phoning the preliminaries in to the news desk. Then he called and left a message for Marcel Gibbon. He’d called three or four times the night before, when Gibbon failed to appear. It made no sense to insist on a meeting and then not turn up.
Unless . . . He shook his head, dismissing the thought, but it wouldn’t go away. Maybe the Cherub had a reason. Maybe he wanted to make sure they were at Washington Park at the prescribed hour. And not at the Davidson place, which was about to be hit.
He checked his own messages, but there was nothing from Gibbon. Instead, he heard the voice of Seth, his agent. “I’m assuming, since you haven’t been returning my calls, that you don’t have the pages I’ve been asking for. Well, let me tell you something, buddy.
Dora’s quit calling for updates. You know what that means? That means I need pages sprinkled with fairy dust. And if you don’t get them to me fast, we’re gonna lose this thing. Call me. Now.”
He rubbed his face. The manuscript was still light. He needed to write up a stack of new notes. Maybe he’d do that now, while he waited to see the Davidsons.
After grabbing his laptop and notes from his car, he spent the next forty-five minutes sitting on the curb, incessantly tapping the keyboard. The tv crews began to arrive, setting up across the street for the wide shot. A kid in a multi-pocketed mesh vest jogged over to shoo Logan out of frame.
He shot the pages off to Seth, then put his laptop back in the car just as Wash strode up, his big camera hanging loose, bouncing against his pecs. The two of them headed for some shade.
“Funny,” Wash said. “I could swear I’ve seen that outfit before.” He scratched his head in mock concentration, then lifted a eureka finger in the air. “Hey, wait a second. Weren’t you wearing the same thing last night when you left the beach? If I didn’t know better—”
“Nate’s trying to shut us out.”
Wash registered the teeming activity behind the fence. “For real?”
Logan nodded. “I called in some prelims, but until we can get in there and talk to the owners, time’s a’wasting.”
Making the most of the delay, Wash took some exterior shots. Logan tagged along just to look busy. Like the Petrie house, this one sat perpendicular to the street, with a false entrance leading up to a piazza. As a result, the place looked smaller and more discreet than it really was.
Logan counted two floors, but the attic windows were curtained, suggesting the third might be in use. The piazza was topped by a second-floor veranda trimmed in elegant white woodwork for the complete storybook effect. Although the fence fronting the side yard was screened in thick foliage, Logan caught a glimpse of flowers in full bloom. He heard splashing water, too.
“You know what you could do,” Wash said.
“What’s that?”
“Your new girlfriend. She knows these folks, right? She works for all of them.”
“I don’t want her anywhere near here,” Logan said. “If Reid didn’t do it—and I’m pretty sure he didn’t or they’d have caught him in the act—then Rylee is the prime suspect.”
Wash shrugged. “But she was with you all night, right? You can vouch for her.”
He could, up until about three thirty when he fell asleep beside her. But when he woke, she was gone. He had no way of knowing exactly when she got out of the car. And if the alarm went off at five thirty, then his testimony would do more harm than good.
“Look at that.” Wash lifted his camera to eye level, pointing the lens down the alleyway. “Speak o’ the devil.”
Turning, Logan felt his chest tighten. Rylee. The first time he’d seen her since last night. Since this morning, really. She hadn’t seen him yet, hadn’t noticed all the commotion.
Unaware of the shock awaiting her, she seemed completely absorbed in the music from the white earbuds whose wires dangled along her throat. She wore a pair of cutoffs and pink tennis shoes.
Her pale semitransparent top shimmered slightly in the air, the body printed with a pattern of leaves, the sleeves with peacock feathers.
Her short, dark hair framed her cheekbones, her unaware eyes, the lips parted slightly. So beautiful. So innocent.
But was she? He caught a strain underneath the placid lines of her face.
The sound of Wash’s shutter punctured his reverie.
“You’re always taking pictures of her,” Logan said.
“I’ll send you some.”
“Yes, you will.”
She came to a sudden stop, her tranquil expression gone, all that suppres
sed tension suddenly surfacing. She took in the scene, her eyes widening. Recognizing Logan, she rushed forward, her big canvas messenger bag bouncing against her hip.
She stretched her hand out tentatively, touching him on the forearm. “What’s happening?”
But he could tell by the look on her face she already knew.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
She backed away, shaking her head. “Not the Davidsons. Not them. We were just here. Everything was fine.” Her voice was hollow. Shell-shocked.
“Shhh.” Glancing around, he took her elbow. “You need to get out of here.”
She pulled away, bolting for the closed gate.
“Rylee, wait!”
Instead of stopping her, Wash jumped out of the way, leaving Logan to fend for himself. He caught up to her just as she threw the gate wide. He grabbed her by the hand. Behind him, he could feel the gathered news teams taking a sudden interest.
“Nate’s in there,” he said under his breath.
“What about Toro? Is he all right?”
“I’m sure he’s fine. But apparently Robin Hood did a real number on the place. They’re sorting through the wreckage now. Trying to figure out what’s what.”
He couldn’t tell if she was taking all this in, but at least she’d paused outside the gate. She was breathing heavily, though, and might bolt at any second. “You need to get out of sight.”
“Why? I didn’t do anything. They can’t accuse me just because I work for these people.”
“Yes, they can.”
Wash strolled up, turning his back to them, screening the action from the other reporters as best he could.
“Rylee,” Logan said. “Please.”
“They’re good people, the Davidsons.” She chewed at her bottom lip. “This shouldn’t have happened to them.”
“It shouldn’t happen to anyone. But let’s be careful here.”
He coaxed her back through the fence, then put an arm around her, the fabric of her sleeve ephemeral. With Wash alongside, he led her down the sidewalk a few steps, closing the gate behind them. Ten more steps and they’d have a hedge of green between themselves and the police. Logan began to think they might make it.
“Hold it right there!” With a couple of uniformed men in his wake, Campbell burst through the gate, bounding toward them with a determined scowl.
Logan sensed a half dozen video cameras limbering up, lenses leveled in their direction. Beside him, Rylee drew a breath, then turned as the cops advanced, meeting them head on.
“Where were you this morning around five thirty?” Campbell asked.
“Five thirty?” She glanced at Logan, then back at Nate.
“Sleeping.”
Campbell had his notebook out, flipping like a traffic warden though the pages. Behind him, a wall of uniforms had assembled, lending their silent weight to the exchange.
“Can you verify that, Logan?”
“I can.”
Nate looked up. “You sure about that? Because in order to corroborate her story, you’d have to have been awake at five thirty and seen her beside you.” He leered at Logan. “You sure you didn’t wake up alone? Maybe with a little note on the pillow that said, ‘Thanks for the good time.’ A note that left you to wonder just exactly when she slinked out the door?”
Logan didn’t respond, a tic pulsing in his jaw.
“Did you feel used?”
Rylee sucked in her breath.
Wash grabbed Logan’s arm, retaining hold of it until Logan shook free.
The photographer let out a long breath, making sure everybody knew how unimpressed he was with police conduct, then moved to the side. Looking through the finder, he began to snap photos.
Logan could’ve kissed him. The camera had such a moderating effect. The itch of that shutter popping made everybody step back. The uniformed officers assumed a look of professional indifference.
Campbell paused to gather his thoughts. “That’s what I thought.” He tucked his pad and pencil back into his pocket. “Rylee Monroe, you’re under arrest.”
She gasped.
“You have the right to remain silent. Anything you do or say may be used against you in a court of law. . . .”
She slipped her messenger bag from her shoulder and handed it to Logan. “Karl’s number is on my phone. Tell him I need him.”
“You have the right to consult an attorney before talking to the police. . . .”
An officer pulled her hands behind her and snapped on the cuffs.
“I know you don’t like him, Logan. But I need him. Will you call him for me?”
He stood flat-footed, uncertain what to do.
“Will you?” she asked, her eyes clear. Unwavering. Determined. “I will.”
Thank you, she mouthed, letting her defenses down just long enough to give him a peek into the panic churning inside her before she turned away.
His heart lurched.
“Knowing and understanding your rights as I have explained them to you, are you willing to answer my questions without an attorney present?”
“I will not.” Her glare could have saved the polar ice caps, it was so cold, but Campbell seemed unimpressed.
He jerked his head toward a line of cop cars.
The officer who’d cuffed Rylee escorted her to one, video cameras tracking their progress, reporters shouting questions.
Chapter Nineteen
A swell of police vehicles choked off the street, distinctly out of place in such stately surroundings. The departing patrol car with Rylee inside reversed onto the road, giving a siren squawk to keep the crowd back.
Nate announced to the members of the press that the family would not be making any statements at this time, but the police chief would hold a press conference at the station within the hour.
“I’m gonna head back to the newsroom with these photographs, then.” Wash squeezed Logan’s shoulder. “Hang tight, man. It’ll be all right.”
Logan nodded, still trying to take it all in.
The television news crews scrambled into position to film breaking reports of the unexpected arrest. A motley rank of bystanders gathered along the sidewalk. A gray-haired, dark-suited superior walked through the gate, motioning Nate over. They strolled behind the cordon, Nate speaking rapidly, then listening with reluctant deference as the other man replied.
Logan cut across the street, working his way around the edge of the emergency vehicles to the other side of Meeting where his car waited. He dug through Rylee’s bag for her phone. A scroll through her contact list yielded Karl’s number.
He slipped into the driver’s seat of his car, staring at the send button. Karl Sebastian hadn’t done George any good, and he didn’t think things would be any different with Rylee. Still, she’d asked him to call Karl, and he’d agreed.
The receptionist’s voice sounded overly bright. “Sebastian, Lynch & Orton.”
“Hello. This is Logan Woods.”
She sighed. “Mr. Woods, I’ve told you—”
“Don’t hang up. Rylee Monroe’s been arrested, and she asked me to call Karl on her behalf.”
A hesitation. “One moment, please.”
He thrummed the steering wheel. Finally, they put him through.
“This is Karl Sebastian.”
“The police just arrested Rylee. They’re taking her in for processing now. The detective in charge is still at the scene, so you might want to move quickly.”
If any of this surprised Karl, he hid it well. From the change in ambient sound, Logan could tell he was already in motion, asking questions as he walked. Logan filled in the details. Criminal law might not be the man’s specialty, but he seemed to know what he was doing.
“All right,” Karl said. “I’ll take care of it.”
“You can get her out?”
“As soon as I get her in front of a judge so bail can be set.”
The weight of the situation pressed down on him, making it difficult to breathe. He’d
been with her just a few hours ago, and now she was in jail. Like a common criminal.
He wanted to throw the phone. Kick in a wall. Inflict some kind of damage.
Instead, he sat in his parked car gripping the phone so hard it would leave an imprint on his hand. The hope of resolving the situation quickly, setting things right, did not look good.
“You can get her out, though?” he asked again.
“Of course.” Karl’s tone crackled with defensiveness. “In the meantime, I want you to leave her alone. Whatever story you’re after, it ends here. She’s my client, and she’s off limits to the media. Do I make myself clear?”
Logan bit back his reply. No way was he leaving her alone, but he didn’t have to say so to the lawyer. “Thanks for your help, Karl.”
Hanging up the phone, he called Lacey Lamar. “Somehow the police have come to the conclusion that Rylee Monroe is the Robin Hood burglar, and now they’re processing her at headquarters.”
“Maybe she is,” Lacey said.
He ignored this. “Karl Sebastian’s her attorney. He said he’d get her in front of a judge as soon as possible.”
“I thought he wasn’t taking your calls.”
“He took this one.”
She paused on the other end of the line. “This is a big development, Logan. I know you’re involved personally. I should have stopped it before now. But I want you to know one thing. If I don’t think you’re on top of it, I won’t have any qualms about putting someone else on the story. My patience is wearing thin. You understand me?”
Involved personally? He almost laughed. Lacey didn’t know the half of it. He was dating the prime suspect of the story he was covering.
“Answer me, Woods.”
Never in his career had he been pulled off a story. But when Lacey found out for certain he’d been with Rylee at the scene of the crime a few short hours before the break-in, she’d skewer him.
“I hear you, Lacey. Loud and clear.”
Hanging up, he stared out the windshield. A black-and-white Ford Interceptor was pulling away, edging around the bumper of a news van. Just outside the cone of activity, he spotted Rylee’s Civic.
