Karin snatched it out of the air with satisfaction, and then gestured with the pistol, suggesting that the sullen man join up with Freddie. “You’ll find the bike in Old Town, a couple of blocks from the flower shop.”
The man snorted. “What do I know about Old Town?”
“Not my problem. You shouldn’t have interfered with my business. And oh—they use parking meters on that part of the street, so I wouldn’t dawdle. I’m really low on change right now.”
Freddie grunted again, but this time with amusement at the man’s expense. When he turned to Karin he said, “Go on. He won’t try to stop you. You played this clean…come back if you need to.” He ran a meaty thumb over the watch face and added, “Bring another nice gift if you do.”
Karin grinned. “Always do.” She pulled the door open just enough to slip through, and found the motorcycle half a block down, up against the curb. A big solid Kawasaki Vulcan—no wonder the guy was anxious about it. Well, he’d have it back by morning.
She hopped on the bike, started it up and slowly released the hand clutch to pull out into the thinning traffic of late evening, reveling in the trickle of excitement that told her well done. Tomorrow she’d meet with the printer and see if they could pull off the invitation.
Just like old times. From the bump-and-snatch on the street to her ability to handle Freddie to keeping on track in spite of the complications caused by the bike’s owner. It might have been easier with Dave at her side, but—
The excitement took a strange dive as she realized how he would have reacted to the watch, how he would have reacted to her casual use of the gun. To how easily she’d performed the little dance of acceptance with Freddie.
No, it wouldn’t have been easier with Dave after all. She’d made the right decision, going solo.
But her excitement had disappeared, to be replaced by an unexpected, sullen fatigue. She rode the motorcycle north, winding her way through unfamiliar streets until she found a good spot, and left the bike by the curb. She dropped a few coins in the meter, and then wondered if she’d have done the same had she not been thinking about Dave and his damnable honor.
Damnable was right. “It was good work,” she told the bike in defiance, and then left it there, walking the blocks to the hotel. She plucked up her room key card out of the potted plant, buffed it clean against her thigh and went to her room. She needed a good night’s sleep, and then she’d head off into tomorrow.
And this time she’d be sure to leave the anchor of Dave’s conscience behind.
Chapter 17
She was still here somewhere. Dave propped his forehead in his hands and muttered a sound of pure frustration.
She just wasn’t here as Ellen Sommers, Karin Sommers or Brooke Ellington. Big surprise, she’d had another identity to fall back on.
But she was out there. She’d taken the list of links, the society page printouts, the pages of notes about the people who ran in Barret Longsford’s circles…everything she needed to continue the scam.
And she’d taken his gun. That irritated him the most. It seemed…personal. He’d already replaced the Ruger, although not before he’d spent the morning alternating between fury and pain as he unsuccessfully hunted Karin.
He hadn’t expected her to leave.
And exactly what, his almost-buried common sense asked him, had he thought she would do? He’d given her plenty of reason to doubt him. She’d broken her cover to offer him her expertise, and he’d given her grief.
Even now, unease made his stomach do a slow roll. Her skills were built on a lifetime of theft and deception, and it wasn’t a morality he could accept. Nor was the California warrant something he could ignore, even if he hoped the charges weren’t true.
But leaving her out there to carry this off on her own wasn’t an option, either.
He looked at the thick Yellow Pages spread open before him—all the hotels he’d called marked off with neat X’s. “Where are you, dammit?”
But she wasn’t going to be easily found. He shut the phone book with a thump and turned his thoughts to Longsford, reaching for the thick sheaf of notes he’d collected on the man so far.
That was when it hit him.
He didn’t have to find Karin. He knew what she was after. If he put himself in the right spot at the right time, she’d find him.
And meanwhile, he had work to do. One way or the other, Longsford was going down.
Dave wished he didn’t think Karin would go down with him.
Karin walked out into the crisp morning, depositing her key card into its damp hiding spot with no more hesitation than a woman recovering from a slight misstep. She had the Ruger in the field jacket, but she didn’t expect to use it. Today the printer might decide to work for her or he might not, but either way it would be a genteel encounter as compared to the gauntlet she’d run to get this far.
And if the printer refused to work with her, she’d find another. Definitely not an optimal plan; her timetable depended on this step. And on Longsford’s next big social whirl—cocktails at an environmental benefit event held in his own home.
Too perfect, really.
She walked past where she’d parked the motorcycle the night before; the bike had been reclaimed. She smiled to herself. She hadn’t really wanted him to lose the thing. Be it on his head that he’d walked into the wrong shop at the wrong time and acted like a jerk.
Well, she’d done what she had to. And she’d made it back to the hotel safely, and here she was in the same clothes—her laid-back tough-girl outfit—ready to take the next step.
Today’s destination wasn’t far from the pawnshop, but it nonetheless crossed one of those invisible lines between neighborhoods. The new neighborhood upgraded from scum-of-the-earth sordidness to merely plain, old and crowded. Touches of leftover class peeked out through the architecture, the occasional Victorian paint job and the windowsill plantings. The cabbie took her through a business strip and into a small warren of streets, and when he pulled to the curb, it was at a pleasant little house with a Big Wheels out front and toys scattered near the sidewalk leading to the front door. Barbie, baby, G.I. Joe—they all met the same naked fate. The tiny clothesline strung between two azalea bushes went a long way toward explaining that one.
Had she been anyone else, Karin might have hesitated, assuming she had the wrong address. But she had reason enough to know that scammers had family, too.
The woman who opened the door was plump with rich brown skin, marked with random ink stains on the old men’s shirt she wore. She took one look at Karin and said, “Ah. The Tiffany watch and the big black gun.”
“It’s a Ruger,” Karin told her. “Can I come in?”
“Do you have it with you now?”
She didn’t answer directly, just gave the smallest of shrugs—a little bit apology, a little bit matter-of-fact. “After my reception at Freddie’s?”
“Yeah, I guess so.” But when she stepped back so Karin could enter the foyer, she pointed at a high shelf over the door. “Put it there. My kid’s in the house.”
Karin complied, though not without a quick assessment of the woman, who gave her a scornful look. “No, I don’t have a gun. What did I just say about my kid being in the house? Besides, people here know better than to harass me. I’m the best this city has, and we do look after our own.” She glanced back at Karin as she led the way to the basement, a stairwell and low-ceilinged area so well lit that it might as well have been daylight down there. “You’ll learn that fast enough, if you’re looking to move into this area.”
“I told Freddie I wasn’t.”
No doubt she knew that, too. No doubt she was leaving Karin room to tie her cover story into knots.
“Doesn’t matter,” Karin added. “I know the score. I’m not part of this community. That makes me expendable. So I’m looking after myself, and that means not messing with you.”
The woman gave a short laugh and gestured at a long worktable with high-backed st
ools. “Have a seat.” The table itself was covered with evidence of previous jobs—stains and smears and lumps of dried ink—but no sign of current work. Karin hoped it meant she was in between jobs, and not merely playing it safe after she got Freddie’s heads-up.
Karin didn’t waste any time. She pulled out the picture of the invitation, and then the sheet with the printer specs on it. “Can you make me one of these? Thirty-six hours?”
The woman snorted at her bluntness but didn’t dismiss the idea. “This is pricey stuff. Looks like Houghlin’s work.” She glanced up long enough to receive Karin’s nod of affirmation and then looked at the invitation again, this time biting her lower lip. From above them came a thump and a flurry of giggles; without looking up, the woman called up the stairs, “I’m watching you!” and then, finally, returned the picture.
“I need it to look just like that, but made out to Maia Brenner, for this event.” She handed over the card on which she’d written Maia’s name, and the name of Longsford’s benefit event.
“They’re just going to ask for your money.” She tapped the picture a few times in thought, and then shook her head. “It’s specialty paper. I can’t get it that fast.”
“It’s not about money at all,” Karin said, dropping her voice just in case the words might carry upstairs. “I’m looking to reel in bigger fish. Someone who takes children. He does unspeakable things to them, and then he kills them. He’ll be at this function. I need to meet him there.”
The woman paled slightly. “The water-tower boy?”
Karin gave a succinct nod. “Exactly.”
“Whatever it’s about, I need to get paid. And I don’t take Tiffany’s.”
“Cash for you,” Karin said. “Where it comes from isn’t your problem.” She still hoped to complete the scam and get herself a new start, but nothing was going according to plan for this one. Especially not the man who was meant to be her partner and who was instead now probably trying to do his best to stop her. “Charge for the fast turnaround. Whatever.”
Finally the woman sighed. “No promises,” she said. “The ink’s no problem, but I might not be able to get the paper. Let me know where I can reach you.”
Karin gave her the number, assuring her it was a prepaid cell phone purchased only the day before. “I’m Maia,” she said, and then grinned. “Well, as long as I’m here, I’m Maia.”
“You can call me anything you like,” the woman said absently; her thoughts already seemed caught up in the challenge of the job. “Just don’t try to get in touch. I’ll make contact.”
Sensing her dismissal, Karin pulled out the material for Ranchwood Acres and slapped it on the table. “Now that we’ve got that out of the way, I also need this material prepared in slicks. The URLs to the Web site pages are included, and there’s a PDF download. Very thoughtful of them. I just need a few pertinent details changed. I’ll get back to you on those when you call about the invitation. Can you do it?”
She snorted. “This one’s hardly worth coming to me.”
“Except for your reputation for quality,” Karin said. “I’m pushing this one. There can’t be so much as a smudge out of place. He’s got to take the bait hard and fast.”
“And you’re sure—”
“Oh, this is him.” She smiled thinly. “And I’m going to stop him.”
The woman looked at her with dark humor that seemed out of place on her otherwise urban young mother face. “Not exactly something I’d expect from someone in your line of work.”
“No,” Karin admitted, her voice tinged with her own surprise. “I don’t suppose it is.”
Karin Sommers’s Journal: On the Make Again
Dear Ellen,
Believe it or not, here we go. I was so glad to get away from Rumsey, so eager to start my new life. Now it looks like I’m starting my old life instead.
But one of these days when I pick up this journal, it’ll be to tell you that Longsford is behind bars. I just hope I’m not behind bars right along with him.
Dave took a giant swig of spring water and tossed his apple core into the garbage. He patted the Maxima’s dash. “I know, baby. You weren’t meant to be a surveillance car.” Not that the car wasn’t comfortable, but blending in wasn’t one of its virtues. Especially in this high-class Old Town neighborhood.
At least it wasn’t red.
He’d been here since midafternoon, not far from the Potomac waterfront—outside Longsford’s redbrick home, waiting for the cocktail benefit to start. Like many homes in Old Town, the house was tall and narrow and beautifully landscaped. The neighbors were close on either side of the tight property, and those attending knew better than to expect parking in the tiny driveway.
Then again, few of those attending did their own driving.
The day was gorgeously springlike, over seventy degrees and already humid. No doubt the event would spill into the backyard, a considerable stretch of land in this tightly developed area. The first hour or so Dave had slouched to observe arriving caterers, florists, the environmental beneficiaries with their give me money materials and the event coordinator who fluttered out to hurry the worker bees along. Now the guests were arriving, and Dave straightened to see who’d come to the party.
And if Karin was among them. Or if he was wrong, and she’d just plain skipped out on him.
Sunshine splashed down through the long, narrow sunroof; Dave shifted to keep the glare of it from sneaking in behind his sunglasses, and almost missed her.
She’d found a driver—one who hopped out from behind the wheel to open the back door of the dark blue Cadillac Catera and offer her formal-looking assistance as she disembarked. They’d pulled over behind several other cars, and she had half a block to walk before reaching the house.
Dave could intercept her, and he did. He slipped out of his sedan and jogged across the street, into the shade of the giant maple in the lawn adjoining Longsford’s.
If he hadn’t been looking for her…if he hadn’t seen this dress when she first tried it on…
She was all class this afternoon, the cocktail dress short and swingy and just the right combination of traditional and original. Midnight blue cut a diagonal swath across the skirt and bodice; she’d covered the spaghetti straps with a light, sparkly shawl she wouldn’t need once she hit the sunlight. Her hair was gathered in a perfect updo with just the right amount of loose fringe at her nape to make it look casually chic; her earrings dangled just so. Even the wrist cast was covered with a gauzy scarf.
She was Karin, and yet not Karin at all.
She stopped short when she saw him, her hand clutching down on a fashionably small purse. And then, by apparent sheer strength of will, she relaxed. “Took you long enough.”
“Took me way too long,” he said shortly. And told himself, don’t be an asshole.
He just hadn’t expected to be affected by the sight of her. Or the sound of her. Or even the awareness that snapped into place between them. Fool, to have forgotten the strength of it, in defiance of all that had now separated them.
She cocked her head. “You here to stop me?”
“Stop you? I said I’d help you.”
“You did,” she agreed. A slight breeze shifted the sunshine-blond wisps of hair over her forehead—not enough there to be called bangs, but they softened her hairline and in some strange way brought out the fullness of her lower lip, made the unusual straightness of her upper lip into something sexy. He felt suddenly as though he didn’t know her at all, and at the same time as though she’d become part of his life. But she brought him down to earth quickly enough, and so did the quick flash of hurt in her eyes. “You offered to help, and then something changed. You changed. You didn’t really know what you wanted, I think. Do you now?”
“No,” he told her. You, but…not what you are. “And yes. I want Longsford.”
“Any way you can get him?” She gave him that look, the one from beneath her lashes, the gray of her eyes still piercing even through
that veil.
He couldn’t bend that far. “Within the limits of what we talked about earlier, yes.”
Sudden frustration crept into her voice. “Then why the hell are you blowing my cover?”
He smiled back at her. Grinned, actually, freed up from the personal byplay to attend the practical. “I’m not. I’m observing his guests, and you’re a new face to me. I’ve accosted you so we can talk. And by the way, I’ve got someone to play the role of the developer. You want the phone number? It’s a Florida cell. I had it shipped to her just for you.”
She blinked. “Who?”
“Her name is Kimmer Reed. She works for Owen, but she owes me a favor or two right now. She can play him any way you like—and she’s got an incredible ability to read people, even over the phone. She can tell you what he’s really thinking.”
“Maybe you should talk to her, then. Maybe she can tell you what you’re really thinking.”
“Ow.” Dave mimed taking a blow to the heart. “Nice hit.”
“Far from a killing blow. Give me the number.”
He pulled out his notepad, and she shook her head. “That’s just plain evidence, and I’m headed for the lion’s den. I’ll memorize it.” And she did. When he gave it to her, slowly, she immediately rattled it back off at him. Then she gave him her own number—a new cell, apparently—and said, “Go ahead. Write it down. You’ll feel better, you and your notes.”
Flushing slightly, he did, then tucked the notebook back inside his suit. The one that dressed him up too finely for his cop role, but would have been perfect for the chauffeur boy-toy role she’d had sketched out for him. “And now? You really got an invitation to this thing?”
“I really do. And now that we’ve been standing here for so long, I need you to grab me.”
“You—what?”
Survival Instinct Page 18
