Now she had some explaining to do. "Sorry, Gretch, but I just didn't want to go into it over the telephone. I didn't want to worry you."
"Oh, honey, I'm as sorry as I am mad at you. You didn't have to go through this alone."
The fact that she hadn't actually been alone made her think of Randall—for the dozenth time that morning. She told herself she wasn't preoccupied with him. That her thoughts had wandered to him repeatedly only because he'd saved her life and they'd spent a few intense hours together the night before. Just because she'd hired him didn't mean she was going to start thinking about his dark eyes or that crooked smile of his. Clearly, he wasn't her type. Not that she had a type, she reminded herself.
"I'm not a puff, you know." Gretchen raised her hand and touched Addison's cheek with the backs of her fingers.
"You've got enough on your mind with Brittany about to give birth," Addison said.
"There's enough mother in me to take care of my three daughters and you, honey. You know that."
Forcing a smile to head off the emotion that tightened her throat, Addison covered Gretchen's hand with her own and squeezed. "You never let me forget how lucky I am to have you as a friend."
"Friend?" Gretchen huffed. "Family, more like. I consider you one of my own."
"Keep this up and I'm going to cry, Gretch."
"We can't have that." The older woman smiled. "Sit down and tell me what-the heck happened."
Leaving out some of the darker details, Addison relayed the incident from beginning to end. She kept her voice even and controlled. When her hands began to shake, when the images rushed at her—the gun, the ski mask—she rose from the bistro table and busied herself making a pot of New Guinea dark roast. She'd been operating on coffee most of the night. She supposed one more cup wouldn't hurt.
"Thank God that private detective showed up when he did." Gretchen followed her behind the counter, angrily digesting the information. "God forbid, Addison, you could have been killed."
On a day when the reality of her own mortality hovered so near, Addison had little to say on the subject of death. She filled two mugs with coffee and passed one to Gretchen.
"You should have called me. You had no business spending the night alone after such an awful ordeal." The older woman looked at her chidingly. "You should have at least called me to take you home."
Addison raised her cup to her lips. "Actually, Randall Talbot took me home.” An unexpected flutter of pleasure wafted through her at the mention of his name. God, what was it about that man that had her acting like a schoolgirl?
Gretchen's eyebrows rose and she peeked at her from over the rim of her glasses. "Nice of him in light of the fact that you lodged that complaint with the Better Business Bureau."
Realizing her business arrangement with Talbot might need some explaining, Addison tried to clarify. "He came into the shop to apologize."
"He must be a real charmer."
"I assure you, charm had nothing to do with it." It was just a little white lie. She didn't want Gretchen to think she was a pushover, especially after she'd spent so many weeks casting insults about the man. "He offered to look into Agnes Beckett's murder."
"You hired him?"
"I just want him to follow up and make sure her case is being investigated the way it should be."
Sympathy flashed across the older woman's face. "Oh, honey, Agnes Beckett is gone. I know that's painful for you. I know how much it hurts. But you've got to let go and move on."
"I don't want her forgotten, Gretch."
"What in the world do you expect him to find?"
Justice. Closure. The words flitted through her brain, but she didn't voice them, wasn't sure she could explain any of them. "I just want some answers."
Addison had decided not to mention Randall's theory that the robbery hadn't been a robbery at all, but an attempt on her life. There was no proof, and she didn't want to worry her friend needlessly. She wasn't even sure if she believed it herself. Masked gunmen just didn't fit into her safe, wonderfully dull life.
Standing in her coffee shop with the sunshine streaming through the windows and the smell of fresh-brewed coffee in the air, the terror of the night before seemed light-years away.
"I want you to have those answers you need so desperately, honey. But even more, I want you to get on with your life."
"Before I can do that, I've got to get this out of the way once and for all. To do that, I need closure, Gretch. That's what this is all about."
Reaching out, Gretchen sighed and tucked a stray lock of hair behind Addison's ear. "At least you'll have someone looking out for you, I suppose."
"I wouldn't exactly say he's looking out for me."
Gretchen's lips twitched. "There was a picture of him in the newspaper this morning. Strapping young man."
Addison rolled her eyes. "Strapping or not, I'm paying him for his time, Gretch. It's not like he's doing this out of the goodness of his heart."
"I'm sure the man needs to make a living."
Ignoring her friend's tone, Addison stepped behind the counter and ran her hand over the espresso machine, pausing at the hole left by a bullet that had been meant for her.
She hated seeing her shop damaged. She'd poured too much of herself into the place to let someone walk in and destroy it in a senseless, random act of violence.
Reminding herself that damaged equipment could be replaced, she glanced at the clock above the espresso machine and gasped. "I was supposed to be at the police station half an hour ago to talk with Detective Van-Dyne." She caught her friend's eyes and held them. "Will you be all right here?"
"In broad daylight?" Gretchen huffed as she picked up a push .broom and swept the scatter of coffee beans into a neat pile. "Back in Missouri, we shoot back."
Addison forced a laugh, telling herself it was silly to worry about the robber returning. She didn't keep much cash at the shop. Only an idiot would hit the same place twice.
"The insurance adjuster is supposed to come by late this afternoon," Addison said as she started for the alley door. "If he gets here before I get back, be nice to him."
* * *
The trip to the police station was everything Addison had imagined it would be, only worse. She waited nearly an hour before seeing Detective Van-Dyne. When he finally took her into his office, he spent most of the time on the telephone and the rest ogling her legs.
He was in his element at the station and she was light years out of hers. They both knew it, and it seemed he did everything in his power to impress that fact upon her. She figured out why when he suggested they finish the report over lunch. A true whiz at getting out of unpleasant engagements—especially with men—she quickly mentioned that she had a date with her lawyer. He spent the remainder of the interview acting like a spoiled twelve-year-old.
In the end, a report that should have taken forty-five minutes took nearly two hours. Addison was never quite so glad to leave a place in her entire life. A quick stop at Jim Bernstein's office to pick up the remainder of the records, and on to Talbot Investigations to pay the advance. Then she could go back to the Coffee Cup and figure out which equipment she would need to replace before reopening the shop. Hopefully, the insurance adjuster had left good news with Gretchen.
She was thinking about Agnes Beckett when she parked her Mustang in front of Jim's office. Her search had, indeed, come to an end. At least she could quit with the knowledge that she'd done her best. That her birth mother wouldn't be forgotten. Hopefully, with Randall's help, Sheriff McEvoy would find the killer, and Addison would have the closure she needed to move on.
Shivering with cold, she stepped into the elevator and rode alone up to Jim's office on the fifth floor. She was hungry and had decided to ask him to have a sandwich with her at the lobby deli if he wasn't too busy. He worked long hours and, like most workaholics, never took the time for a decent meal.
Her mind was already jumping ahead to corned beef on rye as she pushed open the
door to his office. To her surprise, his paralegal was nowhere in sight. The telephone beeped incessantly. Resisting the urge to pick it up and take a message for him, Addison left the reception area and made her way down the hall. She peered into the small, doorless storage room as she passed and found it empty.
"Jim?" Her voice came sharply in the dense silence. Inexplicably, the hairs at the back of her neck tingled. She moved down the hall, silently cursing when the first thin ribbon of unease skittered through her.
"Get a grip," she mumbled, telling herself he'd probably taken his overworked paralegal out for a late lunch.
But it was odd that he hadn't left anyone in the office to cover the phones. Even in this day of voice mail and e-mail, no lawyer would leave his telephones unmanned. Not even Jim Bernstein, with his relaxed atmosphere and anything goes dress code.
She reached his office a moment later and found it empty as well. Puzzled, trying in vain to ignore a growing sense of alarm, she stood in the doorway, taking in the heaps of paper and files and briefs stacked on his desk. Deciding to leave him a note, Addison walked to the desk and picked up his Mont Blanc.
She was looking for a piece of scratch paper when she realized the pen was sticky. Puzzled, she looked closely at the bright red stain on her palm. At first glance she thought it was ink, then her heart began to pound.
Blood.
Revulsion vibrated through her. The pen fell to the desk, leaving a grotesque red stain on the blotter. Addison stared, horrified, and heard herself whisper his name.
She wanted to run. Out of the room. Out of the building. But the part of her that knew and cared for Jim Bernstein wouldn't let her walk away, no matter how scared she was. Heart hammering, she leaned forward and peered over the desk.
Behind the chair, Jim lay on his back, legs apart, arms sprawled. His head was turned severely to one side. His eyes were open and staring. His mouth was stretched taut, as if frozen in a scream. Red-black blood coagulated on his lips.
Horror and disbelief ripped through her. She stood motionless for an instant, unable to tear her eyes away from the red 'stain that stood out starkly on his white shirt. It spread from collar to belt, encompassing the tie and spilling onto the carpet in a perfect arc.
Adrenaline burned like fire in her gut. She backed from the room, her heart pummeling her breast. The smell of death hovered. Blood clung to her hand. Gasping, she wiped it against her coat, horrified by the smear it left.
Her back hit the wall. The impact jarred her back to reality. A mass of jumbled thoughts raced through her mind. She staggered to the reception area.
Jim was dead.
Disbelief tumbled through her. She looked down at her hands, shocked once again by the sight of blood. Fresh terror streaked up her spine.
"Oh, God. Oh, God!" Staving off a crushing wave of panic, she ran to the receptionist's desk and snatched up the phone.
Chapter 8
"Looks like you should have taken me up on that offer for lunch." Detective Adam Van-Dyne crossed to the window, hooked his finger under a mini-blind slat, and peered outside.
Addison barely heard him as she watched two men from the medical examiner's office bring a gurney through the front door. A wave of disbelief rolled over her as she realized they would be taking Jim's body to the morgue.
Unsure of her balance or the strength in her legs, she lowered herself into the receptionist's chair and watched the men maneuver the gurney down the hall toward Jim's office.
Van-Dyne dropped the slat, crossed the room to her, and perched his hip on the desk in front of her. "What were you doing here today, Miss Fox?"
The small office teemed with police officers, paramedics, and firefighters. In the hall, Channel 7 had arrived with their cameras and lights, swarming like sharks in the throes of a feeding frenzy. In the midst of it all, Addison huddled in the receptionist's chair, arms wrapped tightly around her, vaguely aware that Van-Dyne was speaking to her as if she'd been a mischievous child.
When she didn't respond, he leaned forward, placed his hands on the arms of her chair, and swung her around to face him. "There was no appointment listed for you. Why were you here?"
His face was inches from hers and Addison could smell garlic on his breath. "Is he dead?" she asked.
"I'm afraid so."
"Oh, God." Nausea roiled in her stomach. "I can't believe it."
Resting his hand on her forearm, he spoke over his shoulder to a uniformed officer. "Get me a glass of water here."
He turned back to Addison. "Did you know him? Were you friends?"
"He's ... my lawyer. I've known him for years. He was a family friend."
"Was there anyone else in the office when you arrived?"
"No."
"Did Bernstein, know you were coming today?"
"No. I just ... stopped by to pick up some records."
"What kind of records?"
She stammered, feeling too disoriented to explain something as complicated as her search for her birth parents. "Records on my biological parents."
His brow creased. "Biological parents?"
Irritation sparked through her. "Yes. I'm adopted. Jim helped me locate my birth mother."
"He was working for you?"
"No." She sighed. "I mean, yes. But he was doing it as a favor, in his spare time. He wasn't billing me. He was a friend of my father's." It was the third time she'd answered that question, and she could tell by the way the detective was watching her that he wasn't quite sure what to make of her answers.
Van-Dyne accepted the paper cup the officer brought him and handed it to Addison. "Here, drink this. It'll help."
She accepted the water and sipped carefully, not quite trusting her stomach. ''Thanks.''
Digging into his pocket, the detective removed a white handkerchief and handed it to her. "It's not often I see someone like you in the middle of something like this twice in two days," he said.
Addison reached for the handkerchief and wiped the drying blood from her right hand. "Seems like I've been in the wrong place at the wrong time a lot lately."
"Did you touch the body, Miss Fox?"
"No. I-I couldn't. ... "
He held out his hand for the handkerchief. She passed it to him, then watched with a feeling of sick dread as he removed a small plastic bag from his coat pocket. He dropped the handkerchief into it. "How did you get blood on your hands?"
"I ... I picked up the pen, the Mont Blanc. I was going to leave him a note. Jesus, you can't possibly think I had anything to do with ..."
He raised his hands in a gesture that did little to reassure her. "I'm just trying to get a picture of what happened. But I must admit I'm curious as to why you've been in the vicinity of two shootings in two days."
They stared at each other, his expression hard and unsympathetic, hers aghast at what he might be thinking.
"Why the show with the evidence bag?" The voice was imperious, challenging, and vaguely familiar.
Addison looked up to see Jack Talbot rolling his wheelchair toward her. Relief flooded her. "Jack."
He wasn't a conventional-looking private detective. Clad in black leather and denim, he more closely resembled a revolutionary from the 1970s. His black hair was pulled into a tight ponytail that reached halfway down his back. Two days of stubble darkened his jaw. A gold hoop glinted at his left earlobe.
Without speaking, he removed his identification from his wallet and flashed it at the detective, all the while eyeing Addison as if trying to gauge her state of mind.
"Are you all right?" he asked.
She nodded, vaguely remembering the call she'd made to his office after dialing 911. "I'm okay. Thanks for coming."
Jack shot the detective a hard look. "What's the problem, Van-Dyne, did you run out of junkies to hassle?"
"Just doing my job, Jack. How's the back these days?"
"Can't complain."
Addison risked a look at the detective. "I've told you everything I know. I'd lik
e to go now."
The detective glared at her. "You can leave when I say you can."
"I didn't do anything wrong."
''Nobody said you did."
Jack made a rude sound and very quietly suggested Van-Dyne do something anatomically impossible. "Come on, Adam, you've had her for nearly two hours. What the hell else do you want?"
The detective's glare swept from Jack to Addison. "Don't leave town."
She jerked her head once.
Wheeling his chair around, Jack started for the door. "There's a car without a permit parked in the handicapped zone, Detective. You might want to grab your ticket book and check it out." He winked at Addison."Your place or mine?"
The Perfect Victim Page 9
