Wondering what she was getting herself into, Addison rose, relieved when the floor felt solid under her feet. She started for the door.
"Miss Fox?"
Van-Dyne's voice stopped her dead in her tracks. Jack continued rolling toward the door. She turned to the detective, aware that Jack had reached the door.
"I expect you to make yourself available to the police for questioning for the next few weeks," the detective said.
"Of course," she replied, then turned and followed Jack.
* * *
It amazed Addison to watch a man who couldn’t walk slide his body from wheelchair to driver's seat, then quickly fold the chair and toss it onto the backseat of his antiquated Corvette like a lightweight piece of luggage. He'd even paused to open the passenger door for her first. A gentleman to boot, she thought. Too bad good manners didn't run in the family.
He was an older version of his brother, shorter of frame and heavier in the upper body. Both men shared the same penetrating eyes, but Jack's face was deeply lined with the years of what had probably been a hard life.
Neither of them spoke as he drove her to her apartment. Though Addison felt the need to help as he lifted the wheelchair from the backseat, she quickly realized he was much more adept than she. In less than two minutes, he was back in the chair and they were riding the elevator up to her second-level apartment.
Once inside, she made a beeline for the bathroom, where she scrubbed the blood from her hands, holding them under the not water until her skin turned pink. Then, needing to move, to embroil herself in normalcy, she went to the kitchen and made a pot of coffee.
She was still shaking, but the worst of the tremors had ceased during the drive to her apartment. Physically, she was functioning. But that didn't say much for her frame of mind. She'd known Jim Bernstein since she was a child. She couldn't believe he was dead, much less by an act of violence. Shock waves rippled through her every time she closed her eyes and saw him lying on the floor in a pool of blood.
Van-Dyne's attitude toward her hadn't helped matters. She hadn't made a very good impression on the detective. But she couldn't bring herself to believe he considered her a suspect. Maybe he was just angry because she'd turned down his invitation to lunch. She wasn't sure how she would have managed if Jack hadn't shown up when he did.
After pouring two cups of coffee, she met Jack at the dining room table and slid one of the cups in front of him. "You and your brother really have this timing thing down to a fine art," she said. "Thanks for rescuing me."
"Randall told me what happened last night at your shop. You were lucky."
"He saved my life."
Jack cut her a sharp look. "He didn't mention that."
She didn't miss the flash of surprise on his face. "He's got this annoying habit of being modest."
"He's got quite a few annoying habits."
Addison didn't comment on that one. Lowering her head, she rubbed her aching temples with her fingertips. "Jesus. I still can't believe any of this is real."
"What happened back there at the lawyer's office? The message you left was hard to follow. You were hysterical."
She swallowed, an involuntary action that made her realize she'd wanted to put off that part of the conversation a while longer. Raising her head, she took a fortifying breath. "I went to Jim's office to pick up some records. When I got there, the place was deserted. I walked into his office, and ... found him on the floor behind his desk. There was blood ...." Bile rose in her throat when the scene flickered in her mind's eye. "I panicked, called 911, then your office."
"You see anyone else there?"
"No."
Pulling a pack of cigarettes from his jacket, he stuck one between his lips and flamed the tip. Addison usually didn't allow smoking in her apartment, but she didn't have the energy to stop him. In light of everything that had happened in the last twenty-four hours, a little cigarette smoke didn't seem very important.
"I guess the question now is whether all this is somehow related," he said, exhaling a silver ribbon of smoke.
The implications of the statement punched her with brutal force. Numbly, she leaned back in the chair, an icy realization settling over her like a cold, penetrating rain. She'd considered the possibility that the events of the last week were somehow connected, but there had always been a small part of her that didn't believe it, didn't want to believe that something sinister was in the works.
''That's the same thing Randall said," she replied.
He shrugged. "It's the logical assumption."
''The idea of some kind of conspiracy seems ... far-fetched."
"Not a conspiracy. Just somehow linked."
"It just doesn't jibe with my lifestyle."
"How so?"
"Well, I work a lot. I don't go out much. I don't have any enemies. I don't even have that many friends. Just Gretchen and her daughters and grandchildren."
"Any odd customers in the shop? Ex-boyfriends?"
"No. Randall already asked that, and there's no one."
"Okay. Is there any reason someone might not want you to know who your biological parents are?"
Somewhere in the back of her mind, she'd considered the possibility, but never imagined it would come to this. Not in a thousand years. "I don't know. I can't imagine why."
"Have you told the police about your search?"
"I met with Van-Dyne earlier today. I told him about Agnes Beckett, but he didn't seem very receptive to the idea that her death had anything to do with the attempted robbery at the Coffee Cup last night. He made me feel like I was being paranoid."
He pushed away from the table. "Where's your phone?"
"In the kitchen." She rose. "Who are you going to call?"
"I'm going to leave a message for Van-Dyne."
Addison followed him to the kitchen and listened intently as he left a message for the detective. He wheeled his chair back to the table. She refilled their cups.
"Was he hitting on you?" he asked.
The question jerked her head up in surprise. "Earlier today, when I went in to give my statement, but he was pretty subtle about it." She studied the faint lipstick mark she'd left on her cup. "You're pretty perceptive."
Laughter rumbled in his throat. "Van-Dyne's a son of a bitch. I've gone a couple of rounds with him in the last two years, since I started Talbot Investigations."
"So you started your company two years ago?" She distinctly remembered Randall telling her he'd been with Talbot Investigations for five years. Interesting.
He nodded. "Beats the hell out of staring at the walls."
"How long has Randall been with you?"
"About five months."
She filed the information away, deciding to confront Randall with it later. "What did he do before he started working with you?"
"He worked for the NTSB out of D.C."
"What did he do for the NTSB?"
His gaze sharpened, letting her know in no uncertain terms that she was prying. "Maybe you ought to ask him that."
"I will." She admired his loyalty despite the fact that she didn't like being lied to. Especially when she didn't know why. "What about Van-Dyne? Is he a good detective?"
"He's a decent enough cop. But he's overworked, underpaid, has too many cases and not enough time. He can be a prick to deal with."
"What about you?"
The eyebrows shot up. "Am I a prick?"
She laughed, realizing he'd purposefully taken her mind off the shooting. There was a quiet strength and solid character behind that tough-guy facade. To her surprise, she found herself liking him. "I was referring to your detective skills."
"Oh." He grinned. "I'm the brains behind the operation. Randall does most of the legwork." He looked down at his chair. "No pun intended."
She remembered the angry, reckless energy that seemed to surround Randall. Despite the wheelchair, Jack seemed more content. The contrasts between the two brothers intrigued her. "You seem happier than
your brother."
"Probably because I've accepted my limitations."
She didn't miss the shadow of pain that flashed in his eyes. "How did it happen?" she asked, hoping she hadn't trespassed into an area that was too painful for him.
"Motorcycle accident. Rode too fast too many times. My luck finally ran out."
"I'm sorry."
"It was a tough hand, but I've dealt with it. I've come to terms, moved beyond it. Acceptance is the key."
"And what limitations hasn't your brother accepted?"
He dropped the cigarette into the last bit of coffee and watched it sizzle out. "Let's just say he's in the process of realizing what they are."
A knock on the door sent Addison out of her chair. Jack motioned her back, put a finger to his lips to silence her. She watched in amazement as he pulled a revolver from beneath his coat. God, did everybody carry a gun? Cocking it, he rolled his chair toward the front door, and gave her a nod.
"Who is it?" she asked.
"It's Randall. What the hell's going on?”
Relief flitted through her at the sound of his voice.
Jack opened the door.
Randall stood in the doorway, his dark eyes concerned and more than a little angry. He looked like an overprotective father about to confront his daughter's suspicious-looking date. "What the hell kind of a message was that you left on my voice mail?"
Jack looked at Addison and laughed. "He's talking about the message you left when you called from Bernstein's office."
She blinked, barely remembering the phone call she'd made after discovering Jim's body.
Not waiting for an answer, Randall stalked past them into the apartment. He wore faded jeans, hiking boots, and a parka. ''Is someone going to tell me what the hell is going on? What happened to Bernstein?"
The way he was acting made her wonder if he'd been worried about her, but she quickly shoved the notion aside. Men like Randall Talbot didn't worry about other people. They spent too much time worrying about themselves.
"Jim Bernstein was murdered," she said.
He stared at her with astonishment. "Your lawyer? When?"
"Earlier today," Jack said. "He took a slug in the chest."
His eyes shifted to Addison. "She found him."
Randall swung around to face her, his expression incredulous. "You found him? Dead? In his office?"
She nodded.
Scrubbing his hand over his five o'clock shadow, he shot a canny look at Jack. "Feel up to sweet-talking that computer of yours tonight?"
Cool excitement flickered in Jack's eyes. "She's a bitch, but I can usually persuade her to cooperate." He pulled a notepad and pen from his jacket. "Shoot."
"I want information on Agnes Irene Beckett."
Addison's heart stuttered at the mention of her birth mother—and the possibility that Randall had new information.
He continued. "I want to know everything about her. Arrest record, past marriages, hospitalizations, births, anything you can find. Check Ohio and Indiana state records along with the Ohio counties of Preble, Darke, and Montgomery."
Jack scribbled on the pad, smiling the way a boy smiles in the minutes before a forbidden, but very fun game. "I hope you're not going to ask me for anything difficult."
"Have you ever tapped into adoption records?"
"No, but that doesn't mean it can't be done."
“That's what I thought. I left everything I've got on your desk."
Addison listened to the exchange, aware of her heart beating wildly in her chest. "What have you found out?" she asked Randall.
Jack already had his coat on and was wheeling toward the door. "Give me a few hours."
Addison reached out and squeezed his shoulder. "Thank you."
He reached the door and backed up to open it, nearly running over her in his haste. Before he could escape, she leaned forward and kissed his cheek.
Grinning, Jack wheeled into the hall.
She turned, anxious to talk to Randall. He stopped her with a single look from those perpetually angry eyes.
"What?" she asked cautiously.
"Don't tease him like that," he said with dangerous ease.
Addison stared at him, speechless. "I hope you're not insinuating what I think—"
"He's in a wheelchair, for chrissake."
The anger came with such vehemence she nearly choked on it. "It was an innocent peck on the cheek!"
"He doesn't need you laying kisses on him, making him want something he can't ever have.”
"How dare you accuse me of something so sick!" Had there been something within arm's reach, she would have thrown it at him. Since there wasn't, she used the next best thing: her voice. "You son of a bitch."
"Don't—"
"I can't deal with you. I won't."
"Addison—"
"I'll deal with Jack. I want you to leave. Now, damn you." The words tangled in her throat. "In fact, you're ... fired. I'll send your check to your office."
"It hurts him," he said levelly. "He's been through enough."
The look in his eyes deflated her temper so quickly, she could only stand there and stare stupidly at him. "I would never hurt—"
"I didn't say you meant to. I just asked you not to do it again."
"I don't appreciate the insinuation."
“There was no insinuation."
Feeling misunderstood and angry, she shoved past him into the living room, not exactly sure what to do next.
"Look," he said from behind her. "I didn't mean for that to come out the way it did. I didn't mean for it to hit you the wrong way. But I know Jack."
She turned to face him. "He's a human being. Human beings need to be touched. To—”
"He's a man, Addison, with too much pride."
"You're overprotective."
"I'm his brother. I know him."
She studied his harsh features, realizing belatedly that he was sincere—and not nearly as angry as she was. It irked her that he could make her so damn irate, so damn quickly. Jack was easy to be with. Addison liked him. But the moment he'd left, and she was alone with Randall, something had shifted. A keen awareness that changed everything despite her efforts not to let it.
"Why did you lie to me about how long you've been working with Jack?" she asked.
An emotion she couldn't name flashed in his eyes. "Jack gave you an earful, did he?"
"No. He said to ask you."
"He's always had more integrity than me."
"Why did you lie to me, Randall?"
His eyes met hers and held them unflinchingly. "What do you want to know?"
''The truth, if you can manage it."
"All right. I'm on leave from another job. I came here to spend some time with Jack. End of story. That's the extent of my dirty little secret. Disappointed?"
Addison didn't believe it was that simple. "Your job at the NTSB?"
He blinked. It was the first time she'd surprised him, and she found herself oddly pleased when he looked down at his boots. "You want to hear about that, too?"
"I'm just curious why you lied to me. Maybe it's not important. Maybe it is. I was hoping you'd tell me."
A shadow darkened his features. He raked a hand through his hair. "I'm a crash site investigator, Ace. A field investigator. I'm the guy who gets there first when a plane drops out of the sky." He smiled unpleasantly. "I get to see it all. If you're morbidly curious like most other people I've met, we could spend it few hours together and I'll give you all the juicy details."
Not sure whether to be annoyed or sympathetic, she merely stared back at him. He wasn't the kind of man who invoked sympathy. "I still don't understand why you lied to me."
"I've got my reasons," he said after a lengthy silence. "I'd appreciate it if you'd respect my privacy." He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, inadvertently opening his parka so that lean, male hips loomed into view.
Addison cursed herself for allowing her eyes to drop, appalled by the
unwelcome awareness that rushed through her at the sight of his long, muscular thighs. What was it about this man that had her thinking of everything except what she should be thinking about?
The Perfect Victim Page 10
