Saving Mr. Perfect

by Tamara Morgan

  It’s true. I can’t recall the last time I had a cold, but it’s too late for me to pretend I have a family emergency instead.

  “Don’t forget I’m half Blue,” I say. “We’re a frail, sickly people.”

  My grandmother sets her champagne glass aside. “I guess there’s no reason for us to linger on. Millie always overdoes these things. I’ve never known such a woman for showing off. Did you notice the entertainment she has planned for later? Belly dancers. How ghastly. I’d rather she bring out Richard’s clowns again.”

  “Oh, don’t worry,” I say, struggling to hide my laugh. “You can stay. I’ll just take the subway to Grand Central and get home that way.”

  “Are you sure?”

  I’m sure. The last thing I need is to spend the next hour in my grandmother’s town car while she lectures me on my slovenliness. I am slovenly, even in this sequined jersey dress of Tara’s, but I’m not up to the task of hearing about it.

  If Jane offered me a ride, however…

  I look at her expectantly, but she only repeats her offer to find me a dark, quiet place to rest upstairs. “Millie has plenty of space. You won’t be interrupted up there, I promise.”

  As much fun as crashing at a virtual stranger’s house for a postbrunch nap sounds, I pass. “That’s okay. You two have a good afternoon. I’ll be fine. And I’ll plan on seeing you both for the Black and White Ball this weekend.”

  “Yes,” Jane agrees with a smile. “It promises to be a good time.”

  “I only hope you found something appropriate to wear,” my grandmother adds.

  I haven’t, but I assume Tara’s offer to try gowns on still stands, so I’m not too worried about it. With a polite murmur to a few familiar faces on the way out—I’m getting good at this—I make my grateful escape. Blue skies above and the pristine sidewalks of the Upper East Side below change my mind about the subway, so I head out in favor of a nice, long walk to clear my head.

  I don’t get far.

  Under normal circumstances, the sights and sounds of incessant New York traffic only interest me insofar as they can be used to help or hinder a quick getaway. That’s my excuse, anyway, for why I almost miss sight of the glossy black muscle car that veers sharply around the corner. I’m alone in the intersection when it does, my attention focused on my own whirling thoughts rather than the road around me. More out of instinct than reason, I leap toward the sidewalk and out of the path of danger, heedless of gravity. The gravel digging into my knees as I come to a stop a few feet away indicates my success at this maneuver.

  For a dizzy second, my legs sprawled and my heart fluttering wildly, I think the car is going to ignore me and pull away. It’s an extremely rude thing to do—for all the driver knows, I could be dead down here—so I get to my feet and glare as best I can in a spangled dress and banged knees.

  That’s when I catch sight of the driver. A full head of leonine hair. Dark, inscrutable eyes. A cleft chin to make Roman statuaries rise up in jealousy.

  Christopher Leon.

  Before I can react to the sight of him, the driver’s side door swings open, and his booming voice assails my ears. “Oh, God. Penelope Blue. Are you hurt? Did I hit you? Should I call an ambulance?”

  “No, no, and no.” I answer his questions in the order they were received. “I’m fine, just startled. You were driving really fast.”

  He winces. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to veer so far to the right—I saw you there and panicked. I’m not used to this car’s power yet. Did Grant tell you about it?”

  About his car? We’ve spent quite a bit of time discussing Christopher lately, but his preferred mode of transportation has never come up.

  “Uh, no,” I say, wondering if I should apologize for the oversight. “Was he supposed to?”

  His crestfallen look is almost comical. “No, of course not. I thought he might have mentioned it, that’s all. Can I give you a lift somewhere?”

  I hesitate. Grant’s worries about this man’s intentions toward me are difficult to silence, even in the broad light of day. I highly doubt he’s the Peep-Toe Prowler—especially now that I know who’s really behind things—but it’s hard to let the idea of extracted fingernails go once it’s gotten a firm grip on your subconscious.

  “I’m not going to kidnap you or anything, if that’s what you’re afraid of.”

  He laughs, and his overloud voice carries over the honking of stalled traffic to the sidewalk behind me, where a few passersby halt and take note. Shouting the word kidnap has a tendency to do that, though none of them pause long enough to memorize our details. If my body washes up on the Jersey shore next week, I doubt any of them would be able to identify me.

  “I was looking forward to the walk, actually,” I begin.

  “Nonsense, I don’t mind. In fact, I’ve been hoping to get a chance to—” He cuts himself short and releases another one of those loud, nervous laughs. “To, ah, talk to you. I feel bad for how we left things last time.”

  Seeing the look of eager anticipation on his face, I do a quick statistical calculation before agreeing to get in—and by statistical calculation, I mean I determine the odds of my body washing up on the Jersey shore next week. In the end, I decide the odds are pretty low.

  It’s not that I don’t believe Grant when he says Christopher Leon is dangerous, of course, and it’s not that I don’t trust my husband’s judgment as a man of the law. But I know criminals, and I know my own value. I mean, I’m related to some ridiculously powerful people. If the threat of Grant’s vengeance isn’t enough to scare this man, then my father’s vast network of underworld criminals should be. My disappearance isn’t one that would go down easy—and if Christopher is as devious as Grant thinks he is, then he knows it.

  “My dad is expecting me,” I say in clear warning.

  “Perfect,” he says. “I’ll take you to him.”

  The speed of his reply settles it. I get in.

  The car is as nice on the inside as it is on the exterior, shiny and new in the way only refinished old classics can manage.

  “He’s at the Lombardy, right?” Christopher asks as he pulls jerkily into the street, the engine revving much harder than it needs to. He seems nervous, though I can’t tell why. Of the two of us, I’m the one most likely to end up dead. “Does he like it there? I’ve only been inside the lobby and bar before, but it seems like the rooms must be nice.”

  This is an odd line of questioning, but I go along with it, hoping he’ll lead us somewhere more interesting. “Yeah, he’s comfortable enough, or so I assume. My dad’s not one to stick around if he’s not happy.”

  “But he wouldn’t go far, would he?” He flips on the blinker and turns left—two actions that put me at ease. For one, this is the correct way to get to the hotel. For another, I doubt a kidnapper would bother with turn signals. “If he wasn’t happy at the hotel, I mean. He wouldn’t leave New York. He’ll stay wherever you are.”

  “Actually, I don’t know if that’s true. I mean, he loves me—and he’ll protect me no matter what—but as much as I wish I was the reason he’s sticking around, I don’t think I am. We don’t have that sort of relationship.”

  He frowns. “Yeah. I know how you feel.”

  “Oh? Is your father a highly capable jewel thief wanted in fifteen different countries, too?”

  “Well, no.” He turns to me with a grin, his dark eyes flashing with laughter in a way that reminds me so much of Grant. “I don’t know much about my dad, to be honest. He left when I was really young.”

  “That’s too bad,” I say, and I mean it. Grant isn’t one to dwell on his own childhood disappointments, but I know his story is a similar one. “Are you close to your mom?”

  “I was.” His gaze returns to the road. “She passed away not too long ago.”

  “I’m so sorry. That’s hard.” It’s not my best
consolation, but I hope he can feel my sincerity. If anyone knows about surviving after the loss of both parents, it’s me. After my dad left, I wouldn’t have made it without Riker’s support. Sure, we were juvenile delinquents, and we stole most of the things we needed to survive, but we were juvenile delinquents stealing together.

  The knife in my back twists a little deeper.

  “At least you have your work to keep you busy,” I say. “You enjoy being an FBI agent, right?”

  “Um. It’s okay, I guess.”

  Only okay? So far, I’ve never met an agent who wasn’t willing to live and die for the job. “You don’t like it?” I venture. “Why not?”

  “It’s hard to say.” He hunches his shoulders. “The work is interesting, and I like being part of something bigger than myself, but…”

  “But?” I prompt.

  He casts me a quick, rueful smile. “It’s not easy, fitting in with those guys. They’ve got their own brotherhood with their own set of rules to guide it. It’s pretty tight-knit. No matter how hard I try, I always seem to be on the outside looking in.”

  Oh, man. I know how that feels, too.

  “That’s part of why I wanted you to know you could reach out to me…for anything. Anything at all. I’m on your side, Penelope. I hope you know that.”

  It’s a sweet offer, but I don’t even know what side I’m on anymore.

  “And you could always put in a good word for me, too,” he adds. “You know, if you wanted. Grant trusts your opinion more than anyone’s. You could get him to do anything you want.”

  Although I try to hide my sharp look of surprise, I don’t think I do a good job of it. Of course, I can’t get Grant to bend to my will—believe me, I’ve tried—and anyone who knows him the slightest bit would be aware of that fact. That Christopher Leon isn’t aware of it, and that he’d try to manipulate my husband by going through me…

  Well. Let’s just say it’s a good thing I look out the car window to find the familiar facade of my father’s hotel rolling up. Part of me wants to find an excuse for Christopher to keep driving me around so I can pump him for information, but another part feels suddenly shaky.

  Maybe getting in this man’s car wasn’t the best idea I’ve ever had.

  I slide out the passenger door before he can make a grab for my fingernails. “Thank you for the ride, Christopher,” I say, forcing a smile. “It was nice running into you today.”

  “You too, Penelope. I’m sorry for almost hitting you earlier.”

  “No problem. I bounce back pretty fast.” I pause, wondering if I should add something about how difficult I am to kill, but he speaks up before I get a chance.

  “We’ll chat again soon, yeah?”

  I nod, unsure how else to respond. He takes it as an assent and waves as he pulls away. I watch him go with mixed feelings, though I mostly feel grateful to have escaped the car. What a strange, confusing man. Whatever he’s up to, I definitely don’t want to be a part of it.

  I guess this is what I get for interfering. A smart woman would bow out of this game while she still has a chance. A smarter woman would have never started playing in the first place.

  And the smartest woman of all?

  I sigh. If I find her, I’ll be sure to ask.

  24

  GRANT

  It’s not my proudest moment when the call comes in notifying us that the Peep-Toe Prowler has struck again.

  “Oh, thank fuck.” I hang up the phone and reach for my jacket, pausing to make sure my gun is secure in its holster before I slip my arms through. “It’s about time.”

  “Good news?” Mariah asks from where she stands in the doorway. She stopped by to update me on her continued efforts to uncover something shady in Christopher’s past, which is a nice way of saying she stopped by for no reason at all.

  I’ve never had a case stall so hard before. The boys following Tara lose sight of her half the time, Christopher is keeping his nose squeaky clean and out of my way, and even Penelope hasn’t come across anything strange with her grandmother.

  The calm before the storm always makes me uneasy. I like to know what kind of damage is headed my way.

  “Technically? It’s bad news,” I say. “That was the NYPD. They got reports of another break-in this afternoon, and it might be the work of our prettily shod friend.”

  Mariah doesn’t have to be told twice. “Where’s Tara?”

  “According to Paulie’s latest report, shopping on Fifth.”

  “And Leon?”

  “That one I don’t know. I haven’t seen him all day. An interesting coincidence, don’t you think?”

  “Do you want me to get a copy of today’s entry and exit logs from Cheryl?”

  “Yes, please. Print it out, and get her to confirm it in case he decides to go in later and update the records to give himself an alibi. I’m heading to the crime scene now. I want to be there before he arrives, make sure the evidence isn’t damaged this time. I might even have a chance to ask a few questions.”

  “You mean, did anyone see a man matching his description in the area? Please. What do you think this is, your birthday?”

  I grin. “You never know—it could happen. I’ve never credited him with much in the way of intelligence.”

  “Well, good luck.” Mariah offers me a mock salute. “Where did the Prowler hit, anyway?”

  I’m already halfway out the door. “I don’t know. The home of some woman named Millie Ralph.”

  * * *

  “Emerson! You’re here!”

  Damn. Not only has Christopher beaten me to the crime scene, but he’s elbows deep in his shoddy investigation work, leaving finger- and footprints all over the place. The victim’s house has been roped off, and a forensics team is inside snapping photos—but while they’re wearing paper booties over their shoes and gloves on their hands, Christopher is walking around at large and booming orders that have nothing to do with anything.

  Covering his tracks, most likely.

  “Leon.” I pause on the threshold and nod, waiting to see how he plans to play this. “What’s the story here?”

  He shakes his head quickly, as though to stop me from saying more. He also gestures for me to follow him away from the building’s facade.

  Intrigued and on alert, I follow.

  Like most of the homes the Peep-Toe Prowler has hit, this one is impressive. The freestanding structure is rare, even for this part of town, and every detail speaks of wealth, from the wrought iron fence around the grounds to the decorative brackets along the roofline. It also appears secure, with reinforced windows and what looks like an external video feed routed through a hidden surveillance system.

  Of course, none of that means anything if you know what you’re doing. Penelope could stand in this exact spot and list every access point without blinking.

  We stop as soon as we reach a garden path along the north side, which I note with interest isn’t visible from the street or from the house itself. Large, leafy trees provide a secluded overhang, and at this time of day, a calm silence settles the farther along the path we go.

  “Did you find footprints back here?” I ask, careful to position myself in the middle of the path. If he thinks he’s escaping here without first tackling me, he’s way off the mark. “It’s not like our Prowler to be so sloppy.”

  “The perimeter has been secured,” he says. “I saw to it myself.”

  “What’s been reported missing?”

  “Two rings. One brooch in the shape of a peacock.” His voice is as loud as always, but there’s a clipped terseness to it that feels off. I look at him curiously. He’s not normally one for brevity. It takes him five inanities and three non sequiturs to order lunch.

  “That’s new,” I say. “He usually only takes one item at a time. Estimated value?”

  “The
homeowner says around two hundred thousand, but that’s not what I want to talk to you about.”

  “Too bad. It’s what I want to talk about.” Especially since that’s a much smaller dollar value than the last few thefts. It may be that residents are starting to take better steps to secure their valuable belongings, so he had to grab anything and everything he could get his hands on, but any variation in pattern is worth looking into. “What else do you know?”

  “No sign of a break-in. No forced access. Once again, it looks like a professional job.” He’s still acting odd, and this time, he lowers his voice to a discreet murmur. “Listen, have you seen your wife today?”

  All thoughts of investigation stop, anger taking over before I have a chance to control it. My jaw clenches so tightly, it could crack, and my right hand forms a natural fist at my side, but I’m happy to find that my voice is level as I ask, “I beg your pardon?”

  “Penelope. Your wife. Have you seen or talked to her?”

  That’s none of his goddamned business, and I tell him in the most polite terms I’m able to muster. So…not polite at all.

  “I often see her and talk to her. That’s the point of being married.” Since he doesn’t look convinced, I add, “And she’s spending the day with her grandmother, in case you’re wondering about her whereabouts. She has nothing to do with this.”

  He forces a laugh that feels tense and uncomfortable even from my distance. “Of course not. If you say she’s trustworthy, she’s trustworthy. One hundred percent.”

  My other hand curls into a fist, too. “Before you take another step down that road, let me remind you that any attempts you make to get to my wife will have to go through me first.”

  I mean it as nothing more than a warning, some friendly advice that any plans he has to involve Penelope will be met with extreme and unyielding force, but he doesn’t back down. He does put his hands up in conciliation, though.

  “I know you ignored my email to the ADD,” he says. “And I know you don’t like the idea. It’s just that…”

  I wait, watching as Christopher swallows heavily and tries again.