No one answered the doorbell.
Looked like no alarm system, and a quick gander didn’t turn up anybody in view. In less than a minute, his remote retrieved her garage door combination and opened it. Inside sat an old minivan and a neat row of storage shelves.
A switch closed the garage door, a pick opened the inner door lock, and he was in.
An orange cat on the counter raised its head.
Jeez, his stomach tensed like a first-timer. “Nice kitty.”
It got up, still watching him. When he neared it, it jumped down and disappeared up the stairs.
Just a cat. He let his heart slow.
Hey, he may’ve had a run of bad luck on this job, but that didn’t mean it was going to last. It had to get better.
Or maybe not. He’d got a weird feeling the moment he saw those photos with the stuff plastered all over Sarita like she was flaunting it for everyone to see. It was like fate was sick and tired of him, and was fooling around, trying to make him shit his pants.
Hell. He was losing it.
About time to get out of this rat race and buy into that motel in Florida like his brother-in-law kept after him to do. Maybe when the kids got out of high school. Except then there’d be college. Both his boys had to go to college, become accountants or doctors or something like that. No lawyers.
Yeah, well, that was for the future. Right now he had to find a way to do the frigging broad.
First the fiasco on the bridge. Then a woman in her coat. Now she wasn’t home.
What sour luck. Never been this bad before. He never should’ve agreed to do Sarita. If he ever got this frigging job finished, he’d go back to the old system. Do the ones who needed doing and damn the money they waved in front of him.
But right now, he’d wait for the photographer and pop her when she walked in. She’d come home sooner or later. She couldn’t stay gone forever.
The only question was whether she’d get home before they found Sarita, but he’d worry about that later.
After he made sure nobody besides the cat was around.
He wandered through the living area and curled his lip.
Jeez, this place was like a frigging model house. Personally, he liked books on tables and a few dirty dishes in the sink. Then it looked like somebody’s home instead of an ad layout for House Beautiful.
But that was him. Different strokes for different folks.
Small, too.
Sarita’s house in LA, now. Man, that was a real house. And her mother’s place here in Hotlanta was more than okay. But this joint was dinky. The living area, dining area and kitchen all run together with no pitched ceilings, no spectacular window walls, no rock fireplaces taking up one end of the living room.
Just somewhere to hang your hat.
And everything stowed away.
Nobody down here.
Upstairs, her bedroom presented the same order. A neatly made cannonball bed like his grandparents had owned stood on one wall with a chest, top uncluttered and shiny, on another.
No gown hanging from the back of a door like his wife had, no house shoes in the corner, no lipstick and lotion marring the clean surface of the bureau, no laundry hamper.
A rack held magazines and paperbacks while a floral arrangement decorated a small bedside table.
Who the hell was she trying to be? Hazel Housekeeper?
Ah, there. Something out of place.
He turned around a big picture frame on the floor with its face to the wall and grinned.
Some stud. Hanging off the hook above, it woulda faced the bed. Bet the other guy took him down.
They had to be brothers. Both with the pretty photographer? Maybe she favored one over the other. Maybe she’d had a spat with one. Maybe they all got it on together.
She looked kind of prim for a threesome, but the prim ones sometimes surprised you.
Opening the louvered closet doors, he found her clothes sorted by color with shoes and purses stored in boxes. Other accessories draped around different outfits, all ready to wear.
Couldn’t help but admire a woman who planned so thoroughly for the future. Too bad she wouldn’t have one.
Oooh, his damn tender heart.
The cat peeked out from under the bed. “Good place for you, kitty. Why doncha stay put for a while.”
Back downstairs, he picked out a chair in a corner near the front window. One not too comfortable but still easy on the ass. His gum had hardened so he got out a new piece, carefully wrapped the old in the paper for disposal later. Once settled, he laid the silenced gun down and took out the Readers’ Digest he’d brought from her bedroom.
His cell vibrated.
What now? His luck got shittier and shittier.
He glanced at the message. Call me.
Bernie. For a supposedly shrewd lawyer, Bernie sure could pick his moments. What the shit did Bernie want, texting him on his personal cell in the middle of the job?
He looked at the phone on a nearby table, tempted.
No, he wasn’t about to be caught like some frigging amateur.
He’d go out, get a throwaway, but not now. Autumn Merriwell might come home any minute.
Frigging Bernie. Sam couldn’t run pick up a phone every time Bernie shit. Idiot.
The gloves made it hard to turn the magazine pages, but he managed. He started to read a first-person account of an alligator attack.
Bernie would have to wait.
****
After Rennie and Autumn explained why they thought Sarita Sartowe’s death was connected to the fire and events in Helen, Captain Cunningham excused herself.
Autumn could see her through the glass panes of the office wall where she stood at a desk beside a cubicle on the other side of the large outer room. Using the desk phone, she was calling someone while they waited.
The captain carried on a lengthy conversation, then hung up and came back to regard them thoughtfully. “The homicide detective in charge of the case is out of the office, but I left your telephone number and address. He’ll be in touch soon.” Her eyes shifted to Rennie. “You said your name was Degardovera? Would that be Francisco Degardovera by any chance?”
Beside Autumn, Rennie stiffened. “No. Francisco’s my brother.”
“I see.”
Poor Rennie. He looks like someone put a poker to him. “Do you know Fran, Captain Cunningham?”
“No.” The captain didn’t look at Autumn. “But I understand he knew Ms. Sartowe.”
“My whole family knew Sarita,” Rennie said coolly. “She and I went to the same high school. I dated her back then.”
“But your brother was intimately involved with Sarita Sartowe this past year. Did you know that, Mr. Degardovera?”
Fran? Autumn managed not to gasp.
“It’s Dr. Degardovera. Computer science, not medical. And I did know it.” Rennie’s hand on her arm was relaxed, but she could feel his tension. “Francisco and Sarita got together while he was in California staying with me. It didn’t work out for either of them. His life is here in Atlanta, and her career is—was—across the country. They agreed there was no future for them.”
“So they no longer saw each other?”
“They no longer dated,” Rennie corrected. “They might see—might have seen—each other occasionally. They are—were—still friends.”
“I see.” Captain Cunningham transferred her attention back to Autumn. “As I said before, I’d appreciate you not leaving town without letting us know where you’re going, Ms. Merriwell. And you, too, Mr.—Dr. Degardovera.” Her caramel face remained neutral. “Purely a matter of routine.”
“I’m sure it is,” Rennie answered before Autumn could. “Ms. Merriwell may be staying with my family for the next few days. I assume that’s all right, since you have my telephone number and address there?”
His courtesy did nothing to soften Captain Cunningham. “Do you have cells? Mind leaving me those numbers as well?”
Autumn reele
d hers off by rote.
What was going on? She was a suspect in arson and maybe in Sarita’s death. Now Fran was somehow being brought into it.
And Rennie… Something was off with Rennie, too.
That suspicion stayed with her when they went outside into the bright day.
The sun, since it neared noon, streamed down on the sidewalk despite the tall buildings around them. After the grim office and the suspicious Captain Cunningham, the cheerful light was disconcerting but welcome.
Rennie took her arm as they started toward the parking lot. After several silent minutes, she said, “I didn’t know Fran dated Sarita.”
“A while back. One of those things. Does it matter? You said you and he were just friends.”
“We are.” Surely Rennie didn’t believe she was jealous of Fran. “I don’t care that they had an affair, but I'm surprised.”
He was preoccupied. “Why? Francisco’s every woman’s dream lover and Sarita is, or was, every man’s fantasy. What’s so strange about the two of them getting together?”
Every man’s fantasy? Was Sarita Rennie’s fantasy, too? Somehow she couldn’t imagine Rennie yearning over a sex symbol the way a lot of men did.
But Sarita… Sarita would be a temptation. “Fran never said anything to me and he always talked about his women.”
“If he’d told you or any of our sisters about her, you’d have told Mom and Mom wouldn’t have approved. Sarita’s not the type Mom wants in the family. Wasn’t the type.”
Something knotted up inside her. The light reflecting from the sidewalk hurt her eyes. “Like I’m not your type?”
He stopped short on the sidewalk and turned, gripping both her upper arms like he could shake her. “You’re putting words in my mouth again. Damn it, all you do is put words in my mouth. I’ve warned you and warned you we aren’t the same kind of people, that you’ll be disappointed in the end. If you regret our—”
“No.” Tears pricked but she blinked them back. “I’ll never regret loving you. Never.”
“Ah, Autumn. What am I going to do with you?”
Her chuckle sounded watery. “I thought you’d already done it.”
He turned away, taking her arm so she had to fall into step with him. “Mom didn’t like Sarita for a couple of reasons. Sarita wasn’t a one-man woman. Ever. And Mom doesn’t approve of promiscuity. For another thing, Sarita’s black. Mom’s prejudiced. We know that and accept it as part of her. But the prejudice is definitely there. She’s never been like your people.”
“Uncle Parnell despised Republicans.”
“It’s not the same and you know it.”
She wouldn’t admit it. Reseda had never said anything in front of Autumn, but she’d been aware, maybe, in the back of her mind that Reseda didn’t approve of everyone.
And not just Sarita. Reseda wanted her children to marry within the Hispanic community. When Laney started going with John Kinsellen, Reseda had made unreasonable objections. He was uptight. He was stuffy. He was a workaholic.
The week before the wedding, she’d entered the hospital for diagnostic tests in hopes, Laney confided later, of sabotaging the nuptials.
Even now, though Reseda was reconciled to her Anglo son-in-law, she still exuded a faint disappointment every time she saw him.
No, Reseda would not have approved of Fran dating Sarita.
And Reseda might not approve of Autumn and Rennie.
She wouldn’t think of that, nor about Rennie’s continued warnings. He loved her and that was all that mattered.
“Fran could have told me about him and Sarita. I wouldn’t have said anything to Reseda if he’d asked me not to.” A thought struck her. “Was that who those photos were for, those nudes I took of him? For Sarita?”
“I’d say so.”
“Well, pooh. He should have told me.”
Rennie chuckled.
“What’s so funny?”
The creases in his forehead were deeper. “You. Francisco wouldn’t have told you or anyone else, Autumn. Sarita was a lot different from his other flings. She was experienced, famous, accustomed to having men at her feet. Francisco was wild about her. He usually gets the women he wants, but he didn’t get Sarita.”
“Nor me,” she said automatically.
“No. But Sarita… Things worked out fine for him because when it was over, you were there to pick up the pieces. You might not have been so accommodating had you known he was carrying the torch for her.”
She put up her chin. “I was his friend and not a consolation prize. I’m still his friend.”
He traced her jaw with his knuckles. “I know that, but I’m not so sure he does.”
They reached his Lexus, and he opened the door for her. Miffed, she flounced in.
One more thing she’d been left out of. Fran could have told her. Rennie knew, and she bet Laney and Norma knew, too. Maybe not. Neither of them could keep something like that to herself.
Darn Rennie. He had no business laughing at her as if she were a naïve schoolgirl.
When he put the key in the ignition, she said, “If Fran and Sarita agreed to call it off like you told Captain Cunningham, why was Fran so upset? He was depressed for the longest time. We were worried he was going to do something—”
Rennie’s hand clamped down on her wrist.
“Don’t say that. Please don’t ever say that to anyone, Autumn. Not now.”
“What? Oh. I see.” She couldn’t. It would give Fran a kind of motive, however farfetched, for killing Sarita.
“You understand?” His hand tightened until her wrist hurt. “Promise.”
How unfair. He wouldn’t confide in her that he was afraid Fran could have killed Sarita in a jealous rage, but he still expected her to help protect Fran. He was closing her out like she was as hostile as Captain Cunningham.
Desolation swelled. She’d never be a real part of his family. No matter how much she loved him or how often and how tenderly he made love to her, he would never accept her. She would be shut out just like always.
Understanding led to conscious acceptance.
It didn’t matter. She took a deep breath. “You know I won’t say anything, Rennie. I’d never get Fran into trouble.”
He released her wrist, touched her cheek. “I know you wouldn’t intentionally.” The Rennie she knew was back again. “I also know it’s easy to get tripped up when you’re trying to cover for someone. Especially when you aren’t used to it.”
“Like you are?”
He flinched.
Uh oh. She’d struck a nerve. He looked like a man caught in a lie.
Something else he was keeping from her. She swallowed. “Okay. So you’re afraid those pictures I took of Sarita might somehow implicate Fran.”
“They might. We need photos to compare with that jewelry exhibit.”
“Let’s get the thumb drive and have them printed up.”
“Autumn, the police will take it as evidence.”
"No!" She hadn’t thought about that. “I can’t lose them. Even if Sarita’s dead, they… I need to make a copy of the drive. I can copy it and print them out before I give them to the police.”
In half an hour, after she’d called a photographer friend who agreed to let her use his equipment, they were at her condo to get the memory stick from the van.
While Rennie sat in the Lexus, Autumn hopped out and opened the garage door. “Is the thumb drive all I need? You don’t want to come in and have a sandwich?”
“No. We’ll pick up a hamburger on the way. Hurry.”
He left the motor running.
Chapter 17
Despite the closed windows, Sam Bogatti heard the car pull up in front of the condo.
He threw down the magazine, gripped his gun.
A peek through the window blinds showed the Hispanic’s Lexus in front of the garage and the photographer emerging with a remote aimed toward the garage door. The man didn’t get out.
Bingo.
&n
bsp; Lady Luck was back. He’d do her, wait for the man to leave or, if Romeo came inside, escape out the front.
As the automatic door whirred, he went to the kitchen and took a stance where he could see the door, gun poised. Some muffled movements inside the garage. A car door opened, then slammed.
Was she getting into her van? Leaving?
No sound of an engine cranking.
He gripped the Ruger, eyes glued to the kitchen door, and slid toward it.
The garage door whirred again.
What the shit?
A car door slammed outside.
He rushed back to the front window in time to see the Lexus pull out with the photographer in the passenger seat.
“I don’t believe this. I frigging don’t believe this.”
Nobody had this kind of luck.
Nobody.
He sank down in the chair and dropped his head into his hands.
The stress was getting to him. Some manic malevolent force was buffeting him back and forth and laughing like a frigging hyena.
“This is the last time,” he muttered. “I swear on the Bible, this is the last job for Bernie. Let me get finished with this one contract and no more. I’m outta the business for good.”
Since it was doubtful the photographer was coming back any time soon, he left to get a throwaway.
He might as well call Bernie and see what the dumbass wanted.
A half hour later, after talking to Bernie, Sam felt a helluva lot better.
Things weren’t so bad. He’d have to rearrange his schedule, but he could still finish the job today.
Checking his phone GPS, he found the location of the High Museum and started driving.
Jeez, things had to get better. He’d never had this kind of rotten luck in his whole frigging career.
****
At the photo shop near Perimeter Mall, Rennie watched as Autumn picked up her last photograph.
She had, with her usual dispatch, lined up use of a processing lab that belonged to one of her contacts. Once they got there, she’d plugged in her stick, copied it to another, then sent her shots to the printer.
Efficient and capable.
Not that he would have expected anything less from his accomplished princess.
Intimate Portraits Page 20
