"I can still hang up," Hilary pointed out.
"Please don't." Juliet's urgent tone kept her from doing just that. "I need you to give me Coenen's address again. And I have a favor to ask. If he's positively the guy I saw, I need you and Hack to try and link him to Goebel. Or at least dig up some dirt on him."
"You said I could have today and tomorrow off," Hilary reminded her.
"I know. But this is important."
Hilary's plans for a wicked, sexy afternoon started to disintegrate.
"Fine," she snapped, whirling toward her laptop to find the information. "Here's the address." She read it to Juliet. "I looked up the property in Russian Hill. Oddly enough, the deed names Irena Kapova as the owner. You know, the famous Russian ballet dancer. Ring a bell?"
"No."
"Kapova defected from the USSR in '81, then ran a dance studio in Russian Hill for the next two decades. Perhaps she leases out rooms or Coenen lives with her."
"Good to know. Thanks, sweetie."
"Be careful," Hilary told her, relieved that at least Tristan was with her boss.
"Always am," Juliet replied and hung up.
Putting her phone away, Hilary stepped through her sliding glass door onto the third-story balcony to await Stuart's arrival. A crisp autumn breeze took the edge off her annoyance about Juliet reneging on her promise. It carried the comforting hum of highway traffic from the Beltway. What the hell. Working on a project with Stuart might be a handy way to break the ice.
The appearance of a burnt-orange, all-electric car zipping through the parking lot prompted her to lean over the railing. She guessed it was Stuart's before he even pulled into her spare parking place. Who else would drive such a fuel-efficient vehicle? With a held breath, she waited for him to get out. And waited. And waited.
What the heck?
She was about to run down to the parking lot to fetch him when the car door opened. The driver emerged with the caution of a Navy SEAL infiltrating an enemy compound, his dark head swiveling as he scanned for threats. Seeing none, he ducked back into his car and pulled out a laptop bag, shouldering the strap as if slinging an assault rifle over one arm.
"What a nerd," Hilary breathed in admiration.
His head jerked back. He'd apparently heard her whispered words from three stories below. He looked straight into her eyes, and heat flooded Hilary's body. Her girlie parts tingled.
She sent him a slow smile. "Hi, Stuart," she sang out.
He neither smiled back nor returned her greeting. His free hand remained glued to his open car door, making her worry that he might jump back in and take off. To her great relief, he slowly closed it and activated the lock with a swipe of his thumb on a keypad.
Hugging his laptop bag like a drowning man clutching a flotation device, he moved resolutely toward the breezeway and the stairs that would take him to her front door.
Hilary watched him disappear from view.
"Huh," she mused, reordering her expectations. Stuart Rudolph didn't strike her as the type to have sex on the first date.
Oh, well. Hilary shrugged off this impediment to her plans. She would simply have to seduce him.
Chapter 10
"Wow. Ballet dancers must make good money," Juliet mused, eying Irena Kapova's two-story stucco townhouse as Tristan parked on the other side of the street. Located at the height of a steep hill, the beige home's large-paned windows overlooked San Francisco Bay.
"She was famous," Tristan reminded her, turning the wheel into the curb and setting the brake to keep the car from rolling down the steep incline they had ascended. "I can't believe you've never heard of her."
Juliet shrugged. "I wasn't into ballet as a kid."
"Let me guess," he drawled. "Emma was the dancer."
"Yep, pretty much."
Tristan cut the engine and reached for her arm. "What are we going to say to Coenen if he's here?" he asked.
"You're not going to say anything," Juliet corrected him lightly.
His grip on her arm tightened. "What do you mean?"
She pretended to consider his attire—well-worn jeans and a navy blue sweatshirt. "You're not dressed for the part," she said apologetically.
"What part?"
She handed him the business card she was already clutching. "This is how I approach potential witnesses or suspects. By the time they realize who I really am, I've had the opportunity to look around and size them up."
Tristan studied the glossy photo and job title printed beneath it. "This says you're an insurance broker for a big name insurance company."
"My foot in the door," she explained, taking the card back. "I've done this a million times, and I know what to say." Juliet studied his broad shoulders and muscle-hewn thighs. "Even if you changed your clothes, Tristan, you'd look nothing like an insurance salesman. I have to do this alone."
His expression predictably clouded over. Quick as a flash, he caught her jaw between his thumb and forefinger and leaned toward her until they were nose to nose.
"When are you going to learn, Juliet, that operating all alone is dangerous?"
Her eyes widened at his sudden vehemence. His hot fingers seared the sensitive skin beneath her chin.
"The last time I left you to your own devices, you dove into the middle of a gun fight, drawing fire from Mexico's most notorious drug lord. Hell, no, you are not going solo."
"You admitted afterward that I was a help to you!" She jerked her chin from his grasp.
"You were. But you don't just run into a fight without a buddy to cover your back." He gestured toward Kapova's townhouse. "I'm not letting you confront a potential killer on your own. We're teammates," he reminded her firmly. "We do this together or not at all!"
"OK!" She ought to have known he would protest her independence. "I'll call your cell right now and put mine on speaker. That way you hear everything, and if Coenen pulls me into the house and starts strangling me, you can break the door down and kick his ass. Happy now?"
Tristan's glower let her know that he was anything but happy. He gave a grudging nod. "Call me now."
She quickly accessed his number. The instant his phone buzzed, she put her own on speaker and slid it into the pocket of her purse, microphone up.
Then she withdrew the digital recording device she always wore into interviews and fastened it over the button of her blouse where it peeked out over her sweater.
"Is that a camera?" Tristan asked.
She lowered her hand so he could see it. "Can you tell?"
He regarded the device with a critical frown, then shrugged. "Not really. It looks like a button."
"Exactly. I'll be all right, Tristan." But sudden doubts assailed Juliet as she reached for the door handle. She would miss Tristan's reassuring presence as she faced Coenen alone. "Aren't you going to wish me luck?" she asked.
With a softening of his grim expression, Tristan bent toward her and brushed a sweet, encouraging kiss across her lips. "I'm right inside your bag," he reminded her.
Sending him a brave smile, she climbed out of the car, shouldered the strap of her purse, and followed the steeply rising sidewalk to the beige house.
Apparently, Irena Kapova enjoyed gardening. That or she'd paid someone to plant a vivid cactus garden in her front flower bed. Approaching a wide green door, Juliet noted the security camera and intercom mounted on the wall next to it.
Her heart thudded against her breastbone as she rang the doorbell and waited. The prospect of coming face to face with the man in her nightmare caused her to break into a cold sweat.
As heavy footsteps sounded on the other side of the solid wooden door, Juliet used her thumbnail to activate the digital recording device on her button. The security system mounted on the wall next to her clicked as the homeowner examined her through the lens of the camera.
Juliet's mouth turned dry.
Whoever was inside was looking at her. She braced herself for the door to swing inward, but it didn't. A second later, footstep
s retreated from the door. She released her held breath as disappointment punched her in the gut.
Had that been Hans Coenen? Had he recognized her? The sound of hushed voices came to her ears. Determined not to be ignored, Juliet raised a hand and knocked again.
At last, a lighter step approached the door, and it swung open. Even knowing it wasn't Coenen this time, Juliet's pulse still thrummed. A stern-faced woman with beetling eyebrows and dark, dyed hair glared at her. Was this Irena Kapova or Coenen's housekeeper?
"Yes?" the woman demanded. Her brisk, unfriendly voice carried a distinctly Russian accent suggesting she was, in fact, the ballet dancer herself.
Juliet summoned a professional smile. "Good afternoon—Mrs. Coenen?" she asked, making certain she stood in such a way that her camera caught the woman's reaction to her intentional error.
Kapova's scowl deepened. "No. My name is Kapova. There is no Coenen here."
"Oh, I'm sorry," Juliet said, pleased to have identified her correctly. "I was told Hans Coenen lived here. He made an online request for information about our life insurance." She held out her business card, forcing the woman to take it.
Kapova accepted the card grudgingly, glanced down at it, then back at Juliet. "You have the wrong address," she insisted.
Juliet sent her a confident smile. "I'm sure this is the one he gave our office. If you'll please give that card to Mr. Coenen, I'd appreciate it. He can reach me at the number listed on it, and we can meet at his convenience."
The former ballet dancer's eyes glinted with suspicion.
"Well, good day." Tipping her head in farewell, Juliet turned and retreated down the walk. "Lovely garden," she called over her shoulder.
Arriving at the sidewalk, she pivoted in the opposite direction from Tristan's Camaro and added in a voice that only he could hear, "I'm going to walk around the block. Pick me up one street over."
At the corner, Juliet glanced back casually to see Kapova gone and the green door firmly closed. Movement at a large second-story window above the door had her glancing sharply upward. The face looking down at her turned her blood to icewater. Coenen stepped abruptly out of view, but not before she recognized him as the man at the site of her parents' death.
He did live here. He was the man she'd seen that night.
Shock reverberated to the ends of her fingers and toes, drowning out the sights and smells of the well-appointed neighborhood as she walked like an automaton, past houses and high-end shops, to the next street. There, she was relieved to see the yellow Camaro, idling in wait for her. Only then did she remember to flip the switch on her button recorder to OFF.
With her heart still hammering, Juliet dropped into the passenger seat and shut the door, promptly locking it. "It's him," she stated, with less composure than she would have liked. Catching a glimpse of the mystery man after all these years had shaken her more than she'd thought possible.
Tristan stared at her. "You OK?"
"Yeah. Of course. Drive," she pleaded, drawing a deep breath to steady herself. As Tristan drove down the block, she removed the tiny camera from her blouse. She tried to subdue the tremor in her hands while returning it to the special pocket in her purse.
"You can hang up on me now," Tristan reminded her, turning at the intersection.
She'd completely forgotten about their phone connection. Locating her phone, she pushed the end button on her screen and sat back. "I saw him looking down at me from a second-story window. He looks exactly like he did eleven years ago, just older."
"Question is, did he recognize you?" Tristan shot her a grim, sidelong glance.
Juliet thought back to Coenen's reaction. "I don't know."
A beat of silence passed. "What happens now?" Tristan asked.
"Now I wait for him to call my messaging service." She explained how she employed a service to take messages any time someone called the number on her insurance business card. "If he's curious about why I'm looking for him, he'll call."
"You think he will," Tristan stated.
When she didn't answer, he looked away from the congested street to quickly assess her. She fought to look relaxed, but she was trembling, and no doubt he could see it.
"You sure you want to do this, Juliet?" His concern only strengthened her resolve. She'd never reacted to danger in such an obvious manner. It was all she could do to keep her teeth from chattering. What was wrong with her?
"Of course." Clenching her molars, she averted her face, pretending to take in the view. Heavy clouds had impaled themselves on the Oakland Bay Bridge's tallest spires. It cloaked Treasure Island in a blanket of mist giving it the appearance of a scene straight out of a movie.
"Where are we going?" she asked, as Tristan, cued by the car's GPS, waited for a trolley to roll by before following the prompt to turn right.
"Sightseeing," he replied.
The explanation scarcely registered in her fogged mind, let alone aroused her interest. Seeing Coenen through the window of his home validated having seen him through the car window of her nightmare. His intent regard that night as he'd stared at her dead mother was suddenly so vivid, Juliet couldn't believe she'd allowed herself to forget it at all. Let alone for more than a decade.
In her distracted state, she was vaguely aware that Tristan was driving them downhill toward the waterfront. As they passed a park with a public beach, he pointed out a man in a wetsuit carving through the choppy water near the shore.
"Now that's a cold swim," he stated as he turned onto Beach Street. "Wouldn't want to trade places with him."
Completely self-absorbed, it took Juliet a moment to realize they had arrived at Fisherman's Wharf. The seafood restaurants and souvenir shops gave away their location. Even in mid-October, tourists crowded the streets. An open-air, double-decker bus laden with sightseers rumbled past, headed out for a tour of the city and the Golden Gate Bridge.
Tristan turned into a parking lot, took the automated ticket to raise the bar, and nosed into one of the last remaining parking spaces. Juliet just gazed at him unable to focus.
"Might as well have a look around." Pushing his door open, he got out and rounded the car to assist her.
With jerky movements, Juliet followed his lead. Taking her hand, Tristan directed her toward the nearest street. In seconds, they merged into the flow of pedestrian traffic cruising the storefronts and eateries.
Tristan paused in front of a shop with rental bicycles while he considered Juliet's pale face. She was still envisioning Coenen's rectangular head behind his window.
"Want to ride bikes over the Golden Gate Bridge?" Tristan asked.
Juliet regarded him blankly.
He pointed to the map displayed on the shop window. "We could bike to Sausalito—get something to eat then continue around the coast to Tiburon, where the ferry brings us back to Fisherman's Wharf. That sounds fun, doesn't it?"
She would ordinarily have relished the opportunity to tour the area from the vantage of a bicycle. Searching her feelings in that moment, however, all she felt was a cold emptiness, as if she'd died along with her parents that long-ago night.
"Maybe another day," Tristan decided when she didn't answer. "Let's hit up the Ghirardelli Chocolate factory." Murmuring something under his breath about chocolate fixing everything, he caught her hand again and walked toward the park.
Even in her numb state, Juliet recognized what he was doing—acting as if nothing were out of the ordinary, giving her time to thaw. It occurred to her that if anyone understood what it felt like to come face to face with the enemy, it was Tristan.
Half an hour later, with a square of salted caramel melting in her mouth, Juliet left the Ghirardelli gift shop, relieved to be feeling like herself again. A glance at her phone showed that her messaging service had yet to receive a call from Coenen. Maybe he wasn't her parents' killer. Maybe he was just some man who looked exactly like her memory of that monster. In which case, she'd been freaking out for no reason whatsoever.
"Want to do a city bus tour?" Tristan asked as they passed the Taste of the Town Tours and Activities counter.
She paused to look at the colorful poster advertising various tours. "Sure," she agreed. "Might as well see as much of San Francisco as we can."
"There's my girl," he murmured before pulling her into a hug.
Submitting to his embrace, Juliet had to quash the affection that billowed in her like a kite in a stiff breeze. She wasn't his girl, but they were on vacation, so what difference did it make?
"Don't let Coenen get to you, honey," he murmured in her ear. "He'll have to go through me first, and I'm not going to let that happen."
Inhaling Tristan's scent while resting her cheek on his soft sweatshirt, it was oh-so tempting to accept his assurance at face value. Relying on him now, however, would weaken her in the long run. What if she found herself needing him all the time? Then what? She would have to be like Emma, relinquishing her man to the constant brushes with death and trusting in fate to bring him safely home again.
She squirmed free of Tristan's embrace.
"I'll buy my own ticket," she insisted, reaching into her purse. "They're pretty expensive."
He visibly swallowed his protest. As they joined the line, Tristan examined the sky with the experienced eye of a navigator. "Maybe you should pop next door and buy a couple of ponchos," he suggested. "I think it's going to rain."
Seeing through his ploy to purchase both their tickets, Juliet leveled him a look. Nevertheless, since she didn't relish getting wet, she left him in line to head into the adjacent shop.
When she emerged five minutes later, Tristan had moved closer to the front of the line but was still waiting to purchase their tickets. Given the number of people queuing at the curb for the bus, she decided if they wanted a seat on the upper deck, she had better wait with them. Catching Tristan's eye, she signaled her intent and found herself next to a harried mother reassuring her squirming child that the bus would be there soon.
As if on cue, the big red tour bus swung around the corner and headed in their direction. At the same moment, a yank on Juliet's purse brought her head around. Expecting to see some young child hanging on it, she was startled to find a teen with multiple facial piercings tugging her bag from her grasp.
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