The Rebel

by Adrienne Giordano

  “Okay.” Jenna pushed open her door. “Wait here. And turn so they can’t see you.”

  Amanda spun around. This supermodel of a woman with her long, glossy hair, bombshell body and perfect face was getting out of this car alone? Was she insane? “Where are you going?”

  This is bad. Bad, bad, bad.

  “I’ll knock on the door and see who answers. You two pay attention. You never know who’ll open the door. It might be someone you recognize.”

  “It’s too dangerous,” Amanda said.

  Halfway out of the car, Jenna glanced back. “This is nothing. Really. I’ve been in crack houses on my own. I’ll be fine. Besides, neither of you can come with me. If it’s the guy from last night, he’ll never open the door. The only way to know is to get him to open up so we can see his face.” She flashed a full-on smile. “I’m good at that.”

  “If you need something,” David said, “hold your hand up and I’m right there. Got it? No screwing around, Jenna. Just give me the signal.”

  “Will do. Relax. It’s all good.”

  With that, she slammed the door and made her way across the street in her skintight skirt and high-heeled boots. She might as well be the Queen of England living in the projects the way she stuck out.

  “David, this is a rough neighborhood.”

  “Sure is.” He reached across, set his hand on her thigh and squeezed. “She’ll be fine. Two minutes and we’re out of here.”

  They watched as Jenna knocked on the door. A minute later an older man, maybe about seventy, with gray hair and a long beard answered.

  “Well, that’s not the guy I saw in the house,” she said. “Did you see the driver?”

  “No.”

  Jenna spent a couple of minutes chatting with the man, smiling at him and nodding. No help signal came and Amanda sat back to watch her work. A minute later, a still-smiling Jenna typed something into her phone before waving goodbye to the older man.

  Good. No chaos.

  She hopped back into the car and buckled her seat belt. “Supersweet man.”

  David glanced in the rearview mirror. “What happened?”

  “I told him I wanted to buy the Impala. That my boyfriend was a classic-car freak and would love to restore it.”

  After shifting the car into gear, David pulled away from the curb. “What’d he say?”

  “The car is registered to him, but his grandson drives it most of the time and he doesn’t want to sell it without checking with him.”

  Amanda turned back to her. “The grandson wasn’t home?”

  “Correct. The truly excellent news, though, is, being the kind woman I am, I offered to call his grandson and—” she waved her cell phone “—voilà, he gave me his number.”

  David stopped at a traffic light and smiled. “No wonder my sister loves you.”

  “Eh, what can I say?”

  How about that she was completely awesome? If they could find the grandson, maybe the police could question him. “Can we track his cell phone?”

  “Yes,” David said. “Need a warrant, though. That’s McCall’s territory.”

  Which meant finally admitting to the detective that the skull had been stolen. The man would be furious with them, and rightfully so. They’d have to face it eventually, though. Might as well get it over with. She dug her phone from her purse. “I’ll try him again.”

  The light turned green and David made a right, heading toward Lake Shore Drive, where Amanda would open her window and stick her face into the moist lake air that would wash away the cold dread that had swallowed her.

  Not even lunchtime and she was completely drained. And she still had to face Detective McCall, which she sensed would not be an easy conversation.

  Forgetting about the phone for a second, she rested her head back and stared at the car in front of them, letting her thoughts narrow to only the curve of the bumper and how it joined with the back quarter panel. Just a few seconds of distraction to get her thoughts in order. To shut out the stress of the past few days and catch her breath. That was all she needed.

  “Everything all right?” David asked.

  She picked up the phone again and scrolled her contacts. “Fine. Just thinking.”

  And summoning the nerve to make this phone call.

  “Okay.” He gestured to the phone. “McCall won’t be happy we didn’t report the break-in last night. Be prepared.”

  Chapter Ten

  Standing in David’s yet-to-be-finished kitchen, his beefy arms crossed, McCall had a look about him. One that bloated his face and made his eyes so hard he could snap concrete with them.

  David had expected this. Detectives like McCall seemed to crave control. Probably because much of what their jobs entailed was so far out of their control. Understandable. In fact, if the roles were reversed, David would have been storming this condo and railing on them, well, as much as he could without compromising a crime scene.

  “Let me get this straight,” McCall said, his voice low and on the edge of containment. “You caught a guy in your house, stealing evidence, and you didn’t consider that important enough to hunt me down?”

  “We called you,” Amanda blurted. “Whoever mans the desk told me you were out.”

  She stood beside David, shoulders back, gaze straight ahead, ready for whatever the detective could hit them with. A valiant attempt, but the excuse was lame and they all knew it.

  “My foot! You should have said why you were calling and they’d have gotten to me.” He pointed at David. “He’s a lawyer. He knows better.”

  Yeah, I do.

  Again he pointed at David, this time poking his beefy finger. “I’m not happy with you.”

  Got that message. Loud and clear. And they absolutely deserved his frustration, but if a do-over came David’s way, he’d do things exactly the same way because they’d already gotten a jump on the car and its owner.

  Giving McCall a dose of his own body language, David poked a finger back. “If you’re done screaming, I’ll tell you we left here right after the incident and no one has been back since. Your lab can still process the place.”

  McCall huffed. “At least you did somethin’ right.”

  Having reached the level of nonsense he was willing to take, David pulled the baggie with the burglar’s keys out of his jacket pocket. “These are the guy’s keys. They fell out of his pocket when I was chasing him. Maybe we can get prints off them.”

  McCall snatched them out of David’s hands. “Dammit. Did you touch them?”

  “No. I used a napkin to pick them up. They’ve been in the bag since.”

  And the gates of hell will open up to me because I’m a liar.

  “We could have had these processed already.”

  “Hey,” David said. “I get it. You’re upset. We screwed up. Move on, Detective, because we’ve got a skull missing and you whining about what we did or didn’t do isn’t getting us anywhere.”

  McCall gritted his teeth and sucked a huge breath through his nose. Seriously trying the man’s patience.

  “I should crack your skull, Hennings.”

  “Probably. But you won’t because I’m bigger, younger and in better shape. Eventually, you’ll tire out and I’ll pummel you.”

  “Pfft.”

  McCall stepped forward, getting right in David’s space. As if that would scare him. He stayed rooted in his spot, tilting his head down a bit. His height gave him an inch or two on the older man and he’d use that to whatever advantage he could. Even if it was only a mental advantage, he’d use it.

  “Really?” Amanda said. “Are the two of you going to fight it out? That would do wonders for your crime scene.”

  Good one. David fought a grin. Call it more of a smirk. McCall huffed and shook his
head before peeling off and ripping his phone from his belt holder.

  Dodged one there.

  Amanda’s phone rang and she glanced at the screen. “My landlord. Maybe this is about my building.” She pointed over her shoulder toward the living room. “I’ll take this over there. Away from the crime scene.”

  “Good idea. We’ve already given this guy a heart attack today.”

  “I heard that,” McCall said, shoving his phone back into his belt holder. “Lab guys are on the way. We’re gonna have to fingerprint both of you to rule out your prints. You better hope we get a hit on this guy. And I’ll talk to the lab about making another cast of the skull. My lieutenant is gonna blow an artery.”

  “Someone doesn’t want her finishing that reconstruction. First her studio is condemned. Then her accounts are frozen. It’s psychological torture. They’re dismantling her life. And seems to me, everything happening is somehow related to city government.”

  “Please, Hennings. Stick to civil law, because no one from the city is doing this.”

  Stick. To. Civil. Law. David locked his jaw and fought the wave of anger that shot in all directions, making his legs and arms itch. No better hot button existed, and McCall had hit it.

  Dead-on.

  Typically, that insult came from Penny, her go-to jab because she knew he couldn’t resist it.

  Until now. Now it wasn’t about him and his need to escape the family legacy. This mess was about Amanda. As painful, as mind wrecking and body shredding as it was to keep his trap shut, he’d let McCall slide on this one.

  David shrugged. “You got a better guess? The timing is too convenient. Who knows she took possession of that skull? Make a list. And check them out. That’s all I’m asking.”

  “Great news,” Amanda called from the living room.

  They could use some of that. David glanced over the breakfast bar to Amanda still standing by the front windows. “What happened?”

  “The building inspector didn’t find any mold. They said it must have been a mix-up with the address.” She held her hands up, her phone still clutched in one of them. “Tomorrow, I should be able to move back in to my studio.”

  One piece of good news. Sort of. Because jerk that he was, her moving back to her building meant leaving his mom’s, leaving safety, leaving him. Jerk.

  But he’d buck up here and give her a double fist pump. “Yes. One piece of your life restored.”

  “That’s good,” McCall said. “I’ll look into the fraud case. I know a couple guys that work fraud. I’ll see what they know. Meanwhile, I need statements from you about this break-in and that cell number for the driver of the Impala. Let’s get on it and figure out what the hell is going on with this case.”

  * * *

  CLOSER TO DINNERTIME than she’d expected, Amanda unlocked her storage unit and David slid the door up. Funny, that. She’d been handling that door on her own for three years and suddenly the man in her life—if that was what he even was—decided he’d be the one to do the lifting.

  Sure. Why not? As long as she was safe in the knowledge she could do it, she’d let him play Tarzan.

  He backed into the narrow hallway, letting her enter the unit first. Inside the twelve-hundred-square-foot space were one hundred and twenty-seven unframed paintings, all stored vertically with foam-covered boards to separate them and allow for air circulation. She’d learned early on that proper airflow prevented condensation and possible water damage.

  “Huh,” David said. “It’s a mini studio.”

  “Sort of. It’s climate controlled and cheap. I wanted space in my building, but the units are too expensive. This works out. It’s a pain to schlep over here every time I need to pick up a painting, but it’s twenty-four-hour access with security cameras. What did you think when I said storage facility?”

  “I don’t know. I was thinking a gallery or something.”

  A reasonable assumption, but economically impractical at this stage in her career. She made an adequate living, but she ruthlessly controlled her expenses. “That would be a small fortune. For now, this works.” She grabbed a pair of white nylon gloves from the bag she’d hung on the wall. “The gloves I have will be too small for you, so no touching anything. If there’s something you want to see, let me get it. Some of these aren’t fully cured yet. It takes about six months for them to dry.”

  David saluted, earning himself a swat on the arm. She couldn’t help being protective of her work. These pieces would make up her income for the next year or two, and care had to be taken.

  “While we’re here, I can show you some things for your place.” She pointed to a set of paintings to the right. “I think the ones you’ll like are in this group.”

  They might as well multitask while here. She’d pick up the painting for the Dyce Youth Center and let David peruse her stock. And since they hadn’t heard anything from Jenna’s lab about the prints on the key, they were in standby mode.

  “I’ll get the one for the youth center out first. We’ll box it up and then I’ll show you some I think you’ll connect with.”

  “What can I do?”

  She pointed to the tall, narrow boxes stacked against the wall just inside the doorway. “Grab me one of those boxes.”

  After wrapping the painting in glassine to protect it, she added Bubble Wrap—flat side facing the canvas—and taped the seams. David held the box while she slid the painting inside and sealed it, attaching a strip of plastic to the top to act as a handle.

  David nodded. “Pretty slick, lady.”

  “I have it down. How about you take this one to the car so it’s out of the way? While you’re down there, I’ll pull the ones for your place. And please make sure you lock the car.”

  Someone stealing a two-thousand-dollar painting would be the capper to the past few days.

  “Yes, ma’am. Got it.”

  With him gone, she wandered through the unit, checking the labeled racks for the pieces she wanted to show him. After locating each one, she set them upright in an empty rack and continued her search for the next. By the time David returned, she’d found all five paintings.

  “Look at you, all ready for me.”

  Something about the tone in his voice, the richness, caused a tingling hum inside her. Made her mind wander back to the night before when they’d sat in front of a fire, talking. Only talking. At the time, it seemed the right thing. Now? Her libido suddenly made it known she might be ready for David Hennings in other ways.

  Ha. She’d never be ready for him.

  She lifted the first painting from the rack and set it on the easel. “This first one has all the bold colors you like. It’s more modern than I typically do, but I like the red slashes. If you don’t like it, we can move to the next one.”

  “No. I like it. You guessed right.”

  “I knew it. Already I’m figuring you out.”

  “Ooh,” he said. “That might not be good.” He gestured to the painting. “What will this beauty cost me?”

  “Three thousand,” she said.

  She’d give him credit for trying to mask it, but his eyes went a little wide. Even blue bloods sometimes balked at spending money on something they could only stare at. He’d pay thousands for a leather jacket but not a painting.

  “Hokay. Don’t take offense, because I know this piece is worth every cent, but my mother is killing me. I have never paid three grand for artwork. Hell, I’d be happy with posters in my house.”

  She snorted. “Posters. That’s funny. Are you sure you’re a Hennings?”

  “Honey, I ask myself that every day.” He gestured to the painting. “I’ll take it. We’ll consider it my first grown-up piece of art. My mother will be thrilled.”

  She smiled up at him. “Thank you. I love this piece. I’m so glad you like
it. I’ll get it boxed up and we’ll take it with us.”

  An alarm screamed in the hallway, the piercing wail bouncing off the cement walls. What on earth?

  David’s mouth tilted down. “Fire alarm?”

  “I don’t know. I hope not. Because if it is, the sprinklers might go off.”

  Sprinklers. No. It took a few seconds to fully register. She tilted her head back and scanned the ceiling because—please let there not be one in here. There.

  “Oh, no.”

  Outside the unit, the alarm continued its droning whoo-whoo-whoo loud enough to make her ears throb. An icy panic gripped her shoulders.

  Get out.

  She spun, frantically grabbing paintings. No longer concerned with his lack of gloves, she shoved them at David. “Take these. We have to move them. There’s a sprinkler. If they get wet, they’re useless. Help me.”

  A spray of water rained down from the ceiling, and Amanda lunged for another canvas. Ohmygod. Her entire inventory was in this space. They’d never get them all out. Her chest locked, all the air from her lungs seizing.

  “No!” She continued dragging paintings from the racks.

  “The hallway has sprinklers, too.”

  “Then run,” she said. “Please. Get them out.”

  Each with two paintings, they ran, water shooting down on them. With the amount of water coming down, there was no way they’d save everything. No way.

  They burst through the side door of the building into the streaming sunlight. The manager stood in the parking lot staring up at the building, obviously searching for smoke.

  “Fire?” David asked.

  “I don’t know,” the man said. “You gotta stay out, though. The fire department is on the way.”

  Amanda set one of the paintings against the outside wall. She’d find a better place after she recovered what she could from inside. “Until I smell smoke,” she said, “I’m going in.”

  She ran back, David following behind, the two of them sprinting as she thanked her own wisdom for her first-floor unit.