by Taylor Smith
“Okay, give me a second here, guys,” Hannah said. Her family allowed her a few inches of space, but that was all the invitation the golden retrievers required to move in and offer their own excited greetings, one nuzzling, the other slobbering, both tails wagging like frantic, furry metronomes.
“Come on. We were just going to have something to eat,” her mother said.
Ah yes, food. The Demetrious family cure-all. Hannah ducked into the powder room to wash dog slobber off her hands, then followed the others into the kitchen. Her mother was shifting plates at the round table to make room for another setting.
“Here, Nana,” Natalie said, “I’ll do it.”
But Nana couldn’t be dissuaded. Hannah recognized her mother’s need to bury her fears in busywork. As they settled down and said again how worried sick they’d been about her, she kicked herself for not having checked in as soon as she got home from Mexico. They didn’t even know about the mess in Mexico. All they knew was that Rebecca had been murdered.
“I was pretty wiped when I got back yesterday, or I would have checked in with Rebecca sooner, too. That’s why I only just found out.”
“You push yourself too hard,” her mother fretted. It always came down to Hannah’s job, although today, it was probably better to think about that than the horror of Rebecca’s death.
“I suppose it didn’t really matter whether you heard about Becs yesterday or today,” Nora said.
Hannah reached over and squeezed her hand. “I’m so sorry. Detective Russo told me he called you.”
“It was awful. He really didn’t have to notify me, but he said he found my number with Rebecca’s things, and he seemed to know I was your sister. Did you work with him when you were in the department?”
“No, I only met him recently.”
“He was anxious to know when you were getting back from Mexico.”
“Is he someone special, dear?” their mother asked coyly.
Here it goes, Hannah thought. Her mother would never rest easy until Hannah had a “protector.” Curiosity about her love life trumped all other considerations. Annoyed as she was with Russo at the moment, however, there was nothing to tell and at this rate, there probably never would be.
She reached for the lamb, Nana’s never-fail remedy for grieving hearts. Maybe if she filled her mouth, they’d talk amongst themselves and drop the subject of the mysterious detective.
“Dad picked me up from school,” Natalie said, “so I knew something bad must have happened.”
He nodded. “I left the office and picked up Nana, too, as soon as Nora called.”
“Poor Nora needed her family,” Nana said. “She was sobbing and—”
“Ma, enough,” Nora said. “It’s not about me.”
“Oh, I know, it’s about poor Rebecca.”
Nora glanced around. “She was here with us just a couple of days ago. I never imagined it would be the last time I’d see her.”
“Who would do such a terrible thing?” Nana wondered.
Natalie, dark eyes moving from one adult to the other, looked like she thought she should add something but couldn’t think what. Hannah empathized. What do you say about a nightmare?
“You said you talked to the detective,” Neal said. “Do they have any idea who did it?”
Natalie leaned forward. “It’s almost always a family member or someone who knew the victim well, right?” She was a big Law and Order fan.
“Detective Russo did ask about her divorce,” Nora said. “He had a lot of questions about the kind of man Bill is and how he and Becs had been getting on.”
“Must have been hard for you,” Hannah said. “You guys were friends with him, too, for years and years.”
Neal nodded, but Nora shook her head. “Not anymore. Not after what he put Becs through.” She twisted her napkin in a tight knot. “I did say I didn’t think he would ever hurt Becs physically. It had to have been someone else.”
As tears welled in her sister’s eyes, Hannah considered sharing what she knew about the possible connection between Rebecca, Koon and a missing van Gogh, but it would only raise more questions than she could answer. Nora didn’t need added uncertainty, and their mother certainly didn’t need to be worrying about whether her youngest child might be next on some killer’s hit parade.
Neal squeezed Nora’s hand, then turned to Hannah. “How was Mexico?”
“Hot.” In more ways than one.
“Where were you?”
“Puerto Vallarta.”
“Great spot. Remember, hon? We went there before Nolan was born.”
Nora wiped her eyes and smiled wanly. “I remember. I was pregnant, and I’d just started showing. People were so sweet to us.” A crease appeared between her eyebrows. “Detective Russo seemed really worried about you down there, Hannah. That’s what had us thinking you could be in danger.”
Well, at least he hadn’t told Nora her sister was a murder suspect.
“Were you in danger, Aunt Hannah?”
“It was just a delivery job.” Gone horribly wrong.
“That painting Rebecca wanted carried down?” Neal asked. Hannah nodded.
“Who’d you deliver it to?” Natalie asked.
Ouch. “A man with more money than taste.”
“What do you mean?”
“Oh, the painting he bought was by an L.A. artist named Koon. I didn’t think much of it. But hey, at least the client flew me down and back first-class. Wasn’t for my benefit, mind you, only the picture’s.” And if it really was a van Gogh, she thought, that coddling made more sense.
Natalie rested her cheek on her fist, watching Hannah, her pretty face puzzled. Mystified, maybe, about the bizarre assortment of jobs her aunt seemed to land.
“Well, I’m glad you went first-class at least,” Nana said. “You work such long hours.”
Nora opened her mouth to say something, but before she could, Natalie smacked the table. “That’s it!”
Nana jumped. “Natalie!” Nora chided.
“I remember where I heard that name! Aunt Hannah, I was watching TV before you came. There was a news break and they said that artist you were talking about was found dead in his studio. August Koon—it’s the same guy, right?”
Every head swiveled toward Hannah. Damn, damn, damn. That was the problem with smart kids. They didn’t miss a trick.
“Hannah, did you know about this?” her mother asked.
She sighed and nodded. “I went to Rebecca’s gallery this morning. The police were still there, of course. After they heard about the job I’d been on for Rebecca, they wanted to talk to Koon, so I took them over to his studio. That’s when they found him.”
“Why did you have to go?”
“They couldn’t find an address for him but I had gone there with Becs. I knew how to get to the place.”
Nora’s eyes widened. “You were at her gallery, too? Then you know how she died. Detective Russo wouldn’t say.”
Hannah shook her head. Please don’t ask me that.
“Tell me.”
Hannah glanced at Neal, looking for backup, but he said nothing. She sighed. “It was very quick.”
“Was the gallery trashed?” Neal asked. “A robbery gone bad, maybe?”
“Not really. Things were disturbed, a couple of pots broken, but that’s about all.”
“How did she die?” Nora asked again.
“Oh, Nora, I don’t think—”
“I need to know. I’ve had the most awful pictures in my mind ever since I heard, you can’t imagine.”
Hannah glanced at Neal and then, pointedly, at Natalie.
“Nat, go upstairs, please,” Neal said.
“Dad, she was my godmother. I—”
“Natalie! Go!” Nora snapped.
Stunned by the unaccustomed outburst from her mother, the girl got up and left the table without another word. Nora turned back to her sister and waited.
“Her neck was broken,” Hannah said quietly.
Nora sat back as if she’d been smacked. “Oh, Becs…” she breathed. No one said anything for a moment. Then Nora asked, “Maybe she fell?”
“No, honey, she didn’t fall.”
“Are you sure?”
Hannah nodded.
“But how—”
“Nora, look at me,” Neal said softly. “There was an intruder. It happened quickly, Hannah said. Becs wouldn’t have felt any pain.”
Nora’s eyes were huge, and Nana was crying softly. “You’re sure she didn’t suffer?” Nora asked. “Absolutely sure?”
“Sure,” Hannah said. “She looked peaceful.”
“You actually saw her?”
“Yes. And Neal’s right. She didn’t feel any pain.”
I hope she didn’t, Hannah thought. But she would have been terrified just the same.
It was after eight by the time she left the Quinns’. After Neal had gone up for a quiet talk with her, Natalie had rejoined the family. The evening had drifted along on small talk, memories of happier times with Rebecca and a few more tears. Each time a new wave of grief hit, they lost their footing for a while until the pain ebbed again.
It was dark when Hannah sailed back up the freeway on a river of red and white lights. At one point, she paged through her iPod until she found Randy Newman’s “I Love L.A.” Setting the song to repeat, she cranked down her windows and let the wind whip her hair, singing at the top of her lungs. It beat screaming.
And it certainly beat thinking.
After the double door locks were slammed into place against thieves, murderers and the grim reaper, Hannah leaned into a wall, teary eyed and exhausted. Her place was quiet and dark as a tomb, only the phone’s blue message light casting eerie shadows on the walls.
Switching on lamps to dispel the gloom, she hung her messenger bag on a hook by the door, then dialed up her phone messages. The first two were hang-ups. A long silence opened the third. Then, a voice, a stranger. Male. A slight accent, maybe? Or not…
“We will meet, Miss Nicks. You have something that belongs to me.”
Gladding. It had to be.
She checked the readout to see where the calls had originated. All three had come from the same number. Local. Terrific.
She rechecked the locks on the front door and then the patio, closing every curtain. Times like these, she wondered why she didn’t own a dog, except how could she, with the amount of time she spent on the road? An attack cat, maybe? Cats were more independent. Not too intimidating, however.
Cats made her think of kittens, and she smiled in spite of herself, remembering Ruben’s call, his voice disguised to sound like his sister Monica. She looked at the clock and considered calling, but the guys would be in the midst of the nightly battle to get Mellie to sleep, her poor little locked-up body often too achy to allow her to settle.
Ruben had to have been calling on Travis’s behalf, anxious to warn her of something before she left for Mexico—except she’d gotten the warning too late. Would things have gone down differently if she’d received the message sooner? Would it have saved Rebecca?
She turned the television on low to cancel out the lonely silence, then headed for a long, hot shower. Afterward, dressed in her softest sweatpants and zip hoodie, she poured herself a glass of wine and settled in to watch the most mindless programs she could find on the tube. After a couple of hours, she was zoned out and almost relaxed.
But when the doorbell rang, she sat bolt upright, heart pounding. Sliding off the sofa, she tiptoed into her bedroom and opened the safe in her closet. She pulled out her gun, flicked off the safety and chambered a round. If Moises Gladding or some henchman on his payroll had come to call, she wasn’t going down without a fight.
The doorbell rang again, and then she heard the rap of knuckles. She sidled up to the door and listened. Nothing.
One of the first things she’d done when she’d bought her condo was to replace the wooden exterior doors with solid steel ones. There was nothing like having a house blown up to make a person a tad paranoid about home security. Of course, the Achilles’ heel of a solid steel door was the peephole. It might be urban myth, but it was hard to look through that little spyglass without imagining a thug on the other side with a .357 Magnum pointed at your retina.
She reached for a piece of junk mail on the hall table and held it over the peephole, just to see if its shadow invited a bullet.
“Hannah? Are you there?”
She nearly collapsed with relief. On the other hand, she could happily shoot him just for scaring the bejesus out of her. She flicked the Beretta’s safety back on, unbolted the door and stood back to let Russo in.
He froze at the sight of the gun. “Are you okay?”
She waved him in, closing the door behind him and slamming home the dead bolts.
“What happened?” he asked.
She shook her head, still too shaken for coherent speech.
“I’ve been worrying about you all day,” Russo said. “I needed to make sure you were all right. And to apologize again for my partner and that business with her brother. I never meant—”
She put her fingers on his lips. “Shut up.”
“I—”
“Russo, just shut up, will you?” She clamped her mouth onto his to make sure he did.
It knocked him off balance, back against the wall, but he recovered fast. As he pulled her to him, one of his arms wrapped around her, pinning her gun hand against her side. His other hand was buried in her hair, holding her close. She slid her free hand under his sport coat and around his back, welcoming the warmth of him under her palm. He tasted of mint and coffee, and smelled of something like musk and cloves. So damn good.
Turning, he pressed her into the wall, his own tension evident, his need as urgent as her own. Mouths and tongues explored. Then his lips moved down her neck, his hand cupping her breast, thumb circling, driving her crazy. When his mouth came back to hers, it was softer, slower, and then slower still. Finally, breathing hard, they stood forehead to forehead.
He closed his hand around hers, the one still clutching the gun—barely, she was that limp. “Do you think you could put this down now?” he asked.
“Not sure. I still haven’t made up my mind whether to shoot you.”
He chuckled softly and kissed her again. “Don’t shoot me.”
“Oh, yeah? What do I get if I don’t?”
“This.” He kissed her neck again. “And this.” He kissed the lobe of her ear, then took it lightly in his teeth. A shiver ran through her and her fingers trembled, the gun slipping. He caught it, while the fingers of his other hand tugged the zipper of her hoodie and lowered it. “This, too,” he said, his mouth moving to the bare hollow of her clavicle.
She put her head back against the wall, eyes closed, giving in to the sensations on her skin. “Hell of a good argument you make, Detective,” she murmured.
He kissed her once more, lightly. When she opened her eyes, he was watching her, dark eyes smiling, smoldering. “I’ve got other arguments I wouldn’t mind making.”
She put her arms around his neck. “Oh, yeah?”
He kissed her lips. Eyes. Forehead. “Yup.”
“Up for some really intense debate, are we?”
“I’m so up for it, you wouldn’t believe.”
She circled his hips and pulled him to her. “Oh, yes, I would.”
Twenty-Three
Los Angeles
Friday, April 21
To Hannah’s way of thinking, the perfect definition of hell was waking up with a stranger in your bed. By that measure, she was a long way from hell when the sun broke through her eastern windows. In fact, it was a pretty great morning, all things considered.
A short while later, Russo was dressed and sitting at her kitchen counter, drinking coffee, watching her and looking pretty contented himself, thank you very much.
“Do you always go into work this early?” she asked.
“No, but I need t
ime to wipe this stupid grin off my face before I see my trainee or the jig will be up for sure. She’s already as much as said my objectivity might be compromised where you’re concerned.”
“Is it?”
