The air in Madeline’s apartment was cool and still and not as stale as it could’ve been. How long law enforcement had been here, I had no idea. But Niilo had been spot on about one thing: he’d said it looked as if Madeline wasn’t coming back to this place. And he was right.
The apartment was bare, except for an old, wooden broomstick leaning in one corner and a crooked length of coaxial cable tangled on the floor. More powder, dark this time to contrast with the buff interior, coated the light-switch plates and the edges of the cabinets in the little kitchenette. At the back of the place, sheer curtains drawn across the sliding-glass door stirred as the air-conditioning kicked on.
Carefully, I locked the front door behind me before walking through the kitchenette, Madeline’s bedroom, and her bath. She’d left nothing in a drawer or on a closet shelf. Or if she had, McIlvoy surely had it in his possession now.
Circling through the echoing living room once more, I shouldered the sliding door aside, ventured onto the balcony. Connor’s own little slice of paradise jutted from the stucco, offset, an entire story below. His party guests, their faces golden in the glow of their illegal fire ring, called hello and waved.
I returned their greetings, though less than enthusiastically. Even out here, powder speckled the balcony’s wrought-iron railing. But once again, I doubted the crime scene tech had been able to pull Madeline’s prints from it.
Because I didn’t believe Madeline had really lived here at all.
Oh, that name had been signed to the lease, all right. But that name didn’t truly belong to the woman who’d shown up in my office. And with the wildly wealthy Niilo Järvinen to personally vouch for her, what Pasadena landlord would have denied her application?
No, this apartment was a front. It gave credence to the idea that Dr. Madeline Donahue, with her gloves and her tinted lip balm, actually existed. But this apartment had been vacant when Niilo visited before. And it sure as hell was vacant now. Because the woman masquerading as Madeline Donahue slept and showered and ate her breakfast someplace else. Someplace where she wouldn’t have to worry about leaving fingerprints. Someplace she’d rented under another alias.
Or maybe she’d even signed that lease under her real name.
The idea ignited me. Leaving the balcony behind, I retraced my steps to the front of the apartment, whipped open Madeline’s door. And there, I met Barrett, cresting the stairs on the far side of the landing.
For the longest moment, neither of us moved. Neither of us breathed. We simply stared at one another—until Barrett came to his senses.
He reached for the handcuffs I knew he kept holstered at the small of his back.
And that got me going.
In the blink of an eye, I retreated. I slammed the apartment door between us. I locked it just in time.
“Jamie?” Barrett hammered on the door with his fist. He rattled the thumb latch in frustration. “Jamie, open this door.”
But I wasn’t going to do any such thing.
If I did, Barrett would have to apprehend me. He’d have to turn me over to McIlvoy. And with a dead soldier back at Robert Fraley’s place and someone setting me up, I’d be on my way to an arraignment.
I’d get tossed in the clink to await trial.
And any chance I had of learning why the so-called Madeline Donahue had decided to make a monkey out of me would be gone.
“Jamie, come out here,” Barrett growled. “Or I’m coming in.”
The lock set trembled with the grinding slide of metal.
Because Barrett had a key.
Panic had me snatching up the safety chain, slipping it into the bracket on the jamb. But the device wouldn’t keep Barrett out forever. Not once he put his strong shoulder to the door.
I turned my back on it. The kitchenette offered me no cover. The bedroom’s spring lock wouldn’t bar Barrett, either. As an emergency exit, the bathroom was less than useless. And that left me with only one option.
I dashed across the apartment. Behind me, the front door flew open only to slam to an abrupt halt. The taut links of the safety chain held fast.
Barrett cursed.
I yanked the sliding door aside.
Nipping through the sheer curtains, I stepped onto Madeline’s balcony. I bumped the slider shut behind me. But I couldn’t lock it from this side of the glass.
With a splintering crash, the front door burst wide. Barrett had broken the safety chain. On the far side of the filmy curtains, his shoulders filled the doorframe.
I retreated to the edge of the terrace. With white knuckles, I gripped the wrought-iron rail. I found no rickety fire ladder running up to the roof and no dusty downspout running to the ground.
Nothing could help me off this balcony.
Connor’s guests called to me from their cozy klatch one floor below and at least six feet away.
“Hellooo…”
“Come on over!”
Their happy faces were bright, yellow and orange with flickering firelight. But purple shadows stretched between them and me. The sun had begun to set and the coming night touched everything with evening shade. Two stories down, on the long lawn, twilight had turned the blond curls of a lavender woman to lilac as she stood watching me. Her arms hung loose and ready at her sides.
Shelby.
In Madeline’s apartment, Barrett tore the milky curtains aside. He shoved the sliding glass door open. And then he was on the balcony, coming at me like a hawk at a little brown mouse.
“Stay where you are!” I warned him.
Maybe it was my tone of voice. Or maybe it was the way I gripped the rail. But Barrett stopped in his tracks.
From halfway across the concrete terrace, he offered his hand. “Come with me, honey. We’ll get this worked out.”
I shook my head.
“Somebody’s setting me up, Barrett.”
“Tell me who,” he urged. “And tell me why.”
“I don’t know.”
Barrett’s mouth flatlined.
And I knew he’d never believe me now.
“Listen to me, Jamie. There’s a warrant out for your arrest. You’ve been charged in absentia with second-degree murder—”
“Murder is an ugly word, Barrett.”
And I didn’t like hearing it on his lips.
In most states, second-degree murder carried a thirty-year prison sentence—at the very least. In some instances, it carried a life sentence. But here, there, and everywhere, the death penalty would be off the table. Because murder in the second degree meant that the killer hadn’t planned her crime in advance. She’d only harbored hatred in her heart—which was bad enough—and had acted on it.
Except, when it came to Dylan Pruitt, I hadn’t done either one.
“I didn’t kill that soldier,” I told Barrett.
He drew a deep breath, measured his words carefully. “Self-defense is an understandable—”
“I did not kill him! Adam, Pruitt knocked me out with chloroform or something. When I came to, the news was on. They said I’d murdered a man. Long before the police arrived, they said I’d murdered Robert Fraley.”
Barrett’s brow creased.
“Fraley developed the stolen CubeSat,” I told him. “But I think you know that by now. I think you also know this Madeline Donahue had her hooks in the poor guy. Maybe she wanted him dead, and somehow that night, Pruitt bought the farm instead—”
“That doesn’t—”
“—begin to explain why I’m neck deep in this, I know. All I can say is Madeline Donahue wants me neck deep in it. And I’ve got to find out why.”
But Barrett shook his head.
He said, “Pruitt got his skull bashed in. And PD found the object used to do it. It’s covered in prints—”
“Madeline’s prints?”
&nb
sp; “Jamie, the prints are yours.”
In my mind’s eye, I flashed back to Fraley’s home. Before Pruitt jumped me, that little living room had held pizza and beer and a laptop and C-SPAN. And afterward, one of those things had been gone.
“The laptop,” I breathed.
While I’d been unconscious, someone could’ve bludgeoned Pruitt with it.
They could’ve easily pressed my fingertips to the thing.
“Come with me,” Barrett repeated. He looked decidedly sick. Like he’d lost his best friend. And maybe he had. “Turn yourself over to McIlvoy. Tell him all this. Tell him about that premature news story.”
I ran that scenario through my brain box.
And came up with the short end of the stick.
“I can’t do that. I can’t quit looking for Madeline Donahue. She knows why Pruitt died, Adam. She knows everything.”
Barrett didn’t argue with me. Instead, he plucked his cuffs from his belt. Like a dealer fanning a deck of cards, he spread one of the bracelets wide.
“Turn around,” he ordered. “Place your hands on top of your head.”
Swallowing hard, I did as he said. At least, I turned away from him. And I turned away from reason. Instinct ruled me now. So instead of lacing my fingers together on top of my crown, I gripped the wrought-iron railing.
I planted a boot where the rail met the building’s stucco wall.
“Jamie, what are you…”
I shoved myself high, got my other foot under me. With none of the grace of a tightrope-walker, I managed to stand tall. I barely balanced on the rail.
“Jamie, no.”
I couldn’t look at Barrett, couldn’t change course, couldn’t let Madeline Donahue’s actions go unanswered.
“Honey, please. Take my hand. I’ll help you down.”
But down wasn’t going to work for me. Because down meant locked up. And I had too much to do.
Across the way and a floor below, one of Connor’s glassy-eyed guests toasted me with his can of beer. His bleach-blond girlfriend shrieked at the sight of me. From the grassy lawn, Shelby might’ve called my name.
But all I heard was Barrett’s shout as I kicked free of the railing—and took a flying leap into the air.
Chapter 20
For an airborne eternity, I felt as free as a bird. But then Connor’s balcony caught up with me. Or rather, I caught up with it, sailing over its railing and crashing into a bearded grad student and his long-legged cuddle-buddy, snuggled up on a cushion in the glow of the fire ring.
“Oh!”
“Is she okay?”
“Connor, your neighbor just tried to kill herself!”
I extricated myself from the couple’s arms, climbed shakily to my feet. My left knee complained mightily. I’d banged it on the balcony’s cement floor.
“Lady, you’re crazy!” one of the students exclaimed.
Maybe I was.
I glanced back the way I’d come. Six feet over and one story up, Barrett hung over the rail of Madeline Donahue’s balcony as if he’d tried to pluck me from midair. And maybe he had.
Despite the dusk, I could just make out his expression. Anger warred with relief on his handsome face. But I saw no sign of defeat.
He wasn’t going to let me go.
“Pardon me,” I said to no one in particular and pushed my way through the throng of students, toward Connor’s apartment. Toward his front door and freedom.
From the ground, Shelby outed me.
“Sir, she’s headed inside!”
I cleared the threshold into Connor’s place, startled two young women mixing more margaritas in the skinny kitchen. At this moment, Barrett would be thundering down the stairs outside. In an instant, he’d charge through Connor’s open door.
On a dime, I reversed course. I plowed onto the balcony again. I gripped Connor’s rail, swung my legs over it, and like a ship’s figurehead suspended over the foamy sea, I leaned out over the lawn.
I saw no sign of Shelby in the growing dark below. She’d be on the stairs by now, racing to intercept me. And to back up Barrett, exactly as she should.
While the students behind me hooted and hollered, I crouched low, slid my hands along the railing’s uprights, and dangled from the balcony. My abs didn’t like it. Neither did my elbows when they banged the balcony’s facing.
But all this effort brought me within a reasonable distance of the ground. I wouldn’t break an ankle if I dropped from this height. At least, that’s what I told myself as I let go of the iron.
“Jamie!”
Barrett appeared out of nowhere above me. He stretched from Connor’s railing to catch me. But I was already falling…falling.
Feet first, I hit the grass. I lost my balance, fell on my ass. Scrambling onto all fours, I picked up speed, broke into a loping run as pain lanced my kneecap.
On the balcony, the grad students cheered.
I set my sights on the privacy fence at the back of the property, deep in the dusk. I grabbed the points of two pickets, kicked and climbed my way up. Gritting my teeth against the certainty of a bruise, I threw one leg over the barrier. A nail tore my trousers, raked the side of my sore knee. I came crashing down onto the neighbors’ trash bins like a landing albatross.
Rolling to my feet, I hit the ground running. Streaking through the side yard, I emerged on the street behind Madeline’s apartment building. I barreled all-out for my borrowed car—and I didn’t dare look over my shoulder.
Because Barrett would be there.
Hot on my trail.
He’d have to be. Given his duty and the rule of law, he didn’t have any other choice. Just as I had no choice but to put as much distance between us as I could.
Somehow, I reached Enid’s Prius without Barrett’s capable hands closing over my shoulders. Some way, I got on the road. And sometime later—when I was good and certain neither Barrett, Shelby, nor anybody else had followed me up the highway—I finally reached the relative security of Niilo’s compound.
Except in my heart of hearts, I knew I wasn’t secure at all.
Niilo wasn’t home when I limped off his elevator and into the Koti—and I was glad for that. This was a strange world he occupied, one he’d conformed to his own way of thinking. In the process, he’d gathered those around him who thought as he did, or who were willing to be persuaded.
I, however, wasn’t necessarily one of them.
Niilo would want to know if I’d been able to trace Madeline through her empty apartment. He’d also want to know about the mailer Connor had handed to me. But I wasn’t sure I wanted to fill him in on either of those things.
At least, not yet.
It turned out I didn’t have to.
The entire wall behind Niilo’s L-shaped desk broadcast brilliant fractals that spiraled in time to Bach’s Brandenburg Concerto No. 3. The music wafted through the penthouse from speakers I couldn’t see, but I spotted the note Niilo had left for me quickly enough. It blazed across one of the interactive screens that served as a whiteboard.
My dear Jamie,
Please accept my apology for my absence. I must attend an event for the children’s hospital and shall not return until after midnight. However, everything you see in the Koti is yours. Utilize the touch pad in the kitchen to page my chef or Enid. Order what you desire. —N
Sure enough, in the middle of a gleaming granite countertop, set on an enormous kitchen island, a sleek tablet, the likes of which I’d never seen before, bore options for summoning Enid and someone named Miguel. But I wasn’t about to drag them to Niilo’s penthouse just to wait on me. Instead, I ransacked the massive stainless-steel refrigerator, dug into the freezer to fill a plastic bag with ice. I assembled a quick snack of oatmeal topped with yogurt, wildflower honey, and lingonberries. And I carried this
bounty to the supposed privacy of my bedroom.
Enid had said Niilo wasn’t into surveillance, but I didn’t take her word for it. I flopped onto the bed, applied the ice pack to my battered knee, and spooned up mouthfuls of sweet cereal. And all the while, I let my eyes roam every inch of the room.
Today’s video cameras can be mounted behind apertures the size of pinholes, so I took careful stock. Of course, even when I sighted nothing suspicious, I still didn’t trust Enid’s statement. When my bowl was empty, I methodically moved about the room and drew the stark curtains across the darkened windows, glittering with the far-off lights of Los Angeles. I raided the closet, snagged satin lavender pajamas lined with flannel and a matching robe. I laid them out on the bed and turned the lights down low.
Truthfully, I wasn’t worried about voyeurism. A man like Niilo would have a greater goal than recording a nude little ol’ me in the shower. To people like him, information was the ultimate commodity—and I intended to keep the info I’d uncovered to myself as long as possible.
With that goal in mind, I stripped the case from a goose-feather pillow, slipped my little green handbag into it. Using the bed linen as cover, I reached in and tore open the card-stock envelope meant for Madeline Donahue.
It held nothing except the rectangle that had dented the cardboard. The packet proved to be a sheet of paper, folded in on itself again and again. I grasped it gently, unfolded it eagerly. The paper was blank. But nestled in its creases was a single steel key.
The key appeared to be what a locksmith would say was a perfectly ordinary Yale-type key—except no brand name had been stamped on its bow. So, this was a spare, cut from a key manufactured to match a particular pin tumbler lock. It wouldn’t open Madeline’s apartment door; I was certain of that. Its shoulder length and cuts differed greatly from the key Niilo had worn on a chain around his neck. Which meant, for all intents and purposes, this key was an orphan.
I stowed the wayward key in the handbag, made a show of withdrawing the envelope from the pillowcase. I tucked the envelope beneath a blanket at the top of the closet. But this was a decoy, and anyone who might be watching me was welcome to raid that shelf as far as I was concerned.
The Kill Chain Page 12
