Silence, and then the phlegmy slurp of kissing.
Grant grimaced.
“You feeling all right?” the man asked. “You look tired.”
“Nothing you can’t fix. Get us a drink?”
“Please.”
Footsteps plodded toward the closet, and in the soft candlelight, Grant watched his sister approach the wet bar.
For a split second, her eyes shot to the crack between door and doorframe.
“Power’s been out since last night,” she said, “so no rocks.” She grabbed a half-empty bottle.
I could use a hit of that right about now.
“Neat’s the only way I drink,” the man said as he emerged from the shadows and slid his arms around Paige’s waist from behind. “I thought you’d remember that.”
Steve wasn’t at all what he had expected. He’d been prepared for another Jude—tall, perfect hair, chiseled everything. But Steve was shorter than Paige. As he sidled up behind her, the profile of his face met the slope of her neck like a puzzle piece, the top of his head stopping a full four inches below her own. He was thirty-five or forty pounds overweight and the dome of his hairless skull shone like polished marble in the candlelight. Physically at least, Steve was a completely unremarkable specimen. Grant couldn’t decide if it made him feel better or worse to know that not all of Paige’s clients were demigods.
Paige poured two glasses of scotch and turned to Steve.
“Should we take this upstairs?” she asked.
“You read my mind.”
Grant listened to their footsteps trail away into the foyer.
The stairs creaked as they climbed.
Only when they’d reached the second floor did Grant ease the closet door open and step out.
The ceiling creaked above him.
He pictured Steve and Paige heading down the hall toward her bedroom.
Their footfalls stopped. The bedroom door groaned open.
As if on cue, his ears popped—like rolling down the windows in a speeding car.
Grant exhaled.
He strained to listen, but there was nothing else to hear.
Moving around to the wet bar, Grant lifted the best thing he saw—a twenty-five year Highland Park—and poured into a rocks glass.
Shot it.
The whiskey dumping into his empty stomach like a fistful of lava.
He poured another, swirled it.
No plans of stopping until the world lost its hard edge.
Grant raised the glass in the air before him.
“A toast,” he said, “to shit.”
There was a knock at the front door.
For a moment, he wrote it off as a phantom sound. A glitch in his fracturing mind. He waited for confirmation, willing the silence to continue.
Another knock, this time harder.
He set the glass on the bar and made his way into the foyer, careful to stay clear of the windows that faced the street.
Without power, the intercom and camera were useless.
He pressed up against the door, eye to the peephole.
Sophie stared back at him.
He blinked.
Still there.
He clawed his way through the pain and tried to think.
What are you doing here?
What are you doing here?
What are you—
Stu.
That was the only conceivable way. The PI had tried to call at six p.m. like Grant had insisted . But his phone was dead. So naturally, Stu called his partner.
A flare of heat rushed through his face—anger at himself. At his shortsighted plan. He should’ve seen this possible outcome a mile away. You always plan for the worst case scenario. Should’ve told Stu this research was for something on the side. Something no other person in the world—least of all his partner—needed to know about.
Goddamnit.
Sophie pounded on the door again.
Grant played the scene forward.
Open it?
What would he possibly say to her? Maybe on his best day—when a world-class migraine hadn’t liquefied his brain and he actually had time to prepare—maybe then he’d have a chance at talking his way out of this. At assuaging whatever concerns she had and convincing her to leave without suspicion. But not in his current condition. Sophie would see through the lies before they even left his mouth. Hell, all she’d have to do was take one look at his sunken eyes and know he’d gotten himself into something bad.
So wait her out.
She knocked again, and he saw her gauzy silhouette lean into the curtained window frame to the right of the door. He knew she couldn’t see inside, but still he didn’t dare move from his spot behind the door.
Sure this is the right play? To just let her leave and bring back a search warrant?
Yes. Let her go. She’ll be back, no doubt, but Steve will be gone and we’ll have bought a little time to figure something out.
Sophie appeared in the peephole again. She looked left and then right. Grant’s heart nearly exploded when the doorknob rattled. Thank God it was locked. Finally, she turned away and headed back down the steps.
Grant shut his eyes.
Lines of sweat meandered down the sides of his face and through the stubble of his beard.
He knew the pain would return, but for the moment, he basked in the numbing effect of the adrenaline rush that was ripping through his system.
If nothing else, he’d bought them a few hours.
Use it wisely.
Grant trudged back over to the bar and picked up the shot of Highland.
He swirled the amber liquid, tried to appreciate its color, its nose, but the whiskey was no match for the shitstorm on the horizon.
He downed it.
Shouldn’t have, but the best detective in town had just knocked on their door. He and Paige were going to have to deal with Don in the upstairs bathroom.
They were going to have to deal with a lot of things.
And fast.
Somewhere in the house, glass shattered. His first thought was Paige, but the sound hadn’t come from upstairs.
He stumbled into the kitchen.
Now it sounded like shards of glass were falling onto concrete or stone.
More noise erupted—furniture overturning.
Grant stood facing a door beside the hallway, which based upon its alignment under the staircase, he figured led down into the basement.
As if in confirmation, footfalls began clomping up a set of stairs on the other side.
He staggered back, ducked around the kitchen island, and lowered himself out of sight.
The basement door swung open so slowly he could swear he heard the scraping of each individual grain of rust on the hinges.
Grant peered around the corner of the island.
Knew it was Sophie before he saw her.
Black pantsuit over a cobalt blouse that fit her like a Bond girl.
Gun drawn and everything.
“Seattle Police. Anyone here?”
The heels of Sophie’s platform boots knocked against the hardwood floor. He knew he should speak up, but he couldn’t bring himself to push out that first word.
She turned and started down the hallway, her back to him.
Now.
Now.
Now.
“Sophie,” he whispered.
She stopped, spun, gun sighting down the kitchen. “Who’s there?”
“It’s Grant.”
“Where are you?”
“Behind the island. I’m standing up. You can put your gun away, or at least not shoot me.”
He struggled slowly onto his feet.
Sophie was barely visible in the gloom of the hallway. She stepped back into the candlelit kitchen.
“What are you doing here?” she asked.
“Bad lead, long story. How’d you find me?”
She moved in closer toward the island.
“Are we safe here?” she asked.
She holstered her Glock. “What are you doing here, Grant?”
“I don’t want you to get mad—”
“I’m not mad. I’m confused.”
“I have a contact at the Four Seasons.”
“Okay.”
“He’s a concierge. I went to him with what we had on our Facebook girls. He pointed me here.”
“To this brownstone?”
“Yes. He told me it was a high-end brothel.”
“So the food poisoning …”
“I’m sorry.”
“And you felt the need to keep this from me why?”
“Nothing I’m proud of.”
“I don’t even know what that means.”
“I’ve used this concierge before.”
“As an informant?”
“No.”
“Oh.” Sophie looked at the countertop, then back at Grant. “And you thought I might, what? Judge you? Because that’s the kind of person you know me to be?”
“I don’t know what I thought. That was a long time ago, when I was in a really bad place. But still … I was embarrassed. Didn’t want you to find out. And besides, this isn’t exactly by the book.”
“No shit. Who lives here?”
“One of our Facebook girls used to. This was her last known.”
Sophie leaned forward, took in a long breath.
“So who lives here now?”
“Some U-Dub trust funder. Definitely not a person of interest.”
“Did you not hear me knocking on the door five minutes ago?”
“I was upstairs.”
Sophie nodded. “What’s the current tenant’s name?”
“Heidi Spiegel.”
“She here? I’d love to meet Ms. Spiegel.”
It was faint—practically undetectable—but Grant heard the rhythmic creak of Sophie’s bed springs starting up on the second floor.
“She’s gone,” Grant said. “I parked on the street. Came in when I saw her leave.”
“Just let yourself in, huh?”
“Door wasn’t locked.”
“Interesting choice.”
“Says the detective who broke in through the basement.”
“I was worried about you, Grant. I thought you were in some kind of trouble.”
“I’m fine.”
“Thrilled to hear it. What’s with all the candles?”
Grant walked over to a light switch beside the sink, gave it a few flips.
“No power,” he said.
“Strange that Ms. Spiegel would just leave all these candles burning.”
“Probably means she didn’t plan on being gone long. We should get out of here.”
“You been drinking?” Sophie asked. “You smell like booze.”
What could he do? Deny?
“I had a whiskey at the hotel before I rolled up here. You have an issue with that?”
Sophie smiled a smile that wasn’t. She stared Grant down across the island and shook her head.
“What?” Grant said.
“You are so full of shit it’s not even funny.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Has one thing you’ve said to me in the last three minutes even entered the same ballpark as the truth?”
“Yeah. Everything.”
“Look at you. What are you wearing? Jeans and a T-shirt?”
My real clothes are covered in the blood of Don McFee who’s at this moment passing through rigor mortis in a room directly above our heads because of something I still don’t understand. What if I laid that on you, partner? Then what?
Grant’s headache and nausea vanished. He felt suddenly perfect, like someone had thrown a switch or hit him with a beautiful morphine push. He straightened, reevaluating everything absent the distraction of agony.
“You’re not even wearing shoes, Grant.”
Fair point.
“Where’s your gun? Where’s your shield?”
“In my car.”
“You wanna tell me what’s really going on here?”
“I just did.”
“No, you just lied to me. For the second time today.”
“Sophie—”
Heavy footsteps thumped above them on the second floor.
Sophie cocked her head. “Thought you said we were alone.”
“Listen to me.”
She turned and started down the hallway as the footfalls reached the top of the stairs.
“Sophie, come back here.”
They began their descent.
Grant moved around the island and followed Sophie down the hall.
By the time he reached her at the foyer, Steve Vincent was five steps from the bottom of the staircase and progressing at a steady, unhurried pace toward the front door, the same incomprehensible vacancy in his eyes that Grant had seen in Jude’s. Steve wore pants and shoes, but his shirt, coat, and tie he carried in a bundle under his left arm.
Sophie said, “Sir, do you live here?”
Steve reached the foyer and walked past them to the front door.
“Excuse me, sir, I just asked you a question.”
The man turned the two deadbolts and slung back the chain.
“Sir! Seattle Po—”
Grant said, “Let him go.”
Steve opened the door, disappeared outside.
Sophie looked at Grant.
“Who was that?”
Where to begin?
Sophie looked up the staircase. She started toward it, but Grant stepped into her path.
“That’s not a good idea,” he said.
The intensity in her eyes belied a card he’d never seen her play—fear.
“What have you gotten yourself into, Grant?”
Where to even begin?
“Get out of my way,” she said.
“I can’t let you go up there.”
“Grant?” From upstairs, his sister called his name.
“Who’s that?” Sophie asked.
His eyes flashed to her belt.
Back to her face.
At least he could think again.
“Grant!”
“Who’s calling you, Grant?”
With his arms already at his sides, Grant eased his left hand forward and went for it—flicked open the brass snap on Sophie’s belt and snatched her handcuffs before she had a chance to react.
He locked a bracelet around her left wrist as her right hand shot into her jacket.
Glimpsed the black composite stock of her G22 as she tore it out of the holster.
He slapped the barrel, the Glock ripping out of Sophie’s grasp and arcing toward the living room.
It struck the hardwood and slid across the floor as Grant jerked the handcuffs toward the banister and locked the other bracelet around a baluster.
It came with a vengeance—Sophie swinging with her free right arm, her fist slamming into Grant’s jaw with enough force to turn his head and kill the lights.
Grant came to on his back at the foot of the stairs, sat up punch drunk to the sound of keys clinking together.
He scrambled to his feet and lunged at Sophie, snagging the key chain out of her grasp and ducking as her fingernails raked at his face.
Grant stumbled back as she pulled against the balustrade.
The front door to the brownstone stood wide open.
He crossed the foyer and closed it, locked back the deadbolts and rehung the chain.
“The fuck is wrong with you?” Sophie screamed.
His jaw throbbed, hot to the touch. Bruised but not broken.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
One of the steps near the top of the staircase creaked. Grant looked up, saw the shape of his sister descending through the darkness.
She stopped halfway to the bottom and eased down onto a step.
“What’s going on, Grant?”
“We had a visitor while you were upstairs.”
“Who you’ve handc
uffed to the banister?”
“Paige, meet Sophie. My partner.”
Paige rested her forehead against her knees and said, “Oh God.”
“Sophie, meet Paige. My sister.”
Sophie glared up the staircase, and then back at Grant.
He said, “Paige, we need to talk. Could you come join me in the kitchen please?” And then to Sophie. “Give me your purse.”
She wiped the mascara-stained tears from her cheeks and threw it at him.
“I hate this,” Grant said.
He unzipped her handbag and fished out her phone. Powered it off, slid it into the side pocket of his jeans.
He set the purse on the first step and looked at his partner, asked, “Who else knows that you came here?”
Paige walked past Sophie and Grant and started down the hallway toward the kitchen.
“Fuck you.”
“Sophie, I will explain everything to you. I promise. But right now, I need to know if more people are coming. For all of our safety.”
She blinked through a sheet of tears that glistened in the candlelight and said at barely a whisper, “Just me.”
“How’s the hand? You didn’t break it hitting me, did you?”
“No.”
“The cuffs all right? Too tight?”
She shook her head.
Grant paused at the banister on his way down the hall and tested the bracelet around Sophie’s left wrist and the bracelet around the balustrade.
Chapter 25
Paige stood waiting for him at the kitchen island, her face grim in the candlelight.
“How bad is this?” she asked.
“We need to leave.”
“And how are we supposed to do that?”
“I don’t know, but more people will come.”
“From your work?”
“Yes.”
“What’s going to happen when they …” She cut her eyes toward the ceiling.
“Nothing good.”
“Your face is swollen.”
“She hit me.” Grant glanced back down the hallway. “I should talk to her.”
“About what?”
“Make her understand what’s—”
“No.”
“No?”
“Why would you tell her about any of this?”
“Does it not look bad enough already? I just handcuffed my own partner to a staircase and took her gun.”
“How’d she even find you?”
“The private investigator I called this afternoon. My phone died, he couldn’t reach me, so he called her.”
“Does this mean she talked to your PI?”
EERIE Page 12
