Why (Stalker Series Book 2)

by Megan Mitcham

  “Uh … work,” Gen offered.

  Larkin’s eyes rolled around toward her brows. Marlis pursed her lips.

  “What?” She shrugged. “I got behind while working exclusively on Perry’s case for so long. The people who said they would pitch in on my caseload did a pretty shitty job, if they did anything at all.”

  “You’re a terrible liar.” Libby shook her head. “Has that hot detective been harassing you?”

  “No, and that’s the problem.” Gen gestured toward her breasts. “He’s not harassing me, and I’d very much like him to.” When things got hard, she made inappropriate jokes. Jokes kept her from crying or punching someone.

  “What is it, really?” Marlis leaned forward and placed both her elbows on the table, an etiquette rule she wouldn't break without a compelling reason. “You’re not acting like yourself. Lately, you’ve been brushing us off left and right. You missed a board meeting.”

  Genevieve’s eyes bugged, and her gaze flew to Larkin. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Even in the middle of the trial, you didn’t miss the quarterly board meeting,” Mar continued.

  Again, Gen repeated her apology.

  “I’m not worried about the meeting, Gen.” Larkin offered a small smile. “I’m worried about you.”

  “I’m fine.” Gen’s teeth ground and her mind hunted for a safe topic. “How was your business thing in LA?”

  “Good evening, ladies. Welcome to Olsted. My name is Benji, and I’ll be taking care of you. Would you like to start with some drinks?” The shaggy-haired man pointed at Gen.

  She looked at Larkin and saw her sorry-but-we-need-a-few-minutes-with-the-menu expression blooming. So she jumped in, abhorring any more interrogate-Gen time. They’d been right not to do it in the car. She’d have demanded Douglas take her back home, and he would have. Now, she was stuck against the brick wall, hemmed in by Libby, another dozen Brooklynites, and plants. Unless she wanted to make a scene. Which she wasn’t opposed to.

  “I’ll take a shandy and a glass of water, please.”

  With Gen’s drink order out in the open, the girls had no choice but to offer their own. They called them out in turn.

  The cold brick absorbed some of the heat from Gen’s irritation and embarrassment. She was used to having her shit together. By outward appearance, anyway. When her life had been the darkest, no one had known. Now she was like an open book with dog-eared pages, coffee stains, and a worn binding. Everyone saw her flaws first. Thank goodness they were book lovers who were only trying to help.

  They finished their orders for drinks and an appetizer for Libby, always. Thank goodness. The rest of them lusted after an appetizer as much as the next person, but they didn’t want to be the one to order it. Larkin didn’t out of time sensitivity. If they worried about an appetizer, it wasted time they could be spending on the main course. Marlis didn’t out of manners. She didn’t want to be seen as greedy or overbearing. Gen never ordered an appetizer because her ass got big enough from the main course alone. One bite, though, especially from someone else’s order, never hurt too much.

  As soon as the server turned around, all the gazes at the table zeroed in on her. “Larkin, the tech company? LA?”

  “A waste of everyone’s time.” Her friend grimaced and drew a deep breath to pelt her with questions.

  Gen pelted first, aiming for a topic sure to divert the mass. “So, Libby, how’s the case?”

  Her friend’s perky and eager shoulders fell. Yeah, that’d do the trick. Gen didn’t even have to elaborate on what case. They’d both been dogged by one and only one case each. Hers had been—fucking still was—Perry’s. For Libby, it had been and was still the gun collector case.

  Libby drew a deep breath and then vomited words until their entrées arrived. Genevieve took turns hitting each of her friends in their high or low points. In turn, each took time revealing or lamenting the topics that lasted through the meal, which relieved her from having to venture into her own darkness. If she spoke about the possibility of Perry being a killer, they’d think her crazy. If she spoke about the threats from Edger Sanchez, they’d think her crazy. And she was afraid that they’d be right, and that she just might be a little bit crazy.

  They dropped Libby off at her cute little Brooklyn house that actually had a hint of a side yard and a decent backyard that provided ample room for the spy-the-hot-neighbor party she hosted shortly after the hot neighbor had moved in next door. Before Libby ducked out of the car, Gen had to know.

  “Hey Lib, how’s your neighbor?”

  “Still hot and uninterested in all I have to offer.” Libby smacked her own butt, practically waving in their faces.

  “Gay,” Gen reasoned.

  “Nope. Screaming orgasms, remember?” The smile slipped from Libby’s lips. “He bangs a badass looking chick on the regular. Panting. Wall banging. The whole bit.”

  “Sounds like it’s time for another backyard party.” Gen could do with a screaming orgasm and some wall banging in her life.

  “I’ll be busy with wall banging of my own.” Larkin chuckled.

  Marlis chucked her small pink Givenchy tote at Larkin, and they all shared a laugh before Libby stepped onto the sidewalk and wished them a good night.

  Gen looked at the house next to Libby’s. All the lights were off. It was only nine p.m., so she wondered if the neighbor was home. They had spied him the night of the party. He was indeed hot and a little bit scary to Gen’s taste. Okay, the one time they saw his fine ass walk from his house to his sexy as sin motorcycle. He’d moved as though nothing touched him and he’d been disconnected from the world around him. Selfish, but she wanted someone very kind and connected living next to her friend.

  Next, they crossed the Brooklyn Bridge and weaved through the downtown streets. Douglas stopped at a swanky hotel she’d had a business lunch inside once, years ago.

  “What are we doing here?” Gen asked.

  “You really should check your texts.” Marlis kissed her cheek. Douglas opened the door. Mar slipped out of the car and poked her head back inside. “I’m hosting a business luncheon tomorrow, and it just made sense not to fight traffic in the morning. Night, ladies.”

  They wished her luck on the luncheon. Soon, they were rolling again.

  “You’ve been calculated and quiet this evening.”

  Gen pulled her gaze from the line of spectacular architecture and found Larkin studying her. Of course, she wouldn’t get away from this night without a better explanation than overwork and exhaustion. They were all overworked and exhausted and had been for the past decade or more, but it had never stopped them from getting together or sharing their lives with one another.

  “I remember not too long ago when someone was similarly calculated and quiet?” Genevieve offered her a raised eyebrow and a challenge.

  “And I had something to hide.”

  “Yes, and you told us when you were good and ready.”

  Larkin’s lips pressed into a thin line. She was silent for a full two blocks. “You know I’m here for you? No judgment. No expectations. Right?”

  Gen leaned over and grabbed her friend’s hand. “Yes, I do, and it means the world to me. You three mean the world to me.”

  Her friend lifted her hand and pressed it to her cheek, which almost landed Gen on the floor when Douglas pulled to a stop. They both canted their heads to take in the city outside the car.

  “That’s The Ashford.” Gen leaned across the small aisle, braced her hands on the minibar, and looked up at the shiny, well-lit letters atop the entrance just to double check.

  “I figured he’d take you home first.” Larkin’s brows knitted.

  The rear door opened, and Douglas offered his hand to his daughter.

  Larkin reached for her father but stalled. “I … I’d like to ride with Genevieve to her house.”

  “I know you would, but you have a surprise on the roof that’s been waiting for quite some time already.” The man’s about-b
usiness face gave way to a bright smile. After years of pretending to be nothing more than an amazingly keen driver, Douglas was now able to act like the father he was to Larkin.

  Her friend’s lips stretched wide. Her gaze swung to Gen. “I don’t want to leave you.”

  “Leave me.” Gen grinned and shoved Larkin toward the open door. “Go bang some walls,” she whispered.

  Larkin wedged herself in the doorway. “But you’re in a bad spot, and you shouldn’t be alone.”

  “I’m never alone with you ladies in my life.” Larkin’s mouth opened to protest, but she shushed her by pointing at Douglas. “Besides, he’ll keep me company until I get home.”

  Big blue eyes bugged, and it was her friend’s turn to whisper. “Don’t you dare put the moves on my dad. I love you, so I’d hate to have to hate you.”

  “I love you too. Now, quit stalling. Your man is waiting.” Gen kissed her cheek, but the stubborn broad didn’t move.

  “Waiting for the person you love just one minute can seem like a lifetime.” Douglas extended his hand and canted his head toward the sky as though he were looking at Calder Beckett on the roof. Gen had a notion he was looking toward the heavens at the lady he’d loved and tragically lost, Larkin’s mother.

  Larkin planted a kiss on Gen’s cheek, jumped from the car, planted a kiss on Douglas’s cheek, and wrapped him in her arms. “I love you, Dad.”

  He enveloped her in turn and buried his face in her hair. The gesture was so sweet Gen withdrew deep into the car. Tears pricked her eyes. She blinked furiously, hating herself just a little. She was happy for Larkin and Douglas. It’d taken decades and another near tragedy for them to truly find one another. A hint of jealousy rankled. Genevieve Holst knew exactly where her mother and father were. There were alive and as well as two humans could be who clung to denial like a life raft in the middle of the Atlantic. That raft had only room for two. Gen and her sister had been cast aside with a great big ocean to contend with. Like Larkin had told her, she hated that she hated her parents, but she did. She hated them and their shaking heads so much it hurt.

  A tear slipped from her lid and landed in a splatted circle on her wrist. She slapped at it, smearing it across her skin. Douglas closed the car door, and Larkin practically ran for the building’s entrance toward her man. A smile stretched her lips. It was as it should be.

  After watching his daughter disappear into the building filled with a security staff and system he and Beckett had handpicked, Douglas didn’t miss a beat. He slid into the driver’s seat, and the car pulled away from the curb. A second later, the partition that separated the driver’s and passengers’ sections of the car descended.

  “You know, you can leave that thing down when we’re all back here?” Genevieve blinked away the last of her emotions and scurried to the seat nearest Douglas. Well, the one that didn’t require crawling through to the opening to the front. She draped her arm across the back of the seat and peered out at the taillights of the neatly flowing traffic.

  “So you and Larkin tell me, quite often.”

  “Yet you never do.”

  “Old habits, I suppose.” Douglas depressed the blinker, checked the mirrors, and gently maneuvered the car into the next lane around a nightly tour bus. As a former CIA operative, the man was accustomed to separation from everyone and everything. Hell, Gen didn’t have the training, and she did her best work alone.

  “Besides, I don’t want to hear most of the things you ladies discuss.”

  “Fair point.” Gen rubbed her finger across the smooth woodgrain of the center console. Her cheeks didn’t have the decency to blush. Then again, he’d probably heard, seen, and done worse than all four of them combined.

  “Tell me, why do you want to know about a girl who died thirty-one years ago?”

  Genevieve’s finger stilled, and her mouth dropped open. Every bit of moisture in her entire body evaporated as though she sunned in the middle of the Sahara. Slowly, her gaze shifted to the older man’s profile. She tried to swallow. She licked her lips, but her tongue stuck between them. Her head shook.

  “No," she managed.

  “I’m afraid so. My first sources came back with the results before we got to the restaurant. I double-checked while you ate. She confirmed.”

  “Tiffany Renly? Tiffany with two f’s. R. E. N. L. Y.”

  “Tiffany is always spelled with two f’s. And yes, Tiffany R. E. N. L. Y. Born at Lenox Hill Hospital in 1973. She was the youngest child and only daughter of Barbra and Hanover Renly, a dynamic duo of stock investors. They owned, and still do, several nice chunks of Upper East Side real estate. Both are still trading and investing, though their two living sons are being groomed to take over the family business.”

  “Two living sons? Did they have a son who died?” Gen’s throat felt as though it shrank by the minute.

  “Yes. Their oldest, Henson Renly, died with his sister.”

  Her heart constricted, and—selfishly—at the same time, the tension banding her middle eased. Two children at once was a horror story no parent should have to endure, but the son’s involvement decreased the chances that Perry had anything to do with Tiffany’s death. God, she was an evil bitch. She banked her own self-loathing in favor of more information.

  “How?” Her finger traced the outline of rippled leather around the even woodgrain.

  “Car accident.” Douglas maneuvered the car safely down the street and also managed to grab his phone from the cup holder inches from her hand and input a long security code without looking. He handed it to her.

  “Oh, shit.” Genevieve didn’t know what she’d expected to see, but the mangled knot of metal was more than she bargained for. It didn’t look like a car. It looked like a Coke can crunched under the foot of a giant. She studied the photos. Different angles. Different lighting. Night to morning. Even in the grim light of day, Gen couldn’t figure where bodies would’ve fit into the wreckage.

  “That’s …” Her head shook as she swiped the screen. The next set of pictures were taken from farther back. It allowed her to see what the car had careened headfirst into. “Oh, God.” A solid cobblestone archway butted out five feet on the side of the road, the base of a small bridge. “Is that a transverse through the park?”

  “85th Street Transverse. They ricocheted twenty feet in the opposite direction from the impact site.”

  “Why were they going so fast through the park?”

  “Keep swiping.”

  Gen’s fingers shook, but she ushered on more pictures. There were images overlaid with speeds, lines, angles, and calculations of the impact. They’d been going nearly 105 miles per hour. “Christ.” The next picture showed a set of skid marks, four tires locked up in the center of the road ten feet back from the cobblestone archway. It came from a different angle than the one of the Renly’s car, which revealed not a single skid mark to speak of. It was in the middle of the narrow passage.

  “Was there a witness? The person who tried to avoid them?”

  “There was a witness, but they were never able to identify.”

  “What?” Gen growled. “Why wouldn’t you stop and help?” The moment the question was out of her mouth, she knew the heartbreaking answer.

  “Because the witness is also the person who deliberately stopped, forcing Henson Renly into the embankment, then fled the scene.”

  Nope. Nope. Nope. That wasn’t the heartbreaking answer she’d expected. She’d expected someone was involved in the accident. She had most certainly not expected that someone intentionally drove them to their death.

  Then again, hadn’t she? Wasn’t that the whole reason she wanted to find Tiffany Renly in the first place? She’d wanted a character witness. Someone who knew Perry on an intimate level, as a girlfriend, near the time of Rita Ayers’ death. Someone to tell her whether Perry was capable of such a crime. But that someone was also dead, suspiciously so.

  “How do they know for sure?”

  “There was paint from a
nother vehicle on three sides of the Renly’s car.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning there had been a cat and mouse game going for at least six blocks.”

  “Why?” Genevieve pinched the bridge of her nose and spread her fingers wide, grinding them into the skin below her eyes.

  “They don’t know. Henson Renly picked up his sister from Trinity School at 9:45 p.m. Thursday.”

  “Trinity?”

  “Yes. After having attended The Dalton School since kindergarten, a school that was only three blocks from her house, Tiffany transferred to Trinity, a school across the park, in August of the 1987-’88 school year. She never told her parents why she wanted to transfer, but she was adamant about the move.”

  Genevieve’s gut told her exactly why Tiffany Renly had been desperate to transfer schools. And she hated the glaringly obvious answer.

  “9:45 Thursday …” Oh God. The homegrown salad inside her stomach threatened to revolt. “Why so late?”

  “Tiffany was on the homecoming committee.” Douglas said homecoming committee as though he’d never heard of such a thing. “They were decorating for a dance on Friday.”

  A dance Tiffany never attended.

  “In the eighties, security cameras were just beginning to pop up on the scene, so the footage was grainy shit and completely worthless, at best. The police tracked down a camera near an ATM with a blurry shot of two cars on the 88th block of Columbia Avenue and a security video from outside a bank on Central Park West. It showed a dark-colored sports car repeatedly butting into the rear of a light-colored sedan. There were no plates or other identifying marks visible. The case was ruled vehicular homicide, but no charges were ever filed. They canvassed the area from Trinity to the park, looking for anyone who saw something, but as you know, most people are off the streets by nine, getting ready to sleep, wake up, and do it all again the next day.” Douglas shrugged. “The case went cold.”