“Mother fuck.” Gen scrolled back through the pictures and groaned. “I dig myself into such marvelous messes.” Seriously, if she’d just stopped, if she’d just ignored everything, her life would be so much easier.
“Because you care.” Douglas plucked the phone from her hands, darkened the screen with the press of a button, and returned it to the cupholder.
“Caring sucks.”
“It brings with it a ton of pain.” He nodded.
“Gee, thanks.” Gen rolled her eyes.
“But …” His strong hand wrapped around hers and squeezed. “One day, it’ll bring with it joy you never imagined.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” He offered her a half smile.
“I’ll believe it when I see it.”
Fifteen
Files surrounded Genevieve, along with her laptop, and legal pads, and pens, and coffee mugs, and heaps and heaps of emotion, as they had for the past five hours. The hint of sunlight that had shone through the blinds when she first began that morning had turned into full-blown daylight. Her determination had turned to despair. There was no use in her culling through these files. She knew them forward and backward. Nothing in them would tell her whether Perry had killed his wife and children. Nothing she’d found online could tell her whether Perry had killed Rita Ayers or Tiffany and Henson Renly.
She stared at the phone screen as she had for the past ten minutes. Beena Carter’s phone number was the touch of the screen away, and she’d yet to pull the trigger. If anyone remembered if Perry wrecked his car in 1987, his mother would. Beena was a more reliable source than Alexa. His sister had biases that might lend to overdramatic, if she was told of Tiffany’s apparent murder, but a bone-deep unease kept her from calling the older woman.
Her phone vibrated.
Larkin: I’m boarding a plan to Morocco!
“Morocco? What the hell?”
Libby: Why?
Larkin: Beckett surprised me with tickets last night!
Marlis: Oooh! It’s beautiful there! Maybe he’s going to *engagement ring emoji*!!!!
Genevieve: *Eye-roll emoji*
Larkin: Don’t know what it’s about, but it’s not THAT!
Libby: When will you be back?
Larkin: No idea. But we’ve been instructed to put our phones away.
Libby: Flight number?
Lakrin: *screenshot of ticket* Here you go, mom.
Genevieve: Have fun! We love you!
Larkin: Kisses! Love you ladies too!
Gen swiped the last of the text messages away and stared at Beena’s contact information once more. Maybe she really didn’t want to know the answer. Maybe she didn’t want to deal with Beena Carter, the child fucker.
Genevieve chucked her pen across the room. It landed in her bedroom and slid nearly to the wall farthest from her in the apartment. She leaned forward to retrieve another closer pen. Her gaze landed on a name on one of six legal pads surrounding her.
The Windsor House.
It was the name on the side of the truck that had loaded up a majority of Perry’s belongings and carted them away. She keyed the name into her well-worn search and followed the links to a website. The Windsor House was an upscale Goodwill. Donors got major tax write-offs for their contribution, and the company used the funds from the goods sold to fund scholarships at the city’s private schools and colleges.
She typed the address into her phone and requested an Uber. Thirty minutes, a brimmed black hat, and pointy toed slides later, she stepped onto the cobblestone street in the center of the once harrowed, then hallowed, and now trendy facet of NYC. The Meatpacking District.
Between a basement bar with a speakeasy feel and a handmade furniture shop, Gen found The Windsor House. Inside, old-world New York enveloped her. A tiny bell above the door echoed in her ear. Massive grandfather clocks, heavy and carved oak furniture, and too many paintings to count strategically lined the walls, distracting her from the tinny sound. Ornate vases, rugs, and lamps decorated the space, giving the cavernous room a cozy, familiar feel.
“Hello.” A spritely young woman decked head to toe in a designer ensemble a little too fancy for the daylight sprang out from behind a massive four-poster bed. “Welcome to The Windsor House. Have you ever shopped with us before?”
“No, I haven’t.” Genevieve adjusted the hobo sack on her shoulder and shoved back the hair tickling her slightly bruised, makeup-covered neck.
“We are the city’s premier luxury home re-sale shop that gives as good as it gets.” Her perfectly nude manicure swept around the room. “And, as you can see, we get breathtaking pieces. Our store has fostered more than one million dollars in scholarships to underprivileged youths in our city to attend our city’s most prestigious private schools and universities. So shopping with The Windsor House helps your community in three ways. You help educate your fellow citizens, spur economic growth, and create the perfect aesthetic for your home.”
The holier-than-thou sales pitch, coming from a girl who’d never seen an underprivileged moment in her life, tempted Genevieve to roll her eyes, open her big mouth, and actually educate the child. Damn. She needed the girl on her side. Gen smiled.
“What a lovely concept.”
“Yes. Yes, it is.” The girl clutched her hands together and drew them to her heart. “We want to do everything we can for the city that does so much for us.”
“You’re the owner?”
“Uh, no.” The glitter sparkling in the young woman’s eyes stilled. She blinked, and the point of her tongue took a stroll around the inside her left cheek. “But everyone who works for The Windsor House feels as passionately about the cause as Annette.”
Genevieve had known the answer. She’d done her research. Pour la Ville owned the entire street’s worth of buildings. A French named non-profit started by Annette Dubois—a well-known patron of the city—whose husband’s family’s early gamble on the oil industry had paid off in spades. She shouldn’t have asked. The sanctimonious show had worked on her last nerve.
“Of course.” Gen turned right to stroll toward the first installation of good ole NYC nostalgia.
Judging by the clop of heels, Miss Prissy Pants scuttled across the floor. Before Gen could blink, she was there, in her face, cutting off her progress. “What are you looking for today?”
Answers. She hadn’t a damn clue how she hoped to find them.
“A client’s grandmother passed away. I was told she’d donat—”
“I’m sorry. We can’t give out any information about our donors. Each gift to The Windsor House is unanimous.”
“Anonymous?” Gen asked, not quite able to keep her facial expressions in check.
“We want to eliminate”—the girl’s thin hand sliced through the air—“treasure seekers and weirdos as much as possible.” Her muted brown gaze roved Genevieve. “You understand, I’m sure.”
Gen hadn’t been in a bitch-off with such catty undertones since high school. Even then, she didn’t do well with undertones. Since her sister’s death, Gen lived over-toned and full throttle. It was the only way she could honor Evangeline’s memory. After all, she’d done so little for her in life. She mentally reached for the Lord, pulled him from the sky, and shoved him kicking and screaming inside her chest.
“Of course.” Genevieve forced a grin. She couldn't give teeth because it would turn into a snarl. It took her a moment to think of a workaround.
“I’m looking for any impressionist paintings or drawings you may have in your collection of artwork.”
“Uh.” The sound was so guttural and fast that every time the woman did it, Gen thought she’d caught her toe on an oak dresser. “We’re high-end, but we don’t carry any Monet.”
“He was not the only painter to influence impressionism. I’m sure you don’t have any Renoir, Van Gogh, or Cézanne either. But you must have some impressionistic works in your vast collection.”
Miss Prissy Pants’s nose shot toward the
sky. “I’ll see what I can find.” She stomped toward the back of the building, a far different picture than the springy one first portrayed.
Genevieve followed close behind. After all, turnabout was only fair.
The girl stopped at a sleek counter at the center of the store, rounded it, and stopped at an iPad propped on a neatly placed stack of books. Her fingers got to work until Gen rounded the corner of the marble topped space.
“You can’t come back here.” Her upper lip curled as though Gen had an insistent case of body odor.
“Okay.” She stopped, but she didn’t retreat. Instead, she propped a hip on the back counter, folded her arms, and waited. Technically, she wasn’t back there. Her feet were still on the public side of the counter. Her ass and eyes, on the other hand, were 100% in the no-go zone.
They had a mild stare off. It wasn’t even a challenge when she squared off with murderers, rapists, and Janney on a daily basis. Several seconds in, the girl turned back to the screen and continued typing. A full-size monitor would’ve been so much easier to see. The tiny words and numbers blurred just enough that she couldn’t make them out.
Was it time for glasses?
She’d know the spinning search wheel anywhere at any stage of cataracts. It whirred and whirred and then spit out a column with two entries.
Win!
Prissy Pants cleared her throat. “We have a sketch by Frédéric Bazille.”
“I’m not interested in sketches.”
“I’m sorry. We can’t help you today.” Her triumphant smile disagreed.
“What about the other entry?”
Prissy’s lips flattened and thinned. “It’s waiting for appraisal and has not been cleared for sale.”
“Is it a Johan Jongkind?”
The girl kept stubbornly silent.
“What if price wasn’t an option?” It wasn’t an option because she didn’t plan on purchasing the piece. If it was the one she sought, she’d hated the thing for the past six years it hung in Pamela’s closet. She’d seen nothing more than a bunch of plain blots and scribbles. Her friend had seen a beach with mounds of sand, flowing grasses, and a vast ocean.
“As I said before, we have a strict privacy policy for our customers. Until items are on the floor, they are not available.” Prissy’s gaze slanted to a set of large double doors, leading to what Gen guessed was a back of store warehouse. The entire area had once been a massive meat processing and packaging facility. Their warehouse probably had a loading dock on the back, one street over.
“Thanks”—Gen smiled—“for nothing.” She waved and headed for the exit.
A string of griping grumbles punctuated by the unmistakable word BITCH filtered through the open door, along with Gen and the store’s over-chilled air. It didn’t slow her down. It brought a wholehearted smile to her face. Bitches got shit done, and this bitch was on a mission.
The sun seemed brighter than it had only minutes ago. Genevieve adjusted the brim of her hat and strode past the bar, thankful it was closed. Had it been open, her mission would’ve suffered its second detour of the day. She crossed in front of a florist shop bursting with colors and aromas, and then a frame shop. Finally, she made it to a cross street. One small block over, she found the back of the massive brick structure. The back of the frame shop was a high-end boutique for dogs, something she’d never understand as long as she lived. Hell, buying $500 shoes for herself was a stretch, a stretch she practiced too often, but a stretch nonetheless. A dog came equipped with its own nature-provided shoes. No one needed to spend that much on dog’s shoes.
Her pace increased. If the building’s back was entirely storefronts, she’d meet another dead-end and have to commit her own murder to find the answers she needed more desperately with the passing of each day. The back of the florist was a Mommy & Me boutique for owners to dress to match their dogs. Cue the gag reflex. She rushed past, half afraid to catch the doggie disease. The bar’s back was a loading dock and rear exit, judging by the pedestrian door, dried remnants of week-old vomit, and the oaky smell of day-old beer.
“Thank you.” Gen fist bumped the air.
“Anytime, doll.”
Gen whirled to find a guy carting a dolly full of cases of beer through the large roll top door. He winked. She did not, but neither did she wish him dead with her glare. Progress. And success? She held her breath and hoped.
Sure enough, a stack of cardboard boxes, various blue blanket-wrapped monstrosities of furniture, and large dollies lined the edge of the loading dock of The Windsor House’s rear warehouse. A Windsor House truck, very similar to the one she’d seen outside Perry’s home, was parked across the street with the back door rolled up. There was no one inside … or outside it. Her gaze scanned every inch of it from the distance. She searched the massive, raised concrete deck and couldn’t see anyone either. A set of steps led to a small back door.
One concrete chunk at a time brought her to the paint-chipped entrance.
“Hello?” Gen kept her voice low. The last thing she wanted was to alert Prissy Pants in the front of the store. Well, the last thing she wanted was to be hauled off to jail for trespassing. One led to the other, she’d guess, and the other led to the end of her career.
She shoved open the door and listened as it creaked horror-film style. Like any sane New Yorker, she ignored the sound and stepped inside. Sunlight crept in from the open bay door. Its rays created a cave of light in the otherwise dark cavern. Dust floated on a current of air she didn’t feel shift inside the dank space. The smell of mildew and decades of bad decorating decisions haunted the place. Whether it wafted off the walls or the columns of boxes stacked around the parameter and in neat rows across the large floor, she couldn’t be sure.
In the far corner of the space, very near the double doors she’d seen from the other side just moments ago, stood an office no bigger than her local theater’s box office. Its height didn’t reach the nearly twenty-foot ceiling of the warehouse. Light shined through the opaque window in the unusually narrow door. Otherwise, she’d have thought it a maintenance closet.
Genevieve scanned the parts of the open floor she could see for box, furniture, and literally any other human besides Miss Prissy Pants who worked for The Windsor House. None appeared. She strained her ears in an effort to block out the street noise and listen for any movement or voices inside. Again nothing. Nothing beyond the hum of an air-conditioning unit.
She eased farther into the space. If no one was here, she could look through the stacks for Perry’s stuff and be out in five minutes. Ten max. Her gaze swung to the light in the tiny office. Just to be safe, she walked quietly to the door and lifted her hand to knock gently.
The door opened slightly.
A knot formed in Genevieve’s throat, then the door swung wide. Genevieve grabbed her mouth to contain her scream.
A short guy with a bulldog’s build jumped back from the door and volleyed his clipboard. He caught the clipboard in the crook of his arm, but the pen that'd been wedged between the metal springs slipped out and crashed to the floor. His gaze ignored it and pinned her. He offered her a puzzled expression.
“You all right, lady?”
Gen released the hand from her mouth and drew a deep breath. “You scared me.”
“Christ, you scared me more.”
“I’m sorry.” She reached down, picked up his pen, and handed it over.
“Thanks.” A snort of laughter filled the space between them.
“What?”
“Scared by a lady.” His head shook. Green eyes glinted. “The guys’ll never let me live it down.”
“Then it’s our little secret.” Genevieve’s gaze swept the office. There was only one filing cabinet, but there was a computer and security monitoring system taking up most of the space inside the small room.
“Sounds like a plan.” He chuckled.
They shared a quiet laugh.
“So the store is on 15th. This is just the warehouse.”
He hiked a finger toward her left. “I’d let you go through, but Bianca’d birth a full-grown cow.”
Wouldn’t that be a sight?
Gen ignored his comment. “Could we have another little secret between us?”
He repositioned his pen between the springs of his clipboard and appraised her. Slowly, he raised his hands in surrender. “Look, I’ve got a lady, and I’m trying to be good to her.”
“That’s good.” Gen barked a laugh. “I’m not trying to stain your virtue.” She slipped her hand into her hobo bag, fished a bill out from her wallet, and offered it to him. “Well, maybe a little, but not in the way that’ll get you in trouble with your lady.” Her head shook. “I’m trying to find the Carter’s donations. I don’t want to steal anything. I just need to look at them for a few minutes, and Bianca doesn’t need to know.”
He stared at the hundred as though it might bite him. His gaze swung to the double doors of the store even though he couldn’t see them from inside the office.
“There are cameras,” he whispered.
“Cameras I’m sure you can adjust to see nothing at all … for a little while.” She offered him her best smile and batted her lashes. “What’s five minutes, after all? Besides, you’ll be there, making sure I don’t take anything.”
He plucked the bill from her fingers, shoved it inside the breast pocket of his shirt, and eased back to the computer. His fingers flew over the keys, surprising her with his prowess on the instrument. A few seconds later, he straightened.
“Five minutes.” He shooed her out of the office.
Gen scuttled back and took in the massive amount of stuff inside the warehouse. “Don’t you need to look up what they donated and where it is?”
“Are you kidding me? We all know exactly where their stuff is. I mean, it belongs to the guy who slaughtered his family and got away with it.”
A sound clicked behind Gen, but she was too dumbstruck to pay much attention to it. Seconds later, the bulbs inside low-hanging halogen lanterns glowed dimly at first and slowly gained intensity. The guy walked past her and disappeared behind a stack of boxes. She stood there, staring after him.
Why (Stalker Series Book 2) Page 15
