Authors: Deeanne Gist
And as a result, she hadn’t bothered to make the bed.
On shaky legs, she wobbled to the side where she slept, certain something was waiting for her under those sheets.
She reached out for the edge of the comforter, hardly able to force herself to make the contact. The fabric, soft from a multitude of washings, felt foreign to the touch.
She peeled back the layers. One after another. Her imagination ran wild. Pools of blood. A severed carcass. A smeared threat written in sanguinary finger paint.
But again, there was nothing. The message wasn’t under the sheets. It was the sheets themselves. Someone had entered and left a sign that was intelligible only to her.
After making sure once again that the apartment was empty, she checked every window. All the screens were in place. All were locked from the inside.
She went to the front door, dragging a chair over to brace it.
Logan had been right. The lock was a joke. With a credit card and a flick of the wrist, she’d let herself in more than once after misplacing her key. That was going to change.
New locks, she promised herself. In the morning, first thing.
Kicking off her flats, she entered the bathroom, its tiles cooling her feet. She reached behind the curtain and turned on the water. Ordinarily, she never bothered to close the door, but now she pushed it tight and thumbed down the spring-loaded lock.
Discarding her clothes in a little pile, she stepped into the tub and let the water drizzle over her, wishing just once it would pound through the rusty nozzle in a constant stream instead of in spurts.
The shower curtain brushed against her skin. She peered around the corner to make sure the room was empty, images of
Psycho
slashing through her mind.
She soaped, shampooed and conditioned in record time, then wrapped her head in one towel and her body in another.
Why hadn’t she thought to bring her clothes into the bathroom with her? But she knew why. Because there was never any need. Because the door was never closed.
I have confidence in sunshine. . . .
She whipped open the door, releasing a cloud of steam. Nothing. No sound but the drip, drip of the shower nozzle.
. . . I have confidence in rain. . . .
She padded across the room, the matted carpet coarse under her damp feet.
. . . I have confidence that spring will come again. . . .
She pulled open her underwear drawer and reached inside.
. . . Besides which you see, I have con—
She snatched her hand back.
They’d been returned. The things he’d taken. Laundered, positioned neatly, and left on top.
Yellow tape fluttered along the perimeter of the historic home like leftover decorations from a Policeman’s Ball. Men in white overalls went in and out from the Davidsons’ front door. Charleston police officers conducted a fingertip search of the lawn.
Logan’s pulse hammered in his head. This was bad, very bad. Just six hours ago, he’d stood on this very spot, waiting for Rylee to emerge from the house.
Nate Campbell stood sentry at the front gate, arms crossed, boring holes into Logan with his eyes. The detective looked like he hadn’t gotten much sleep, either. At least he’d managed a fresh pair of clothes, which was more than Logan had.
Logan stopped short on the sidewalk, not liking Nate’s expression. “What?”
“You’re here pretty fast,” Campbell snapped.
“Just doing my job.”
“Well, you can park it right here for the time being, ’cause we’re a long way from done.” He gave Logan’s rumpled clothes a once-over, then cracked a mirthless smile. “Long night?” An irritating chuckle. “Did you, uh . . . get to home base?”
Logan rolled his eyes. “Give me a break, Nate.”
“So where’s your sidekick?”
“Wash? He’s meeting me here. And don’t call him that to his face.”
“I was talking about Rylee Monroe.”
“I wouldn’t say it to her, either. Now are you going to fill me in on what’s happening here or not?”
Campbell jabbed a thumb over his shoulder. “What’s it look like?”
It looked like a crime scene.
Logan glanced up and down Prices Alley. No signs so far of the tv news crews. Only a matter of time.
“Could I at least get a statement from you?”
Campbell jutted his chin. “Yeah. I’ll give you a statement. At half past five this morning, the neighbors called 9-1-1 to report the alarm was going off. The couple that lives here, the Davidsons, weren’t home. First officers on the scene found the door open, went inside, saw what looked like a Category 5 hurricane. Demolition derby on steroids.”
“Was anything taken?”
The detective shrugged. “How should I know? It’s like ground zero in there.”
“Why didn’t the security company respond?”
“The owners didn’t have the alarm monitored. Pretty stupid, if you ask me. Houses like this go for four or five million these days.
It’s not like they can’t afford it.”
“Wouldn’t the alarm have gone off as soon as the door was breached?”
“Yeah. The neighbors finally called it in, say, ten minutes later. We responded within ten, and there was no sign of him . . .
or her.”
“He didn’t have a lot of time on his hands, then.”
“Unless she had keys. Took her time. Then set off the alarm on her way out.”
In the interest of gathering as much info as he could, Logan ignored the veiled reference to Rylee. “So you’re treating this as another Robin Hood burglary?”
“What do you think?”
“And George Reid?” Logan asked. “Did you have him under surveillance this morning?”
A woman’s voice came from the other side of the fence. “That’s what I want to know.”
They turned to find Sheila Santos, a middle-aged woman in pinstripes, standing just in earshot. Her jacket was too snug to close, revealing a shiny badge on one side of her belt and a crooked holster on the other. Her dark hair was skullcap short, her makeup heavy as lead.
Nate started walking. “Look, I’d love to stay and chat, but—”
“So he didn’t do it?” Logan asked Santos. “Does that mean the police are his alibi?”
“—as you can imagine, I have actual detective work to do.”
Nate’s hand moved for the gate latch, while Logan gave Santos an inquiring look. But she kept her lip zipped.
“Wait.” Logan turned back to Nate. “Can’t you get me inside?” He considered the question, then sighed. “Of course I can.”
He opened the gate and went through. Logan started to follow, but the gate slammed shut, blocking the path.
“But I don’t want to.”
Logan draped a hand over the fence. “Come on, Nate.”
A heartless smile. “Tell you what. You just sit tight out here, and once we’re done, maybe the family will invite you in. They made it back home just a little while ago. Now if you’ll excuse me.” He made a beeline for Santos, escorting her inside the house.
After the brush-off, Logan set up shop on the sidewalk, phoning the preliminaries in to the news desk. Then he called and left a message for Marcel Gibbon. He’d called three or four times the night before, when Gibbon failed to appear. It made no sense to insist on a meeting and then not turn up.
Unless . . . He shook his head, dismissing the thought, but it wouldn’t go away. Maybe the Cherub had a reason. Maybe he wanted to make sure they were at Washington Park at the prescribed hour. And not at the Davidson place, which was about to be hit.
He checked his own messages, but there was nothing from Gibbon. Instead, he heard the voice of Seth, his agent. “I’m assuming, since you haven’t been returning my calls, that you don’t have the pages I’ve been asking for. Well, let me tell you something, buddy.
Dora’s quit calling for updates. You know what that means? That means I need pages sprinkled with fairy dust. And if you don’t get them to me fast, we’re gonna lose this thing. Call me. Now.”
He rubbed his face. The manuscript was still light. He needed to write up a stack of new notes. Maybe he’d do that now, while he waited to see the Davidsons.
After grabbing his laptop and notes from his car, he spent the next forty-five minutes sitting on the curb, incessantly tapping the keyboard. The tv crews began to arrive, setting up across the street for the wide shot. A kid in a multi-pocketed mesh vest jogged over to shoo Logan out of frame.
He shot the pages off to Seth, then put his laptop back in the car just as Wash strode up, his big camera hanging loose, bouncing against his pecs. The two of them headed for some shade.
“Funny,” Wash said. “I could swear I’ve seen that outfit before.” He scratched his head in mock concentration, then lifted a eureka finger in the air. “Hey, wait a second. Weren’t you wearing the same thing last night when you left the beach? If I didn’t know better—”
“Nate’s trying to shut us out.”
Wash registered the teeming activity behind the fence. “For real?”
Logan nodded. “I called in some prelims, but until we can get in there and talk to the owners, time’s a’wasting.”
Making the most of the delay, Wash took some exterior shots. Logan tagged along just to look busy. Like the Petrie house, this one sat perpendicular to the street, with a false entrance leading up to a piazza. As a result, the place looked smaller and more discreet than it really was.
Logan counted two floors, but the attic windows were curtained, suggesting the third might be in use. The piazza was topped by a second-floor veranda trimmed in elegant white woodwork for the complete storybook effect. Although the fence fronting the side yard was screened in thick foliage, Logan caught a glimpse of flowers in full bloom. He heard splashing water, too.
“You know what you could do,” Wash said.
“What’s that?”
“Your new girlfriend. She knows these folks, right? She works for all of them.”
“I don’t want her anywhere near here,” Logan said. “If Reid didn’t do it—and I’m pretty sure he didn’t or they’d have caught him in the act—then Rylee is the prime suspect.”
Wash shrugged. “But she was with you all night, right? You can vouch for her.”
He could, up until about three thirty when he fell asleep beside her. But when he woke, she was gone. He had no way of knowing exactly when she got out of the car. And if the alarm went off at five thirty, then his testimony would do more harm than good.
“Look at that.” Wash lifted his camera to eye level, pointing the lens down the alleyway. “Speak o’ the devil.”
Turning, Logan felt his chest tighten. Rylee. The first time he’d seen her since last night. Since this morning, really. She hadn’t seen him yet, hadn’t noticed all the commotion.
Unaware of the shock awaiting her, she seemed completely absorbed in the music from the white earbuds whose wires dangled along her throat. She wore a pair of cutoffs and pink tennis shoes.
Her pale semitransparent top shimmered slightly in the air, the body printed with a pattern of leaves, the sleeves with peacock feathers.
Her short, dark hair framed her cheekbones, her unaware eyes, the lips parted slightly. So beautiful. So innocent.
But was she? He caught a strain underneath the placid lines of her face.
The sound of Wash’s shutter punctured his reverie.
“You’re always taking pictures of her,” Logan said.
“I’ll send you some.”
“Yes, you will.”
She came to a sudden stop, her tranquil expression gone, all that suppressed tension suddenly surfacing. She took in the scene, her eyes widening. Recognizing Logan, she rushed forward, her big canvas messenger bag bouncing against her hip.
She stretched her hand out tentatively, touching him on the forearm. “What’s happening?”
But he could tell by the look on her face she already knew.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
She backed away, shaking her head. “Not the Davidsons. Not them. We were just here. Everything was fine.” Her voice was hollow. Shell-shocked.
“Shhh.” Glancing around, he took her elbow. “You need to get out of here.”
She pulled away, bolting for the closed gate.
“Rylee, wait!”
Instead of stopping her, Wash jumped out of the way, leaving Logan to fend for himself. He caught up to her just as she threw the gate wide. He grabbed her by the hand. Behind him, he could feel the gathered news teams taking a sudden interest.
“Nate’s in there,” he said under his breath.
“What about Toro? Is he all right?”
“I’m sure he’s fine. But apparently Robin Hood did a real number on the place. They’re sorting through the wreckage now. Trying to figure out what’s what.”
He couldn’t tell if she was taking all this in, but at least she’d paused outside the gate. She was breathing heavily, though, and might bolt at any second. “You need to get out of sight.”
“Why? I didn’t do anything. They can’t accuse me just because I work for these people.”
“Yes, they can.”
Wash strolled up, turning his back to them, screening the action from the other reporters as best he could.
“Rylee,” Logan said. “Please.”
“They’re good people, the Davidsons.” She chewed at her bottom lip. “This shouldn’t have happened to them.”
“It shouldn’t happen to anyone. But let’s be careful here.”
He coaxed her back through the fence, then put an arm around her, the fabric of her sleeve ephemeral. With Wash alongside, he led her down the sidewalk a few steps, closing the gate behind them. Ten more steps and they’d have a hedge of green between themselves and the police. Logan began to think they might make it.
“Hold it right there!” With a couple of uniformed men in his wake, Campbell burst through the gate, bounding toward them with a determined scowl.
Logan sensed a half dozen video cameras limbering up, lenses leveled in their direction. Beside him, Rylee drew a breath, then turned as the cops advanced, meeting them head on.
“Where were you this morning around five thirty?” Campbell asked.
“Five thirty?” She glanced at Logan, then back at Nate.
“Sleeping.”
Campbell had his notebook out, flipping like a traffic warden though the pages. Behind him, a wall of uniforms had assembled, lending their silent weight to the exchange.