The Rogue Hunter (17 page)

Releasing the door handle with relief, she watched him walk to the car. There was no sign that he'd been in any kind of a confrontation; he looked perfectly fine. In fact, he looked better than he had before he'd gone in. Certainly he had more color than he'd had when he left her.

"Here you go," Mortimer said, opening his door and handing her the map book as he got behind the wheel. "You can be the navigator."

Sam accepted the book and quickly began to leaf through the pages, relieved to have something to do besides thinking about their kiss. She buried her head in the atlas and concentrated on finding the Latimer cottage.

"It looks like we have to go back the way we came in," she announced once he'd started the engine and she felt him looking at her.

Only when he turned his attention to shifting the SUV into drive and began to back out of the parking space did Sam risk a quick glance in his direction. However, she immediately returned her gaze to the map when he glanced her way.

"Are you all right?" Mortimer asked quietly as he steered them onto the road.

Sam looked up sharply to find his eyes fixed on her mouth. She supposed he was asking whether she was all right about their having kissed, and felt at a loss as to how to answer.

"I—Yes, of course," she muttered finally, flushing with embarrassment as she met his gaze briefly and then reluctantly asked, "Are you?"

"Oh yeah," he murmured with what almost sounded like glee.

Between that and the satisfied smile on his face, Sam found a reluctant smile curving her own lips. It froze there briefly when he suddenly took one hand from the steering wheel and reached out to clasp her hand in his. Sam didn't pull away, but simply stared at their entwined fingers, confusion rife within her.
Were
they a couple now? Dear Lord, this was all so new and confusing. She hadn't had to face modern dating with all its uncertainties and rules since her teens. If there even were rules anymore.

"How long do we stay on this road?"

Sam gave a start and then forced herself to look around. They'd passed the Independent grocers again and were now traveling away from town. She turned her attention back to the map to trace their route. "You'll turn right in just a few minutes, I think."

Sam glanced up to read the sign of the next road they came to, her eyes widening as she read the name. "Here. Turn right here. We take this to the end and then take a left," she told him, considering the map, a bit more comfortable now that he wasn't holding her hand. Sam didn't think she'd be wholly comfortable again, however, until she was safely back at the cottage with her sisters. And without Mortimer around. She wished she was there now. She wanted time to process what was happening and figure out what she wanted. But if life had taught her nothing else, it was that you didn't always get what you want.

Several moments later they were turning onto the long driveway of the Latimer cottage. It was paved rather than the bumpy dirt lane most cottages up here had. Sam wasn't surprised to hear Mortimer blow through his teeth in an almost silent whistle as the last line of trees finally cleared away.

"Nice," he said dryly.

Sam merely stared. It wasn't a cottage, it was a bloody mansion, but then she hadn't expected any less of the Latimers. They were wealthy and liked to spend that wealth. And why not? They couldn't take it with them when they died.

"Is that the daughter's car?"

Sam followed Mortimer's gesture and saw the little red sports car sticking out around the side of the house.

"Yes," she said with relief and reached for the door handle. This would be quick and easy. She just had to tell Cathy to call her parents and they could leave. Easy, she thought as she opened the car door.

"You can wait here if you like. I should only be a minute," Sam said as she got out.

Mortimer's answer was simply to get out on his own side and move around the car to join her in the walk to the front door of the house. Back door, really, she supposed. Up here the part of the house facing the lake was considered the front of the house.

Shrugging that absent thought away as they arrived at the double doors, Sam reached for the doorknob, only to stiffen when the brush of her fingertips sent it swinging open. It hadn't been closed all the way.

Before she could quite wrap her mind around that realization and what it might mean, Mortimer was catching her by the waist. He pulled her quickly back and to the side, setting her out of the way so that he could move forward.

"Wait here," he hissed, and then slid through the opening and disappeared.

Sam stared wide-eyed after him for one stunned moment. Tom never would have manned-up like that and taken control. He would have let her lead the way. It was kind of nice to have someone looking out for her.

And frustrating, she decided in the next breath. She wanted to know what was going on inside and couldn't tell from her safe spot on the stoop. Sam shifted impatiently, but simply couldn't be a good girl and wait outside while the big he-man investigated. This was her job anyway. She was the one who'd been asked to check on Cathy Latimer, Sam reminded herself as she followed the path Mortimer had taken and slid through the open door.

Sam heard the soft strums of music the moment she stepped inside. A radio was playing, she realized, her eyes sliding over the luxurious space before her, taking in the gleaming marble floors and double curving staircases on either side of the large white foyer.

Dear God, the Latimers didn't have a clue what cottaging was, Sam thought, her mouth hanging open as she moved as silently as possible across the entry.

The foyer gave way to a huge open room with a wall of glass facing out over the lake. The view was breathtaking and made her stop and stare before she reminded herself why she was here. Dragging her eyes away from the incredible view, she cast them over the living area, noting the open television guide on the coffee table in front of the couch, a jacket tossed over the back of the couch, and a large beach towel strewn over a bar stool along the breakfast bar separating the living area from the large kitchen.

Sam moved instinctively to the bar stool and felt the towel to find it dry but with bits of grit and sand on it. It had been used, either to sunbathe or to dry off with, but had since dried.

Releasing it, she moved around the bar to peer over the kitchen. A full glass of what appeared to be cola sat on the counter, the liquid at the top of the glass a bit clearer, as if it had been poured over ice and that ice had melted. She often let drinks sit untouched until the ice melted in the glass, so recognized the signs. Her gaze slid to a plate with an uneaten sandwich on it. Cheese was sticking out beyond the crust, and Sam frowned as she noted it was dried out and a bit hard-looking.

It looked as if Cathy had come in from the beach, poured herself a drink, and just finished making a snack when something or someone had interrupted her.

Sam moved reluctantly forward, peered at the cheese, and then poked at it gently. It was turning a darker shade and growing hard.

"I thought I told you to wait outside."

Sam nearly leaped out of her skin when that sharp comment broke the silence. Turning, she shot a scowl at Mortimer. "
I
am the one who was supposed to come check on her, not you," she reminded him, and then forced her scowl away. "Is she here?"

A combination of worry and relief coursed through her when he shook his head. The relief was because, as silent as the house was and with the uneaten snack in the kitchen, she feared that had Cathy been there, she wouldn't have been in good shape. The worry was because it meant Cathy Latimer was missing, and the open door and uneaten snack suggested unusual circumstances. Probably not good unusual circumstances either, but movie-of-the-week-type stuff.

Sighing, she moved out of the kitchen and crossed the living area to a hallway leading to the rest of the house on this floor.

"I checked every room," Mortimer assured her, following as she toured the main floor, moving quickly along the hall to peer into a library, a media room, a dining room… "There's no one here."

"I know. I'm not looking for anyone," Sam replied, turning back the way she'd come and then heading up to the second level.

"What are you looking for?" Mortimer asked, jogging up the stairs behind her.

"Her…" Sam paused as she swung open the first door and found herself looking at a room that appeared to have been hit by a cyclone. Letting her breath out, she finished, "… bedroom."

Mortimer followed her into the room, his gaze moving over the chaos as he proved he had looked up here too by admitting, "I figure she was attacked in here."

"Attacked?" Sam turned on him with surprise.

"Well, she's missing and—" He gestured around the room as if that said it all.

Sam shook her head. "This isn't because of an attack; this is just barely-twenty-and-still-as-lazy-as-a-teen living."

When he raised his eyebrows, she confessed, "My room used to look like this."

"Used to?" he asked, eyes suddenly narrowing.

"Hmm." Sam nodded and wryly admitted, "I had a habit of just throwing my clothes on the floor. Then one year—in the midst of final exams—I discovered how handy it was to use a clothes hamper and not be stumbling over clothes when I got home from the library in the wee hours, exhausted from cramming."

"Ah." He smiled faintly, but remained silent as she crossed the room back toward him.

"I suppose I should report this."

Mortimer nodded and straightened away from the doorjamb to allow her to pass. "I saw an O.P.P. building on the way into town."

"O.P.P.?" Sam paused and glanced back at him with surprise at the mention of the Ontario Provincial Police.

"Yes." He frowned and considered her expression and then asked, "Isn't that who you meant to report to?"

"No, I was thinking of my boss," she admitted, biting her lip now. She'd intended to go downstairs and use the phone she'd seen in the living room. Now, however, Sam realized that perhaps reporting to the O.P.P. might be better. They might actually know what had happened to the girl. It might be that she'd simply been in a car accident, or… Well, all right, the car accident bit was out with her car here, but maybe an ATV or even a Sea-Doo accident. The emergency response team may have been called in and in their rush left the door open…

It didn't seem likely, but, on the other hand, it did seem better to check in with the O.P.P. and make sure Cathy Latimer hadn't been in an accident or something before calling her boss and starting some sort of panic. Besides, he'd probably send her to the O.P.P. anyway.

Letting out the breath she'd unconsciously been holding, Sam nodded. "Yes, we'd better report to the O.P.P. first."

Mortimer ushered her from the room and followed her back downstairs. They were walking to the door when she spotted the purse on the table in the entry. Sam stopped but didn't touch it. She'd seen enough crime shows to know you weren't supposed to touch anything at a crime scene, and this might very well be one. She did try to look inside though. Unfortunately, it had folded over on itself, and she couldn't see inside. Her gaze slid to the keys next to it, and after a hesitation, Sam did pick those up. She simply couldn't see walking out and leaving the house unlocked. Crime was low up here but it wasn't unheard of, and leaving the door unlocked was just inviting trouble.

The third key she tried locked the front door. Sighing with relief, Sam smiled a little stiffly at Mortimer and then dropped the keys in her purse as he walked her to the SUV.

Mortimer didn't like Sergeant Belmont from the moment the tall, gray-haired man came strutting out of a door at the back of the reception room at the O.P.P. headquarters and sauntered to the front toward them. He liked him even less after five minutes of watching him treat Sam like a panicky female fretting over nothing.

"I'm sure your friend is fine," the man repeated for the third time, interrupting Sam's attempts to explain for the third time as well. He added, "We'll fill out and file a report, but there's no sense doing anything beyond that. She'll probably turn up in a day or two, hung over and full of tales of some new guy she met."

"Are you even listening to me?" Sam asked with disbelief. "The front door of the house was unlocked and ajar. Her purse was on the table, the radio was on, and there was an uneaten sandwich—"

"So she changed her mind about eating a sandwich and headed out to a friend's instead," the man interrupted condescendingly. "That's no call to get everyone in an uproar."

"Her parents haven't been able to contact her for several days," Sam said grimly.

"Well then maybe she's run away," he said with unconcern. "That happens in these parts. Little local gals see the cottagers coming up here year after year with their fancy cars and ATVs and Sea-Doos and Ski-Doos and the money they flash around, and suddenly their poky little hometown starts to looking boring and they start yearning to head to the big city with dreams of making it big as a singer or actress or model or some nonsense and living the big life they see all these cottagers live. That's probably what your friend has up and done too. Run off to find the big-city lights."

Mortimer was about to take control of the man's mind and convince him he needed to do more than file a report when he noticed the way Sam's eyes had narrowed. She was mad, and he suspected Sergeant Belmont was about to meet his match.

"Are you new up here, Belmont?" she asked sharply, eyes narrowed on the man.

The sergeant's expression became somewhat suspicious, as if he thought this might be a trick question, but after a moment he hitched his pants up and nodded slowly, "As it happens, I was transferred here last month."

"Right," Sam said grimly. "That explains a lot."

"What does it explain?" Belmont asked with a frown.

"Why you've no idea who I'm talking about," she snapped. "Let me rectify the situation. Cathy Latimer is a cottager, not a local running away to escape her smalltown life. She also isn't a teenager, but is the twenty-year-old daughter of a very wealthy businessman
whom my law firm represents,"
she added pointedly. "She drives a sports car, lives in her parents' mansions, and has all the money she could want. She has not run away to the big city. She
lives
in the big city and came here to get away from it for a bit. Now she's missing."