Nightwork, page 38
“I had a redhead with a cleaver as backup.”
He went back inside, washed his hands.
He figured the angry phone call to LaPorte—and the demand for the additional million—not only removed Warwick from the area, removed the threat to Miranda, but had likely guaranteed Warwick’s death warrant.
He’d done what he’d had to do, he thought as he watched Miranda mow the lawn. And he could live with it.
* * *
After dinner, after dark, Miranda went with him to the bungalow. He took the route through the woods because he wanted to make sure they’d taken down the cameras.
They had.
Miranda tapped a finger on the bag he carried over his shoulder. “I didn’t realize you’d need so many tools to get into the house.”
“I don’t. Lights are off,” he said. “We’ll go around the back.”
“What’s in the bag, Booth?”
“Just a few things I picked up on a previous visit.”
“A previous visit when?”
“After they tried to get into my place. I left you a note in case you woke up, so you wouldn’t worry.”
“How considerate.”
He ignored the pissy tone because he figured she was entitled.
“I thought so. Listen, I never figured I’d have her gun to plant when they left. I wanted a little insurance.”
Both cars gone, he noted, and when he checked, he found the trash bins empty. Smart to clean them out.
He took a pair of surgical gloves out of his bag. “Put these on.”
“Really? Why would anyone look for fingerprints?”
“Because I’m going to give them some reasons to.” He put on another pair, tried the back door. “Didn’t bother to lock up.”
“Oh.” Disappointment rang in the single syllable. “I was looking forward to watching how you get in.”
“In this case, I just open the door.” After he did, he turned on the kitchen lights.
She jumped back a foot. “You turned on the lights!”
“Leaving a light on’s a lot less suspicious than a couple of flashlights bobbing around in a dark house.” He walked through, pulled down the shades on the front windows, then took a survey.
“They really should put some money into this place. Kitchen drawer for the gun, I think.”
“It’s got your prints on it.”
“I wiped it down, like they’d have wiped down the house before they left. But her prints are going to be on the magazine, and I was careful with it.”
He opened drawers, found one with a pitiful collection of plastic kitchen tools, and put the gun in the rear behind a slotted spoon.
He set his bag on the kitchen table. “So, what might people in a hurry to get out inadvertently leave behind? I got a few things out of their bins after they rolled them out the night before trash pickup.”
The beer bottle went under the sink, beside rather than in the kitchen can, a magazine found a home under the saggy living room cushions. He shoved an empty bottle of tequila in a dusty corner of an upper cabinet.
He took out a single black sock and started toward a bedroom.
“You found that in the trash?”
“In a basket of dirty clothes in the laundry area after I broke in.” He tossed it under the bed.
He retrieved a bright red sports bra, kicked it under the dresser in the second bedroom, then balled up a pillowcase from his bag to stuff between the washer and dryer.
“They were here, sleeping, when you broke in.”
“It’s what I do, Miranda. Stand back.”
He got out a second beer bottle, smashed it on the side of the table. Then he picked up one of the kitchen chairs, slammed it against the counter. And gave a satisfied nod to the little dent he left in the ancient Formica.
“Don’t want to break my hand,” he commented, and wrapped it in a thick towel before punching his fist into a hollow core door.
“You’re making it look like they had a fight—a physical fight.”
“With just enough damage to raise some alarms. I’m doing the owners a favor, really. Insurance’ll cover it, and they’ll get more out of the place with a halfway-decent upgrade.”
“That’s not why you’re doing all this.”
He nearly made an excuse, but stopped himself. She deserved truth.
“This should get the cops going. Hopefully get their real names, their backgrounds. Maybe, the cops catch up with her before LaPorte does. She cost him a million. He pays his debts, too.”
“You’d rather see her in prison than in the ground.”
He stood, long and lean in his battered jeans and ancient Chucks. “I would, but she chose her path just like I chose mine.”
“She would’ve killed you, and me. And … she wouldn’t have given either of us another thought. What happens to her now isn’t your responsibility.”
“No, but either way, I’m staging a fight, bringing trouble down on her and Cannery.”
“All right.” All in, Miranda thought as she glanced around. “What next?”
“We’ll take more of the glass and wood away, like they tried to hide it. But we’ll leave some behind. I figure they wiped the place down, but odds are they missed some spots. They’re paid up, who’s going to care they took off early? So you don’t worry too much.”
“But Tracey, the owners, and the police are going to care when they find damage, what looks like a physical fight, and a loaded gun.”
“There you go. I’ve got a couple more things to toss around, then we’ll pick up and go home. Since we’re neighbors, we’re going to get some questions. Hit the truth—to a point. We ran into her one morning walking in the woods between my place and the bungalow. She had a camera, talked about all that. She stopped by tonight while I was mowing the grass, no camera, seemed upset, but just said she was out walking.”
“Close enough.”
* * *
The questions came at the end of the week with a knock on her door. She’d come home to pack for the weekend in Georgetown—a trip Booth didn’t want her to take.
The knock interrupted her consideration of what to wear when meeting his aunt and his father figure. Then going with him—like it or not—when he, well, cased the joint.
Though she’d never met him, she recognized the chief of police when she opened the door.
“Sorry to bother you, Miss Emerson. I’m Greg Capton. Chief of police.”
“Oh, of course.” She extended her hand, hoped it hadn’t gone clammy.
“I wonder if you’ve got a couple of minutes.”
“Sure. Come in. Is there a problem?”
“Might be. It’s about your neighbors down the road.”
“Neighbors? Oh, sorry, sit down. Can I get you some coffee?”
“I appreciate it, but I won’t keep you long.” He did sit, smiled a rather disarming smile. “Can you tell me the last time you saw the couple who rented the bungalow? The little place on the other side of Sebastian Booth’s? You know Booth, right?”
“Yes, I know Booth.” She put a laugh with it. “I imagine as police chief you’re aware Booth and I are seeing each other. But as for the people in the bungalow, I’m not really sure. I’ve never met him. Booth and I did meet her. We were all taking a walk in the woods one morning. Not sure when … two or three weeks ago maybe? She was out taking pictures. Has something happened?”
“I can’t say. Tracey—you know Tracey—got worried when she heard they’d missed two trash pickups this week. It looks like they’ve packed up and gone.”
“Oh? That’s strange, isn’t it? She seemed excited to have the chance to take photos—wildlife photos, she said. But, you know, I was at Booth’s the other night. I think Monday night, evening,” she corrected. “She walked over while he was mowing the lawn—the back. I saw her out the window, and wondered if I should offer her a drink, but she left. Booth mentioned she seemed upset. Didn’t they let Tracey know they were moving out?”
“It doesn’t seem so. And you didn’t talk to her yourself Monday evening?”
“No. I was finishing up some work, and came in for some water, noticed her talking to Booth. She walked back in the direction of the bungalow, through the woods. When I went out, Booth said she’d just sort of wandered over, and said she wanted a walk or some air, or … I’m not exactly sure, sorry. And he said she seemed upset. Maybe she was, maybe she was upset they were moving out.”
“Could be. Well, thanks for the time.”
No mention of the gun, the damage, Miranda thought as she closed the door behind him. She took out her phone. She’d get a more detailed account from Tracey.
As she packed, Miranda put the phone on speaker.
“And when they didn’t answer their phones, I drove over. No cars, shades down. I walked around the back, and the back door was unlocked! When I went in, I could see something was really wrong, Miranda. It looked like they’d had a fight. A real fight.”
“Oh my God.” The black dress, she decided, in case they went out to dinner.
“One of the kitchen chairs was missing, and I saw some broken pieces of it under the table. Broken glass, too. And there’s a big dent in the broom closet door, like somebody punched it!”
“That’s awful. Do you think he hurt her?”
“I don’t know, I just don’t know. But I can tell you I don’t think they slept together. I think they slept in separate bedrooms. They took their trash off with them. Who does that? But they missed some things. Beer bottles, a tequila bottle, all empty. I think one of them might’ve been a closet drinker.”
She let Tracey vent it out while she finished packing.
“I hope you find out what happened, and you’ve got to let me know when you do.”
“Count on it.”
“I’m heading out now. Booth and I are taking a weekend getaway.”
“Romantic!”
“I hope so. I’ll let you know if it lives up to my hopes when I get back. Good luck with the case of the missing tenants.”
“Have fun!”
Miranda loaded her suitcase, her laptop, her purse into the car. She’d wait for Booth at his house. It would be harder for him to come up with more reasons she should stay home if she made it a fait accompli.
He tried.
“I’m starting to think you don’t want me to meet your aunt or Sebastien.”
“We’ll go to New Orleans when this is finished, and you can meet them.”
“They’re only a few hours away right now, and I’m looking forward to meeting them. And playing my role tomorrow.”
“There’s no need for you to—”
“A man like … What’s your name again?” She laughed when he just closed his eyes. “You’re Monsieur Henri Dubeck, the great eccentric, exclusive, and difficult interior designer. You’re also discreet, never reveal, much less discuss a client. I’m Mademoiselle Marguerite Gavier, your faithful and long-suffering assistant.”
She pointed at her suitcase, pointed at the door. “We agreed, Booth.”
“I was in a weakened state, after wine and sex.”
“A deal’s a deal, and you’ll have two sets of eyes.” She sailed out with her laptop case and her purse, and waited for him to load her suitcase.
He’d saved it till last in vain hope.
“You’ll note I packed light, and you didn’t.”
“Dubeck and Gavier are in those bags.”
She got in the car, smiled as she put on her seat belt. “See? You knew I was coming.”
“Apparently.”
“We can go over my character again, but first, you never told me how you got Regal—stupid name—Regal Mountjoy, Alan C.’s newish trophy wife, to bite on Dubeck.”
“Newish trophy wives, logically, want to put their stamp on spaces previously decorated and occupied by the ex. And I have a connection in France—an important woman—with a connection to a connection of Regal’s. She planted the seed for me.”
“A past lover?”
“No, a former client.”
Miranda settled back for the drive. And whatever the hell it said about her, she no longer cared. She loved his stories.
“You stole for the Frenchwoman.”
“I reacquired her property. Her great-grandmother was an artist, of some import. The Nazis stole a portrait of my client’s grandmother, one of her grandmother as a young girl. Her grandmother survived the Holocaust. None of the rest of the family did.”
“That’s horrible. It’s just horrible.”
“My client wanted the portrait back, had exhausted all other avenues, then hired me. I took the job pro bono because … because.”
Miranda laid a hand over his. “Because.”
“She said if I ever needed a favor, ever needed anything. So she let drop to a friend of a friend of Regal’s that Dubeck was coming to DC to meet a client. A famous client. And intended to stay for several days. Dubeck was persuaded to meet with Regal and consider awarding her his great talent.”
“Now the question becomes how are you going to pull off playing, convincingly, a snooty French interior designer.”
“I’ve done it before, a few times. Though Dubeck will retire after this one.”
“You actually designed?”
“I’ve been in plenty of fancy houses, ornate, minimalistic, retro, ultramodern. It’s just a matter of gauging the client, what they really want—or expect. Talking the talk, doing the math.”
“Math.”
“You gotta measure, Miranda. I did a place in Provence about eight years ago. I went with modern farmhouse with some provincial touches. It worked. I made a fat fee and walked away with a thirty-three-carat emerald necklace, twenty carats of white diamonds, platinum setting.”
Oh yes, she loved his stories.
“You decorated their house, then stole the jewels?”
“I never steal from a client. This is the exception and why Dubeck will retire. I took it from a neighboring villa, then oversaw the installation of the azure linen drapes in my client’s master suite. We were all shocked and horrified.”
“I bet.”
She thought, as she often did, what a fascinating, complicated man she’d fallen in love with.
She’d never been to Georgetown so enjoyed the change of scene. The tall brick homes, the busy streets and mad traffic, the bright spots of shops and restaurants.
“It’s like a town within a city, isn’t it? It’s got dignity, history, and action all together. I might like to spend some time here when we’re not on a caper.”
He looked at her. “A caper.”
“It’s a good word, and stands the test of time. What do you call it?”
“Work,” he said simply, and pulled up to a small garage beside a lovely, three-story brick house. Flowers carpeted the tiny front yard on both sides of a low brick walk. The walk led to a trio of steps and a covered front door.
The door flew open, and a woman rushed out, hair—plum colored, Miranda decided—flying. A tiny dog ran out behind her to stand on the top step and dance on its stubby legs.
The woman threw her arms around Booth, and when he wrapped around her, Miranda’s eyes stung. Love, she thought. Absolute and unquestionable.
“I missed you, pal. I missed you hard.”
“I missed you.” He drew back to brush a hand at her hair. “What color’s this?”
“Jack Horner.”
“Because?”
“He pulled out a plum,” Miranda finished, and earned a teary grin from Mags.
With a wild laugh, Mags threw herself around Miranda. She smelled, Miranda thought, of Chanel, roses, and fresh bread.
“You’re the one,” Mags murmured, then drew back. “Mags.”
“Miranda.”
“Come in, come in. We’ll let the men deal with the bags and have some of the wine breathing on the bar. This is Wiley,” she added as they walked to the steps.
The dog leaped straight into Miranda’s arms, then stared up at her with bulging, love-drenched eyes.
“Oh God, you’re adorable.”
“Isn’t he?” Mags led her inside while Booth just looked on in wonder.
Sebastien strolled toward them, a dishcloth over one shoulder, his gray hair tied back in a tail as stubby as Wiley’s legs.
“Ah, ma belle amie, bienvenue!”
Miranda not only got a hug, but a kiss on both cheeks.
“Booth needs help with the bags. Sebastien’s made a feast,” Mags continued as she walked Miranda out of the foyer, down a hallway toward a massive great room with a glass wall of doors open to a paved courtyard complete with fountain.
The air smelled like heaven must.
“I watch him when he prepares a feast. Occasionally I stir. On special events, I may chop, even mince.”
“That’s what I do.”
Mags just beamed at her. “Aren’t we clever girls? Let’s have some wine.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
The wine flowed, and the food kept coming. Conversation rolled through it, nonstop, as Miranda sampled boudin balls. She didn’t know what they were, other than delicious.
Conversation did not roll anywhere near LaPorte, the Red Goddess, or any aspect of what loomed ahead. It jumped around from food, New Orleans, Westbend, Miranda’s books, and back to food as they moved from the spacious kitchen into the formal dining area with the table set charmingly with flowers and candles.
Sebastien, clearly enjoying himself, set down a platter of beautifully presented crab cakes on mixed greens served with his own rémoulade.
One bite had Miranda lifting her glass to him. “Amazing, and I see where Booth got his culinary skills.”
“I polished up a rough diamond, me. Tonight, we bring New Orleans to you.”
“I don’t think I’d taste better on Bourbon Street.”
“If my heart didn’t belong to your aunt”—Sebastien patted it—“I’d steal this one from you, mon ami. You come visit me in the bayou, cher, and we’ll have us a fais-dodo.”
“I’d love to see your bayou.” Would see it, Miranda determined. “Booth says you have three daughters.”
“My three jewels. And now, I’m a Paw-Paw, me. I got me four grandbabies, and another coming.”
