Crave

turned the dead bolt with her key—

Frowning, she stared up at one of the two wrought-iron lanterns by the entrance. A small strip of white cloth had been wound around its base.

Pivoting on her heel, Grier looked all around and saw nothing but parked cars she recognized . . . and a neighbor walking a chocolate Lab . . . and a couple strolling arm in arm . . .

Get a grip, Grier.

She was not in a Hitchcockian world where people were followed and planes dive-bombed from midair and secret signals were left on light fixtures.

Unwinding the scrap of fabric, she shoved the thing in her coat pocket so as not to litter and went over to her Audi. As she walked off, she engaged the big alarm—even though she didn’t usually do that if she wasn’t in the house.

Down at the police department, she met with a detective, turned the money over, and gave a statement. Attorney-client privilege did not extend to ongoing criminal activity, so she was required to say what she knew about the fighting ring, Isaac’s participation in it, and the location where she believed they would still convene out in Malden.

While time passed and she talked, she had a growing conviction that Isaac was far gone by now—and chances were good no one from Boston would find him.

She had to wonder who would, however.

Two hours later, she stepped out of the precinct and stared up at the yellow sun in the cloudless spring sky. The warmth on her face made the cold breeze feel even more frigid, and the rest of the day loomed over her.

Her car didn’t take her home.

It was supposed to. She sent it in the direction of Beacon Hill with the intention of crawling back into bed and getting some more sleep.

She ended up on Tremont Street.

As she went around the block where Isaac’s apartment was, naturally there was no place to dump the Audi, and it was probably a sign for her to stay away. Persistence got her into trouble, though, when a VW Bug shuffled out and left a void. After wedging in, she locked up and went over to the house.

Knocking on the front door, she hoped that the landlady was home—and never thought she’d be glad to see someone like that again—

The woman opened up and Grier made the connection she hadn’t the day before: It was Mrs. Roper from Three’s Company. From the fake red curls to the plastic bangles.

“You’re back,” was the greeting.

“I just need to get in one last time.”

“Where is he?” the landlady said, blocking the way.

Ah, yes, an information tollgate, Grier thought. “He was here last night. Didn’t you hear him?”

Cue Jeopardy theme. Then . . . “The man’s like a ghost,” Mrs. Roper-esque bitched. “Never makes a noise. Only way I know he’s there is that he already paid next month’s rent. He’s in jail, isn’t he. Are you his attorney?”

“No.” She hated lying. She truly did.

“Well, I think—”

As the sound of a phone ringing cut her off, Grier was ready to kiss whoever was calling.

Except the landlady batted the air with a dismissive hand. “That’s just my sister.”

Great. “Will you take me upstairs, please? I won’t be long.”

The ringing went silent. “Look, I’m not going to keep doing this. Get your own key.”

“Oh, I agree—I need one. And I apologize.”

The woman mounted the stairs like a bull, pounding up and grunting, today’s muumuu swinging like a flag.

At the top, she unlocked the door with her key. “Now, I’m telling you—”

The phone started ringing again downstairs, and as that wig went to and fro, it was like a dog stuck making the choice between two tennis balls.

“I’ll be back,” Mrs. Roper announced gravely.

Kind of like the Terminator had gone drag queen.

Left on her own, Grier stepped inside Isaac’s place and closed herself in, throwing the lock in the hopes that if the call didn’t last long, that woman would assume it was a come-and-gone situation.

A quick review of the living room proved that he’d been by, but that was an of-course: The gun he’d pulled on her last night had to have been one of the ones she’d found and the sweatshirt he’d been wearing was what he’d used as a pillow. He hadn’t taken everything, however. The sleeping bag was left behind, as well as some workout pants and a pair of Nikes—although the sensors on the windows and doors were gone.

In the kitchen, she found a neat pile of bills—clearly, they were an offering so that when no more rent was paid the score would be settled.

Leaning against the counter, she had no idea what she’d expected to find—

A soft creaking sound brought her eyes over to the rear door. When there was nothing else, she figured she’d imagined the footstep . . . but then the latch to the dead bolt turned slowly.

She straightened, her heart going haywire as she put her hand into her purse and got her Mace ready, which was better than the stun gun, given the distance. “Isaac?”

Except it was not her AWOL soldier.

The man who entered the apartment had black hair and tanned skin and he was wearing a dark suit under a trench coat. A patch covered his right eye, and he used a cane to balance his tall body.

“I’m not Isaac,” he said, in a very deep voice.

The chilly smile he gave was the sort of thing that made you want to take a step back. Unfortunately, she was already against the counter, so there was nowhere to go.

And that was before he shut them both in together.

How much noise did she have to make to get Mrs. Roper back up here? she wondered.

“You must be the defense attorney.”

Oh, Christ, she thought. This was what Isaac had wanted to protect her from, wasn’t it.

Grier Childe looked just like her brother, Matthias thought as he stared across a galley kitchen at her.

And say what you would about the elder Childe’s bleeding-heart politics and nosy predilections, he and that wife of his had done right on the procreating end. Both their kids were blond, blue eyed, with perfect bone structure. Cream of the old-school crop, as it were.

Plus the daughter evidently had half a brain, going by her résumé. And was without all those messy addiction problems.

He felt his lips stretch a little wider. “What’s in your purse? Gun? Mace?”

She took out a thin leather-bound tube and flipped the top cover off. Putting it up in position, she let the defense weapon speak for itself.

“Make sure you aim at my good one,” he said, tapping his left eye. “The other side won’t get you shit.” When she opened her mouth to speak, he cut her off. “Did you expect to find Isaac here?”

“We’re not alone. The landlady is downstairs.”

“Oh, I know. She’s talking to her sister about their brother’s wife.” Those patrician blue eyes of hers widened. “They don’t like her because she’s too young for him. I’d give you the details, but it’s private. And not very interesting. Now, tell me, did you expect to find Isaac here.”

She took a moment to reply. “I’m not answering any of your questions. I suggest you unlock that door and leave. You’re trespassing.”

“If you own the world, there’s no such thing as trespassing. And a word of advice—you want to come out of this alive, you’ll be a little more accommodating.” Matthias casually wandered over to the window above the sink and looked out of the milky glass. “But I suspect I know the answer anyway. You didn’t think you’d find him here because you believe he’s left Boston. You’re basing this assumption on the cash he left behind with you—and don’t bother to deny it. I listened to you talk to your buddy at the public defender’s office—”

“It’s illegal to tap someone’s phone without a warrant.”