“Poppy Chappelle was spending the summer with Saxon’s mother. The grandmother found her this morning.”
“They didn’t let Saxon go to Savannah on his own, did they?”
“Saxon may not even know yet,” Derek told her. “He left early this morning to escort Meredith Sinclair to London. But once he hands her over to Luke, he’ll return to the U.S. tonight. Griff sent Holt Keinan to Savannah.”
“Griff wants us at Griffin’s Rest by tonight because he’s circling the wagons, isn’t he?”
“Yeah, probably.”
“Then let’s get the show on the road. I need to go back to my room and grab my suitcase and then we can check out.”
“Take your time, Blondie. I’ll check us out. You can meet me in the lobby. But first, wash your face, put on some lipstick, and comb your hair. You look like you just got out of bed.”
The Berkeley Knightsbridge, a five-star luxury hotel, was located on Wilton Place, in the heart of residential Belgravia. From this location, they were only moments from the hustle and bustle of Knightsbridge and not far from Buckingham Palace, Hyde Park, and Belgrave Square. During the years Meredith had spent in London with Yvette and her fellow misfits, they had lived in comfort, but not in splendor. She suspected that Griffin Powell had arranged for the two-bedroom suite at this luxurious hotel just for her. He understood the type of sacrifice she was making in order to help him find and stop a killer and no doubt wanted to compensate her for the mental and emotional pain and anguish. Meredith was doing this out of a sense of loyalty to Yvette, but also because she, too, did not want to see another innocent person die.
“We can order room service for dinner,” Luke Sentell told her as he escorted her into the spacious living room, which was both elegantly sophisticated and yet beautifully understated.
The moment she walked into the room, the image of a woman appeared in her mind. Blond and attractive. Possibly the interior designer. Someone who liked a clean, lean and yet classic look.
“Thank you, but I’m not hungry,” Meredith replied.
“I’ve given you the master suite,” Luke told her as he walked across the living room and opened the bedroom door. “I’ll put your suitcase in here and if you’d like to rest for a while—”
“I’d like to call home and speak to Yvette. I’m concerned about Saxon Chappelle.” Meredith glowered at Luke, whose stoic stare slightly unnerved her. “You could have been a little less blunt when you told him his niece was the Copycat Carver’s latest victim.”
As if ignoring her comment, Luke disappeared into the bedroom for a couple of minutes. Once again, as she had done in the past, she tried to sense something in Luke Sentell other than his steely determination to protect himself from her probing. On the outer edges of his consciousness, she picked up on rigid control and single- mindedness, both aspects of his apathetic personality.
Deciding not to make an issue of his rudeness, she surveyed her surroundings. The cool taupes and grays and beiges used with the dark, gleaming wood in the room soothed Meredith. She preferred the gentleness of neutral colors, the peacefulness of muted tones.
“I assume you can unpack for yourself,” Luke said as he emerged from her bedroom.
“Yes, certainly.”
“I told Chappelle the facts. If I had put my arm around him and shed a few tears, do you honestly think it would have helped him any?”
“No, but you were so cold and matter-of-fact.”
Luke grunted. “Make your call to Yvette while I order our dinner.”
“I don’t want anything,” she told him.
“Well, I do.” His scrutinizing gaze raked over her with cold precision. “You need to eat something to build up your strength before you start earning your keep.”
“I’ll be sure to eat a substantial breakfast.”
“You’ll eat a substantial dinner, too, because I intend for us to begin work tonight.”
“Tonight?”
“Yes, tonight.”
“But—”
“I realize that you’re probably tired from your long flight and more than a little pissed about getting stuck with me as your babysitter, but the sooner we locate Anthony Linden, the sooner we will be able to stop him from killing anyone else. Do you understand?”
“Yes, I understand. I just didn’t realize you had anything available here at the hotel for me to use to connect with Linden.”
“I do.”
“Then let me freshen up and unpack while you order dinner. And as soon as I call Yvette, I’ll be ready.”
She didn’t bother asking him what he had in his possession that had at some time belonged to Anthony Linden. She would know soon enough. Even something as insignificant as a cigarette lighter or an unlaundered handkerchief could be used as a catalyst to connect her with the person or persons who had used the specific object. The fewer people who had handled the object, the more precise her revelations.
“Do you have any preferences about dinner?” he asked. “Protein of some type, right?”
“Yes, protein,” she told him. “For strength and stamina.”
“And if I remember correctly, no wine, no liquor of any kind. Just water.”
“That’s correct.”
Meredith found herself unable to break eye contact with Luke, his steel-gray eyes holding her attention like metal to a magnet. A whirlwind of energy spun around them, cocooning them together inside a kinetic force neither could control.
Luke hadn’t spoken, but Meredith had heard his thoughts.
But that was the problem. She wasn’t sure she could trust him. “If I go in too deep, you’re the only one who can save me.”
“Yes, I know.” He turned, walked away and entered the foyer that led to the entrance to the second bedroom that was attached to and yet separate from the rest of the suite.
Prompted by the incentive of a bonus, he had wasted no time in making arrangements to pick up the special guest for his current employer. Locating her had not been a problem, but removing the obstacles in his path would require quick, decisive action. Complicated by the presence of a private security agent who made rounds outside the home every two hours, as precise as clockwork, and disarming the home’s security system had taken a while longer than he had anticipated. He was pretty sure the guard wasn’t a Powell agent. He wore a uniform of some kind and Powell agents didn’t wear uniforms. His guess was that the family had hired him for protection in case the Copycat Carver targeted one of them.
Unlike the Chappelle home in Savannah, there was no outside basement entrance, leaving him with only the windows and doors on the first and second levels of the house as a means of entry and exit. With a guard on duty, probably stationed downstairs, his best bet was to find a way to enter through an upstairs widow. And since time was of the essence if he wanted that big bonus, he needed to check out the house’s interior quickly and pinpoint her bedroom. But with only three occupants, other than the bodyguard, it should be a relatively simple matter. All he’d have to do was look into the bedrooms to find her. At this time of night, she would be alone. And her room would no doubt be distinctly decorated.
With a few twists, he locked the carbon steel talons of the compact grappling hook into position and sent the hook sailing up and atop the sloping roof at the back of the house. Testing the connection and finding it secure, he began his ascent up the lightweight nylon rope. Once on top of the roof, he made his way carefully over to the nearby single window, one he assumed would take him into a bathroom. He removed the glass cutter from his pocket, along with a suction device, and removed a section of the windowpane without breaking it. He reached
