would be getting underway in a few minutes. Rushton Hall had been rented and seasonally decked out. It wasn’t a black tie affair, but that wouldn’t stop the partygoers from dressing up in their holiday finest, especially the females, who tended to wear uniforms or lab coats on a daily basis.
The intercom buzzed at 8:02.
The phone rang before she reached the security monitor. She picked up en route.
“It’s me.” Jacob’s voice reached her over a static-filled line. “I’m stuck in traffic.”
“And here I was complimenting you on your prompt arrival.” She switched on the security monitor. “How long?”
“Twenty minutes. We’ll be fashionably late.”
“It never hurts to be-” Romana stared at the image on screen “-late.” Icy fingers of dread skated down her spine. “Damn.”
“What is it?”
“Nothing. Well, something, but you don’t need to use your siren. Someone buzzed me just as you phoned.”
“And?”
“There’s no one in the lobby. All I see is an envelope taped to the wall. It might have my name on it.” She finished the sentence with a sigh. “You’re using the siren, aren’t you?”
“Five minutes,” he told her. “Don’t leave your apartment.”
SHE HELD OUT FOR THREE of those minutes, but when she heard old Mr. Hastings across the hall preparing to leave for his Saturday night poker game, she rushed out to intercept him.
“Oh, my, don’t you look lovely, young Romanov.” His blue eyes twinkled, and he tapped a gnarled finger to his cheek. “Give us a peck for luck. I’ve got sixteen grand and seven great-grandchildren to buy for this year.”
“I’ll do better than that.” She gave him two quick kisses, hooked her arm through his. “I’ll walk you down.”
“Appreciate it. Cane gets tangled in my feet. Where are you off to tonight? Wedding?”
An eyebrow winged up. “In a black spaghetti-strap dress?”
“My great-granddaughter wears black everywhere she goes. Says it’s the in thing. I say she looks like Morticia.”
“Goth,” Romana said and hoped the elevator would take its time arriving. “How old is she?”
“Thirteen.”
“It’s probably a look more than a mindset at that age.” The door swished open, and with a subtle shift, she positioned herself in front of him.
Nothing and no one leaped out.
“So far, so good.”
“Beg pardon?”
She smiled, loaded him in and managed to hit all the floor buttons while he steadied himself. “Your Tennessee roots are showing, Mr. Hastings. Cincinnatians say, ‘Please.’”
“I say that when I ask someone to pass the salt.” He swiveled his head back and forth as the door opened on the floor below. “Huh. Don’t see anyone.”
Romana glanced at the lighted panel. Would Critch be waiting in the lobby or, having delivered his message, would he have vanished into the darkness?
“You sure do look pretty tonight. You know, you should be married with children and far too busy to be helping an eighty-nine-year-old man to the curb.”
He was ninety-seven by the lowest building estimate, and if Critch tried to hurt him, he wouldn’t be walking upright for a very long time.
Three more floors, three more open doors, no more passengers.
“Must be a malfunction in the panel,” Mr. Hastings decided. “I’ll have a chat with the electrician.”
Beside him, Romana watched the numbers. When the doors opened to an empty lobby, she breathed out and helped the old man over the ledge. Even so, he stumbled slightly. His cane whacked the wall, and fell to the floor with a clatter.
Which was probably why she missed the footsteps.
But she spied the shadow in her peripheral vision.
Tightening her grip on Mr. Hastings’s arm, she whipped the gun she’d had hidden behind her back up and out to the side.
“One more step, Critch,” she warned softly, “and you’re a dead man.”
JACOB BELIEVED HER. TOTALLY. He might have been able to disarm her since she was propping up an ancient man in a plaid overcoat, but he didn’t want to test her.
Fortunately, he didn’t have to. The moment she realized her mistake, she lowered the gun.
“You owe me five years, Knight.”
He held his hands out to the sides, palms up. “I just came around the corner. You’re the one with the gun.”
She turned a dazzling smile on the old man. “Is your ride here, Mr. Hastings?”
He flapped a hand at the curb, couldn’t seem to take his eyes off her. “I never knew you were armed, young Romanov, and I was a corpsman in World War Two. Could’ve used you back then for sure.You didn’t even look at him, yet you pointed that gun of yours right between his eyes. Didn’t she, young man?”
“Right between,” Jacob agreed. He noticed the envelope taped to the wall across from the security monitor. There was no doorman in evidence tonight, so either the entrance lock had failed or someone had let Critch into the building.
Romana propelled the old man forward by his elbows. “Your taxi’s waiting, Mr. Hastings. Win lots of gift money.”
She waited until the taxi door slammed before whirling to confront Jacob.
“You scared the hell out of me. How did you get in?”
“A woman with a dachshund let me in. I was checking out the utility room when the elevator door opened.” He closed the gap between them, his eyes steady on hers. “You look gorgeous tonight, Professor Grey.”
Her lashes veiled her eyes as she cocked her head. “Back at ’cha, Detective Knight.” A tiny tapping sound behind her brought a sigh. “Envelope came unstuck, didn’t it?”
Catching her chin, Jacob gave her a quick kiss. “Gun,” he said and, drawing his own, went to retrieve the fallen message.
“The envelope’s white instead of red this time,” Romana noted. “And the printing’s different. It’s-neater.”
Jacob lifted the flap, removed the plain white card inside. Tilting it down with her gun barrel, Romana read,
I give you this gift, Romana Grey:
Warren Critch is not your only foe.
Fear more the person who did the deed.
Fear more still the madness in control…
Chapter Fourteen
“You have no idea who left the card.” O’Keefe walked in measured lines within the confines of the party hall cloakroom. “Did you search the building?”
“Jacob did.” Romana gave one of her spaghetti straps a twist to straighten it. “I knocked on doors for an hour with no luck.”
“It had to be Belinda’s murderer.”
“Warning me to fear him more than Warren Critch? Calling him-or herself mad? Would you do that if you were a killer?”
“If I wanted my share of the attention and was, in fact, mad, I might.”
“It could have come from Shera Barret.”
