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  “Jesus Christ.” Not only was he pale, but he might have been sweating, too. “You didn’t call me?”

  “I didn’t know what to do.” Her voice had firmed, become natural. She could tell the story as if it had happened to someone else now. She felt blessedly, wonderfully numb. “I called George. He told me to come to his house, the office might be watched. I went to the bank, took the papers out of the safety-deposit box, and I went to George’s.”

  The numbness spread down the inside of her chest, a sudden relief. She took a deep breath, finding the constriction in her throat had eased.

  Oddly enough, Josiah stared at the floor. He was sweating; she observed this with her newfound numbness and found it didn’t matter.

  She pushed the covers back. Her legs were very pale against the sheets, starred with fresh, ugly bruising. She slid her feet out of the bed. It hurt to move, but she suddenly wanted a shower very badly. “George’s wife was there. So was his daughter. Emmaline. Thirteen, and home sick with the flu.”

  “Anna—”

  Let me finish. “His wife let me in and I went up to his home office. She made me tea. He got there ten minutes later.” Anna touched her bruised cheek; she’d almost forgotten about it. “George told me that the cops couldn’t be trusted. He’d already found out a few things. He was standing by the door, getting a cigarette out, it was the only place Kara would let him smoke, and we heard this…noise. Someone had broken the back door in. Then I heard gunshots. And yelling.” She stared at her toes, at the bruising and swelling around her left ankle. “George told me to run. He pushed open the door to the garden and I grabbed my purse. I almost froze. They came in and shot George in the stomach. Then I saw his h-head explode.”

  Her hands were shaking, so she turned them into fists, digging her broken fingernails into her palms. “I kept thinking I couldn’t stop. I ran through the garden. They had a pond, and I slipped on the rocks and fell. There were chips of stone flying around. If I hadn’t tripped…I got through and I ran down the street. I ran. I hid under a hedge and there was a black car, the same black car, driving past very slowly. Looking for me. I was cold. It was so…cold.”

  “Anna.”

  She jumped, startled, and leapt to her feet—or tried to, her aching body arresting her halfway. She had to grab the hem of his sweatshirt, pulling it down far enough to be decent, and when he caught her shoulders she flinched and let out a startled, wounded little cry. “Shhh, baby. Shh.” He put his arms around her, and Anna went utterly still, breathing in shallow, rapid gasps. “Christ,” he muttered into her hair. “Jesus Christ.”

  Is he shaking, or am I? It’s probably me. “I tried to think of who to call, but…I couldn’t put anyone in danger. I went to an all-night restaurant, but I didn’t dare stay very long and I couldn’t eat. I tried to sleep in an alley. I threw my cell away, I thought they could…Morning came and I walked to a phone booth. And I called you.” Laughter clawed at her throat. “The phone b-booth stank.”

  “I’m sure it did.” His arms tightened. He smelled so clean. “You should have called me when you got the key.”

  “I didn’t know.” Guilt crashed into her. If she hadn’t tried to meet George, his wife and daughter might still be alive. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know what to do.”

  “Shh. Don’t worry.” He was quiet for a few moments, holding her so tightly she couldn’t get a deep breath in. “You’re with me now. I know what to do.”

  Good. Because I’m clean out of ideas. I don’t even know how to begin handling this. “So what should I do?” The words vanished into his chest. He was solid, warm, and familiar. She could almost close her eyes and pretend none of this had ever happened. His heartbeat thundered reassuringly against her cheek.

  “What I tell you, and you’ll be all right.” Very cautiously, he untangled himself from her. Held her at arm’s length for a moment. “Go get cleaned up, use my toothbrush. We’ll figure everything else out after you have something to eat.”

  The change was so sudden she almost stumbled when he let her go. He stood looking down on her for a moment, his face shadowed in the light from the lamp.

  Anna took a few unsteady steps. Her ankle hurt viciously every time she put weight on it, and the scabs on her heel and knee cracked as she moved.

  At least she was still breathing. Shame bit at her again.

  She reached the bathroom door, an expanse of white tile and a clean toilet spreading behind it. That alone was enough to make her feel better. She hadn’t seen a clean toilet since leaving her own apartment.

  “Anna.”

  “Yes?” Anna looked back over her shoulder, her neck screaming with pain. He didn’t look at her; he stared at the window, where night had fallen.

  “About…about yesterday. I told you that you had to pay me—”

  “I heard you, Jo.” She was too busy hobbling to flinch. “I haven’t forgotten,” she managed through her cracked lips. “As many times as you want, Josiah. And I’ll act like I like it.” She limped into the bathroom, the tiles cold and slick against her feet. “Just let me get cleaned up.”

  Chapter Nine

  Wilhelmina, her hair pulled severely back into a bun the size of an extremely ambitious cinnamon roll, clucked her tongue. “You poor thing.” She was easily six feet tall, wrapped in a dark fluttering silk kimono that whispered its own commentary.

  Anna, her towel-dried hair lying against her shoulders, blinked at the vision of dark-eyed, angular grace. Willie’s face was three-quarters beaky nose; her hands were large and capable and her mouth was usually a wide, genuine smile.

  She was also deadly with a pistol or a knife, and could move so quietly even Josiah had trouble sensing her. Wilhelmina Safrich was, after all, a butler whose secondary duty was as a bodyguard.

  She descended on Anna, who was now in a pair of Willie’s silk Chinese-style pajamas in robin’s-egg blue, absurdly too large and rolled up at both wrist and ankle.

  Clucking her tongue, Willie had Anna bundled into the freshly made bed in a matter of moments, then took the tray from Hassan and settled it at the foot of the bed. “I didn’t know what you’d want, so I made scrambled eggs and toast and cut up some strawberries. There’s hot chocolate, too. Do you need a pillow? Your poor face, that will need some arnica. We might have to wrap that ankle, too. Now, liebchen, lift your knees a little—there. Better for your back? Now, do you have any food allergies? No? Good. Jo told me you didn’t, but it’s best to be sure. Settle this across your knees. Now eat the whole thing. There’s plenty more. Anything you would especially like, you let me know. You must tell me, what is your favorite?”

  Anna blinked owlishly, staring at the loaded tray. She looked stunned.

  Josiah could relate.

  “Food?” she managed, and Hassan’s mouth twitched.

  Hassan stood in the shadows by the door, his dark eyes gleaming as he leaned against the wall. Josiah stood next to him, automatically placing himself out of the man’s fire line.

  “Found out what we’re into yet?” Hassan’s low tone didn’t carry to the bed, where Willie had pulled a chair up and was busy fussing over Anna, who gingerly took a bite of toast as if she suspected poison.

  Why did I say that to her? “Not just yet.” The files tucked in the crook of his arm, some of them the worse for wear from being jammed in her purse, deserved a close examination. He would get to that soon enough. “We’re going to do that now. Anna?”

  Her eyes were round. She almost dropped the toast. Willie had produced a set of knitting needles and a large ball of violently orange yarn, casting on with quick, deft fingers.

  Josiah had to hold back a smile. Willie’s knitting was a sure sign of approval. “This is Hassan, and you’ve already met Willie. You can say anything in front of them.” He crossed the room to stand at the end of the bed. I should kick my own ass. Why did I say that to her?

  All the patience in the world, and he’d blown his chance almost as soon as it occurred. Three y
ears of waiting, hoping, and enduring…and five seconds and his goddamn libido had probably wrecked it.

  Anna studied Hassan for a long moment. “You look familiar,” she said slowly.

  “Eat.” Willie’s needles began to click, and her tone brooked no disobedience. She must be mildly annoyed. With who, though? That’s always the question.

  “I’ve got one of those faces.” Hassan was British-educated, but he could sound American as apple pie if he needed to. He also did a very good Muscovite Russian, and Spanish with a pure Valencia accent. “Don’t think I’ve had the pleasure, Miss Caldwell.”

  “No. I’ve seen you before.” Very certain, the line between her eyebrows deepening. Still pale and a little glaze-eyed, she sounded disconcertingly certain. “I can’t remember where, but I’ve seen you somewhere.”

  “Curse of being handsome, everyone thinks they know you.” Hassan grinned, revealing white teeth. His dark, liquid eyes were cheerful, but he didn’t move from the shadows near the door. “Willie never gives me strawberries. She must have made a special trip for them.”

  Anna still stared at him, ignoring the attempt at levity. Josiah studied the bruise on her cheek. She hadn’t mentioned how she got it; he decided now might be a good time to ask. “Anna? Your face. How did you get that?”

  She dropped her gaze, stared at her plate. “I think I fell. I don’t know. They were shooting at me.”

  He cast back through memory, found the name. “George’s. The editor.”

  “Eric’s editor.”

  Damn your brother, for getting you involved in this. All the same, if he hadn’t, Josiah might not be standing here looking at her right now. Was it wrong to be grateful? “Hassan and I are going to take a look at these files. When you’re done eating we’ll take you through what you remember. So eat. That’s an order.”

  “Okay.” She didn’t glance up, just picked up a single slice of strawberry and slid it into her mouth. Her lips closed over the red fruit, the tip of her tongue taking a quick swipe to catch any flavor left over on her lower lip.

  Josiah had to look away. Hassan followed him over to the couch.

  “What do you do, Anna?” Willie, deliberately cheerful, the ghost of her accent making the words dark and dense.

  “I’m a secretary. But really I’m an artist. Mixed media. Right now I’m showing at Fillmore West downtown.” Her tone shifted, more hesitant. “Or I was. I guess that’s over now.”

  Willie’s needles settled into a calmer rhythm. “That sounds wonderful. I’ve never been the artistic type, myself. Too practical.” And she was off and running, engaging Anna in light conversation, needles flying.

  Josiah lowered himself down cross-legged on the floor next to the couch, in a sheltered angle, opening one of the six manila files left over. Stared at it unseeing for a moment, as Hassan settled in an equally sheltered position and held out his hand for papers.

  A soft rustling as Hassan opened one of the files. His murmur was barely discernible, pitched low enough not to carry across the room. “If there’s trouble, you need to have a clear head.”

  I know that. Josiah took a deep breath, drawing it all the way down. He had rarely been this badly rattled. As a matter of fact, out of the half a dozen times he could remember feeling like this, Anna was responsible for or had participated in at least four.

  He had to blink a few times before he could concentrate on the file. When he did, he felt his eyebrows pull together.

  Josiah’s eyes met Hassan’s. “What do you have?”

  “One of these is full of medical charts.” The other man flipped the second one open. “This one looks like accounting—debits, credits, that sort of thing. Lot of money changing hands, if that’s what it is.”

  Josiah opened the second file in his stack and stared at a black-and-white picture, taken with a telephoto lens, of a man with a heavy-jowled face leaving a brick-and-glass building. There was something familiar about the face, and Josiah turned the picture over. There was spidery writing, Eric Caldwell’s familiar scrawl in blue ink.

  Denton, 1456 E Morris. And another notation: 1st treatment.

  There was a date, too. Some eight months ago.

  The folder was full of pictures, each dated, each featuring the same brick-and-glass façade. They were of six men, and Josiah recognized four of them. One of them was the mayor, and another was the chief of police.

  The dating was odd, and he couldn’t quite think of why until he had spread four pictures of Denton—the police chief—out in a row and stared at them for a few minutes. Denton was beginning to look better, his fat face smoothing out, and something in the carriage of his shoulders looked subtly different. As if he’d been working out hard at the gym.

  “Huh.” Josiah stared at the four pictures, barely listening to Hassan breathing and riffling through his own stack of papers. What the hell is this?

  Pictures. Pages of scribbled notations in Eric’s script, most of which made no sense—they seemed a kind of code. There were two flash drives and four blank CDs, and a large manila file full of random bits of paper—receipts, lists of contacts and appointments, and—bingo—laser-printed transcripts of interviews, each neatly labeled.

  Taped to the inside of the largest folder was a small key. Safety-deposit box, maybe? Next to it, printed in block letters: MAIL TO NABOKOV. 473.

  Then, there was a letter, laser-printed just like the interviews, and dated for Tuesday.

  Dear Annie,

  If you’re reading this, something’s very wrong. I’m onto something big, and it’s getting weird. If anything happens, go to George. He knows what I’m working on, and he’ll help you get out of town. Listen to him. This is the important: Get out of the city as fast as you can if you get this letter. Drop everything and go. I am not kidding and if you read this, you’ll know I’m not. Go visit my ex Susan in Cedar Falls, she always liked you better. And stay there. Do not, under any circumstances, stay in the city. Just get out and go. I love you.

  The letter was unsigned, sounded unfinished. Josiah thought about this for a few seconds, turning it over in his mind the way he would turn a knife in his hands, testing the balance.

  There was one more thing. A scrap of paper, with more block printing on it. The telephone number Eric had written was as familiar to Josiah as his own breath.

  It was the number Anna had called yesterday, the one he’d switched to a new phone and kept active just in case.

  Just-in-fucking-case. The worst goddamn words in the English language.

  There was a question mark at the end of the number, too.

  Christ, Eric. I would have come to see you, at least. For her sake. If you gave your goddamn stamp of approval she would have at least listened to me. You were her big brother. Why did you get her mixed up in something like this, whatever it is?

  He looked up to find Hassan engrossed in his own work. Anna had asked Willie about textiles; the older woman was deep in a discussion of the pros and cons of silk yarn.

  All in all, this seemed a pretty tame collection of paper to have killed four people for.

  He grimaced slightly at the pictures. They bothered him, still. He turned to the interviews, and began to read.

  Half an hour later, he heard Willie softly fussing Anna into the bathroom and waited until the butler had brought her back and tucked her into the bed.

  “Can you take these downstairs?” He looked up to find Hassan studying him, with a faintly lifted eyebrow that looked as perplexed as Josiah himself felt.

  “There, snug as bug,” Willie said. “You look tired. It was all the hot chocolate, I think.”

  “I feel like a lump.” Anna’s voice slurred under the weight of the sedative added to the hot chocolate. Willie hadn’t been happy about using it, but Josiah was the boss, and after an eagle-eyed stare and a few precious minutes lost in discussion, she’d agreed. Just to settle her nerves. She needs it.

  He felt a brief flash of guilt, discarded it. Hassan righted his pap
ers with quick,efficient motions. “Downstairs it is. This doesn’t make any fucking sense, Wolfe.”

  “Not yet. But maybe it will. Willie? Thank you.”

  “Poor thing.” The wide fall of orange knit cloth would eventually be a sweater, Josiah guessed; Willie bundled it up, settled it on the spent tray, and sighed. “It looks like someone punched her. That ankle—and her knee. Very bad.”

  Now, that was strange from practical, capable Willie, who had seen no little bloodshed in her day.

  Josiah rolled his shoulders back precisely once, dispelling an incipient ache. “She’ll be all right.”

  He meant, I am going to take care of her, but Willie pressed her lips together and gave him a look that would have been scorching if his own conscience hadn’t been twice as painful. She considered both Hassan and Josiah himself borderline morons when it came to women and sticky things like emotions, as well as the proper way to make hot cocoa. Josiah didn’t precisely disagree, but it was a little disconcerting to think that Willie in half an hour maybe knew more about Anna’s emotional state than he did.

  Hassan drifted out of the room on cat-soft feet, Willie sailed out with her knitting and the tray, and Josiah found himself standing and looking down at a peacefully sleeping woman.

  Eric Caldwell was indeed dead. That much Hassan had quietly found out; he hadn’t begun digging into the matter of George Moorhouse’s death yet. Nobody was talking about how Eric had died, and the files just didn’t make a hell of a lot of sense. The interviews were odd, to say the least. None of the interviewees would say what they were scared of, and it was always the same—Eric gaining the trust of his subjects, then an abrupt notation at the end of each: Gone, with a date at least a day but never more than three after the interview.