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.”
Pushing against his cane, he straightened back up. “And I would say to you again that words like ‘trespassing’ and ‘illegal’ and ‘warrant’ don’t apply to me.”
He could feel her fear . . . and see it, too. She had her fingers cranked down so hard on that cylinder that the knuckles were white. But really, she didn’t need to worry all that much. It seemed highly unlikely that Isaac had told her anything material—that would be her death sentence, and the guy knew it: Nothing would keep her breathing if she had intel on XOps. Not even a desire to shut her father up for good.
“I think you and I should come to an agreement,” he said, putting his hand inside his coat. “Hold it—don’t go crazy with your bug spray. I’m just getting you a business card.”
He pulled one out, holding it between the tips of his index and middle fingers, leaving the guns he was packing right where they were holstered. “If you see your client again, call this number, Ms. Childe. And know that it’s the only reason I came here to see you. I just figured you and I should meet in person so you understand how serious I am about Isaac Rothe.”
She kept the Mace with her as she came forward and tilted in, as if she wanted to stay as far away from him as possible. And he knew damn well as she took the card what she was going to do with it. But that was part of the plan.
As she studied what little had been imprinted, Matthias left his free hand where she could see it. “Isaac Rothe is a very dangerous man.”
“I have to go,” she said as she shoved what he’d given her into her purse.
“No one’s keeping you. Here, I’ll even get the door.”
Opening the thing wide, he stood to the side and approved of the way she measured both him and the stairs that were revealed. Cautious, oh so cautious . . .
She went to hurry by him . . . and at the last moment before she was free, he snatched her arm and held her back. “I left something for you in the trunk of your car. After all, most accidents happen in the home, and you might need to call for help.”
She ripped herself out of his hold. “Don’t threaten me,” she snapped.
As Matthias stared into those beautiful eyes of hers, he felt ancient. Ancient and broken and trapped. But as he had learned two years ago, he couldn’t stop the trajectory of his life. It was like putting your palms up to an avalanche: You got crushed and the rush of snow and ice didn’t even notice.
“I am not afraid of you,” she said.
“You should be,” he replied grimly, thinking of the twelve different ways he could make it so she didn’t come down for breakfast tomorrow morning. “You should be very afraid.”
He let her go, and she took off like a rocket, her blond hair flowing out behind her as she raced down the stairs.
Going back to that window over the sink, he watched her head around the house and go out to the street.
She was going to be so very useful in this situation, he thought.
On a number of levels.
CHAPTER 21
As Grier walked up to her Audi, she had the key remote in her hand and her heart in her throat. She’d seen that man before; there was some kind of flicker in the back of her mind, some memory of him. He hadn’t had the eye patch or the cane—she would have remembered those. But she had definitely seen him.
Approaching the car, she stood beside it, every muscle in her body braced as if at any moment the thing was going to go Sopranos on her and blow sky-high. And just as she finally raised her key to unlock it, a black sedan with darkened windows eased by her on Tremont. Looking into the glass . . . she got nothing. All of it was impenetrable, and the sunlight glinted off the windshield so she couldn’t see who was driving.
She knew damn well who was inside, however. And she’d bet that he was lifting a hand in a little wave.
The sedan didn’t even have a license plate.
As the thing took off, all kinds of smart ideas went through her head, including the ever-present 911 call or doing a dial to her friends at the Boston Police Department or getting her father to come over. But she didn’t think whatever was in the trunk was going to kill her. That man had already had his shot at her, so to speak: He could have easily drugged her and dragged her out the back or killed her outright with a silencer.
Letting her fingers do the walking would only lead to complications—and although the first thing she was going to do when she got home was get in touch with her father about this card, she wasn’t sure she needed him to come screaming over here in a panic.