No. The LAPD was a highly professional organization with more than a hundred years of technological advances in forensics at their fingertips. Surely, even if Drake did suffer from tunnel vision, the prosecutors wouldn’t indict on less than damning evidence against her, given the press’s laser focus. And that evidence simply didn’t exist, because she hadn’t killed Ryland.
She glanced at her watch. More time had passed than she’d realized—the movers were probably waiting for her. And she’d wasted far too much time already that morning obsessing. That had to stop. Downing the last of her coffee, she paid her bill, then headed home, still lost in thought, the dog in the lead as usual.
The good news, she concluded, was that she seemed to be adjusting to her spectral roommates—as long as she could find peaceful, contemplative moments like these away from them. Obsessing aside, she had a house she loved, a new town she might love even more, and an ancient murder investigation that had her more hooked than most mystery books. The cops would do their job and find Ryland’s murderer.
She needed to stay positive.
* * *
THE moving van pulled to a stop at the curb just as she arrived, sending Charlotte into a spastic frenzy, flying from window to window. Doing her best to ignore Charlotte’s ceiling-level hovering, Jordan walked the movers through the house and handed out instructions. Downstairs furniture would go in the parlor on the main floor, overflow furniture would be stored in the parlor on the second floor, and boxes would be delivered to the room designated on their labels. Then she and Hattie lured Charlotte into the library, whereupon Jordan produced the Vanity Fair she’d purchased the night before. She slipped out, shutting the doors—just in case others could hear ghost shrieks or see magazine pages flying—and taped up a note, declaring the room off-limits.
Walking into the kitchen, she noted that Amanda was already at work, pounding in stakes and marking off quadrants in the garden with red string. Promising herself she’d get the upper hand in the Amanda situation at some point, she made espressos for the movers, then carried a book on home repair and Seavey’s papers—the ones Holt Stilwell had tossed at her the night before—out to the porch, sitting down in the swing where she would be available for questions.
Curious, she flipped through a chapter on tools in the home repair book that included useful pictures and clear explanations, hoping to find a picture of a hand auger. No such luck. Evidently, they weren’t considered a necessary purchase these days.
She was about to flip the book shut and move on to Michael Seavey’s papers when she spied a row of pictures of hammers. There really was a wide range of hammers. Framing hammers looked like they could do serious damage, making them her favorite. She was fairly certain Jase had had her buy one the day before. The hammers with the big, curved claws looked more elegant but equally deadly, which appealed to her aesthetic sensibilities. But the cutest ones were the little ball-peen hammers with their round heads, which Jase had failed to have her purchase. She was puzzling over that when she was interrupted.
“Where do you want this?”
She looked up to find a mover standing on the porch, the mattress to her prized king-size bed bent over his shoulder. He sported a short, spiked black haircut and enough prison tattoos to resemble a mass murderer, but if he could set up her bed and she didn’t have to sleep a third night on the floor, she was willing to worship at his feet. “Upstairs, master bedroom around to the front. The one with the window seat.”
He didn’t move. “You sure? Because I could prop it out in the hallway, you know, until you decide.”
She raised a brow.
“That room has a weird feeling, is all,” he explained. “The boss mentioned a lot of homes in this town are maybe haunted.”
“You don’t say.”
“Well, I couldn’t sleep in there.”
Her gaze narrowed. “It has a window seat.”
He shook his head, his expression indicating he thought she was nuts, then headed inside without another word.
She set aside the home improvement book, picked up Seavey’s papers, removing the string that held them together, and settled in to read.
The Invitation
MICHAEL Seavey was under no illusion that he had ever possessed the virtue of patience. In the more than two decades he’d ruled the waterfront, making a comfortable living off the misfortune of others, he’d never tolerated anyone standing in his way.
Fortunately, he no longer had to handle the disposal himself—he employed loyal enforcers who understood it was their job to use whatever methods were required. If anyone encroached upon his business holdings, they were warned. If they didn’t heed the warning, they quietly disappeared. Michael had long ago gotten in the habit of simply taking what he wanted. Which was why, as he stood in the offices of Longren Shipping, watching Clive Johnson pace, he couldn’t understand his reticence with regard to Hattie Longren.
He’d had other women in his life, of course. In the past, his tastes had run the gamut from young, frightened virgins to older, wiser women who knew not to cross him. Even his late wife, who’d shown a talent for wielding a bullwhip against rebellious sailors, hadn’t had the courage to stand up to him. He’d found her quite amusing until she’d turned that bullwhip on him after he’d discovered her in bed with one of his bodyguards.
He most decidedly didn’t find Hattie Longren amusing, however. Stubborn, enthralling, and exasperating, but definitely not amusing. And at the moment, she held enough power to damage his business holdings, which he had no intention of condoning.
Michael leaned over, striking a match against the pointed toe of his ankle boot. He held the flame to the tip of his cigar, slowly rolling it while drawing to create an even burn. The Cuban crackled and hissed, and he breathed its potent fragrance in deep, taking a moment to appreciate one of the many perks of having access to high-quality smuggled goods: cigars, opium, fine liquor, and willing women. Women far more willing than Hattie.
He felt a rare anger take hold. He simply couldn’t understand why he was giving her any leeway. Or, for that matter, why he’d backed off from the threats he’d planned to deliver during last week’s visit. He must’ve been momentarily disarmed by that business with the dossier Charles had compiled. Michael should’ve found Hattie’s refusal to read the contents hopelessly naïve, yet he’d found himself thinking it was … admirable.
Damnation! The entire affair had him feeling as if he no longer comfortably fit inside his own skin. If he wanted Hattie in his bed, he should simply put her there—he’d never balked before at taking a woman.
She was a widow and, as such, without protection. It would be child’s play to abduct her and keep her at his hotel. He doubted Greeley would care or even bother to look for her. After all, Michael would be doing Greeley a favor, removing Hattie so that he had unimpeded access to young Charlotte.
Clive Johnson continued to pace in front of his desk, trying—and clearly failing—to deal with his impotent fury over Hattie’s visit to the office. If the man weren’t so useful, Michael thought with genuine regret, he would’ve figured out a way to make him disappear long ago.