Yes. Let her go. She’ll be back, no doubt, but Steve will be gone and we’ll have bought a little time to figure something out.
Sophie appeared in the peephole again. She looked left and then right. Grant’s heart nearly exploded when the doorknob rattled. Thank God it was locked. Finally, she turned away and headed back down the steps.
Grant shut his eyes.
Lines of sweat meandered down the sides of his face and through the stubble of his beard.
He knew the pain would return, but for the moment, he basked in the numbing effect of the adrenaline rush that was ripping through his system.
If nothing else, he’d bought them a few hours.
Use it wisely.
Grant trudged back over to the bar and picked up the shot of Highland.
He swirled the amber liquid, tried to appreciate its color, its nose, but the whiskey was no match for the shitstorm on the horizon.
He downed it.
Shouldn’t have, but the best detective in town had just knocked on their door. He and Paige were going to have to deal with Don in the upstairs bathroom.
They were going to have to deal with a lot of things.
And fast.
Somewhere in the house, glass shattered. His first thought was Paige, but the sound hadn’t come from upstairs.
He stumbled into the kitchen.
Now it sounded like shards of glass were falling onto concrete or stone.
More noise erupted—furniture overturning.
Grant stood facing a door beside the hallway, which based upon its alignment under the staircase, he figured led down into the basement.
As if in confirmation, footfalls began clomping up a set of stairs on the other side.
He staggered back, ducked around the kitchen island, and lowered himself out of sight.
The basement door swung open so slowly he could swear he heard the scraping of each individual grain of rust on the hinges.
Grant peered around the corner of the island.
Knew it was Sophie before he saw her.
Black pantsuit over a cobalt blouse that fit her like a Bond girl.
Gun drawn and everything.
“Seattle Police. Anyone here?”
The heels of Sophie’s platform boots knocked against the hardwood floor. He knew he should speak up, but he couldn’t bring himself to push out that first word.
She turned and started down the hallway, her back to him.
Now.
Now.
Now.
“Sophie,” he whispered.
She stopped, spun, gun sighting down the kitchen. “Who’s there?”
“It’s Grant.”
“Where are you?”
“Behind the island. I’m standing up. You can put your gun away, or at least not shoot me.”
He struggled slowly onto his feet.
Sophie was barely visible in the gloom of the hallway. She stepped back into the candlelit kitchen.
“What are you doing here?” she asked.
“Bad lead, long story. How’d you find me?”
She moved in closer toward the island.
“Are we safe here?” she asked.
“Yeah, it’s just us.”
She holstered her Glock. “What are you doing here, Grant?”
“I don’t want you to get mad—”
“I’m not mad. I’m confused.”
“I have a contact at the Four Seasons.”
“Okay.”
“He’s a concierge. I went to him with what we had on our Facebook girls. He pointed me here.”
“To this brownstone?”
“Yes. He told me it was a high-end brothel.”
“So the food poisoning ...”
“I’m sorry.”
“And you felt the need to keep this from me why?”
“Nothing I’m proud of.”
“I don’t even know what that means.”
“I’ve used this concierge before.”
“As an informant?”
“No.”
“Oh.” Sophie looked at the countertop, then back at Grant. “And you thought I might, what? Judge you? Because that’s the kind of person you know me to be?”
“I don’t know what I thought. That was a long time ago, when I was in a really bad place. But still ... I was embarrassed. Didn’t want you to find out. And besides, this isn’t exactly by the book.”
“No shit. Who lives here?”
“One of our Facebook girls used to. This was her last known.”
Sophie leaned forward, took in a long breath.
“So who lives here now?”
“Some U-Dub trust funder. Definitely not a person of interest.”
“Did you not hear me knocking on the door five minutes ago?”
“I was upstairs.”
Sophie nodded. “What’s the current tenant’s name?”
“Heidi Spiegel.”
“She here? I’d love to meet Ms. Spiegel.”
It was faint—practically undetectable—but Grant heard the rhythmic creak of Sophie’s bed springs starting up on the second floor.
“She’s gone,” Grant said. “I parked on the street. Came in when I saw her leave.”
“Just let yourself in, huh?”
“Door wasn’t locked.”
“Interesting choice.”
“Says the detective who broke in through the basement.”
“I was worried about you, Grant. I thought you were in some kind of trouble.”
“I’m fine.”
“Thrilled to hear it. What’s with all the candles?”
Grant walked over to a light switch beside the sink, gave it a few flips.
“No power,” he said.
“Strange that Ms. Spiegel would just leave all these candles burning.”
“Probably means she didn’t plan on being gone long. We should get out of here.”
“You been drinking?” Sophie asked. “You smell like booze.”
What could he do? Deny?
“I had a whiskey at the hotel before I rolled up here. You have an issue with that?”
Sophie smiled a smile that wasn’t. She stared Grant down across the island and shook her head.
“What?” Grant said.
“You are so full of shit it’s not even funny.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Has one thing you’ve said to me in the last three minutes even entered the same ballpark as the truth?”
“Yeah. Everything.”
“Look at you. What are you wearing? Jeans and a T-shirt?”
My real clothes are covered in the blood of Don McFee who’s at this moment passing through rigor mortis in a room directly above our heads because of something I still don’t understand. What if I laid that on you, partner? Then what?
Grant’s headache and nausea vanished. He felt suddenly perfect, like someone had thrown a switch or hit him with a beautiful morphine push. He straightened, reevaluating everything absent the distraction of agony.
“You’re not even wearing shoes, Grant.”
Fair point.
“Where’s your gun? Where’s your shield?”
“In my car.”
“You wanna tell me what’s really going on here?”
“I just did.”
“No, you just lied to me. For the second time today.”
“Sophie—”
Heavy footsteps thumped above them on the second floor.
Sophie cocked her head. “Thought you said we were alone.”
“Listen to me.”
She turned and started down the hallway as the footfalls reached the top of the stairs.
“Sophie, come back here.”
They began their descent.
Grant moved around the island and followed Sophie down the hall.
By the time he reached her at the foyer, Steve Vincent was five steps from the bottom of the staircase and progressing at a steady, unhurried pace toward the front door, the same incomprehensible vacancy in his eyes that Grant had seen in Jude’s. Steve wore pants and shoes, but his shirt, coat, and tie he carried in a bundle under his left arm.
Sophie said, “Sir, do you live here?”
Steve reached the foyer and walked past them to the front door.
“Excuse me, sir, I just asked you a question.”