Don't Look Down (8 page)

“I know. It’s mine.” The detective sighed heavily.

“If it means anything, Rick wouldn’t have agreed to talk to the cops without major consideration. Kunz wouldn’t have done it lightly, either.”

Dammit, she’d sensed that he needed her help. She wasn’t typically anything close to a good Samaritan, but he’d sought her out for a reason. And intentionally or not, she’d let him down.

“Okay.” Castillo took another bite of sandwich, washing it down with half a can of Diet Coke. “Anything else? General impressions?”

“I liked him.” She studied the detective’s competent, honest face for a moment. Thank God he’d been the detective assigned to investigate the explosion at Solano Dorado three months ago. If it had been any other cop, he might not have given her the chance to clear herself, and she might not have been able to stay around long enough to connect with Rick Addison. “Can you—will you—let me know if you find out anything?”

“I think I can arrange that.” He consulted his watch. “Crap. I’ve gotta stop by the coroner’s.” Standing, he grabbed up the last quarter of sandwich. “Thanks for lunch.”

“Any time, Frank. I’ll see you out.” Rick stood as well, pausing to smack a kiss on Samantha’s hair. “Wait here, my love.”

“Don’t expect your sandwich to be waiting for you,” she said automatically, settling back to look out over the pool.

If this was what the legit world felt like, she didn’t like it. Samantha took a swallow of soda. She’d avoided ratting anybody out, but as long as Castillo felt like they were buddies, he would keep pushing her for information. And as
long as she met these potential marks—clients—in person, she was apparently going to feel…responsible for them and their safety. That sucked.

Maybe, though, she didn’t have to let this be the end of it. It was too late to save Kunz, but it wasn’t too late for her to help figure out what had happened to him. Maybe that was what Charles Kunz had really wanted from her—to make sure somebody knew something was going on. And maybe to figure out what that something was.

Sunday, 8:40 a.m.

R
ichard stuck a finger in his mouth to lick off a drip of raspberry syrup. “And stop changing the subject.”

“I’m not changing anything. You’re the one who needs to fly back to London.”

Fuck that
. “I’ve already arranged to fly Leedmont and his board here to Palm Beach. I can purchase Kingdom Fittings here just as easily as I can do it in London.”

“Ri—”

“So back to my point. You can’t tell me that having Castillo here asking questions didn’t bother you,” he interrupted. “It bothered me.”

Samantha looked as though she wanted to fling her Diet Coke in his face, but instead she curled her fingers around her fork and shoved another mouthful of French toast into her mouth. “And twenty-two hours later, he still won’t let it go,” she muttered thickly.

“Only because you still won’t answer me.”

“How many times do I have to tell you that I’m a big girl, Addison? Help your ex. Do your good deed. Go to London
for your meeting, or do your negotiating here. I’ll let you know if I need your help with friendly questions from the cop.” She fluttered her eyelashes at him. “Unless you and Patricia are planning to move back in together or something first. Have you chosen your china?”

“Don’t be an idiot.”

“Hey, you married her. I didn’t.”

Yes, he had. And he had loved Patricia once, though that fact tended to horrify him now. Today he could ridicule Patricia’s penchant for pretty clothes and perfect nails and befriending perfect people, but those same qualities had made her the perfect choice for a wife—especially to a man who traveled in circles where an arrogant belief in perfection was as common as diamonds and overloaded bank accounts.

“Rick?”

He shook himself. “Hm? Apologies. You had me reminiscing.”

“I was joking about Patricia, you know.”

Of course he knew that Samantha cared for him; she wouldn’t have stayed about if she didn’t. She would never say she needed him, because somewhere along the way she’d decided that needing meant needy—and only the self-sufficient survived in her world. But finally she’d been able to admit that she did
want
him about, and for someone of her diamond-hard exterior, that was something valuable.

“I know you were joking. I wasn’t, though. I said I would help her, and I’ll look into it. Nothing more.”

“You might want to tell her that. She did once find her way into your pants, after all.”

“Lovely.” He reached across the table and took her fingers, fork and all. “I’m not leaving Palm Beach until I know that everything is all right with you and Castillo and the whole Kunz thing.”

“I figured that.” She made a face, freeing her fingers again. “I’m not going to just sit on my ass and let things blow over. Kunz asked for my help, whether he knew something specific or not. I let him down.”

“Sam—”

“I did. And I let myself down. I mean, Christ, Kunz would have been my first real client. In a way, he still is.”

He looked at her for a moment, trying to decide the best way to argue with her without making matters worse. “Since half the staff vouched for you being here night before last, you’re not a suspect at the moment. But if you begin hanging about and asking questions, that could change. You have a reputation, whether anything’s ever been proven or not.”

She shot him her fleeting grin. “Don’t worry about that. I doubt I’ll be talking to anybody who would go to the cops.”

That stopped him. Whatever he said now, it would probably push her further into this little game that he didn’t want her to play. “Castillo said he’d keep you apprised of events,” he said coolly. “If you frig about with suspects or witnesses or evidence, you could compromise the investigation, and Frank, and the way the police are looking at you.”

“Yes, well, you do things your way, and I’ll do them mine.” She took another bite of French toast. “After all, you’re the successful businessman, and I’m the successful thief. I think this is more up my alley than yours. I don’t get caught.”

“Except by me.”

“Maybe, but I’m pretty sure I let you catch me.”

He could dispute that, but it wouldn’t help anything. Instead he finished off his cup of tea. “What do you have planned for today?”

“I’ll head over to the office and check on Stoney. I think we have some receptionist applications.”

“And then?”

“Oh, I thought I’d break into a couple of houses and maybe fence your new Rembrandt.”

So that was how she intended to play it. Fine. “This isn’t a usual day. I reserve the right to worry about you from time to time. If you think it shows a lack of trust on my part, you’re wrong.”

She stood, setting her napkin beside her plate and strolling around to stand behind him. “That’s good. You didn’t even flinch when I mentioned B and E. I’ll be careful.”

Richard tilted his head back to look up at her. “Promise?”

With a small smile she ran her hands down the sides of his upturned face before she placed a warm, soft, upside-down kiss on his mouth. “Promise,” she murmured, and was gone.

He listened for movement in the hallway, but she was notoriously difficult to track once she’d gone into what she called “stealth mode.” Even relaxed, she had a tendency to move as quietly and gracefully as…as anyone he’d ever seen.

And now she’d decided to go hunting for a killer. She thought of it as doing something for someone she’d let down, but his view was a little more cynical. Kunz had died, and she meant to plant herself right in the middle of something dangerous and more than likely illegal. Rick blew out his breath, rising. Her idea of careful and his degree of worry over her weren’t quite at the same level, yet. Hell, they weren’t even in the same hemisphere. He needed to make a few more phone calls than he’d planned.

Samantha asked for the Bentley to be brought around to the front drive, then braceleted an elastic band around her wrist and pulled her hair back to fix it in a ponytail as she descended the main staircase. That wasn’t the image she wanted to take to Worth Avenue and her office, but she
needed to stop by Stoney’s house first, anyway. She kept an extra pair of binoculars there, along with other small equipment necessary for studying a mark and getting ready for a theft. Or now for investigating one, she supposed.

She’d told Rick she would stop by her office, and she would. Stoney had said he would put out some feelers to see if anybody in their circle had bagged some treasure over the past day or two. It would help if she knew exactly what had been stolen from Kunz’s residence, but she’d do what she could.

She had some supplies at Solano Dorado, of course, but they were for extreme emergencies only, and she wouldn’t put Rick at risk by leaving the house with them under the present circumstances. Castillo might say she wasn’t a suspect, but he’d warned her that he wasn’t the only one who knew she was in town—and he certainly wasn’t the only one who knew the rumors about her previous life. The last thing she wanted was for the FBI or Interpol to knock on Rick Addison’s front door and find her shiny set of lock picks.

Pulling open the front door, she nearly slammed into the person standing there, arm raised to knock. Instinctively she moved back and sideways, avoiding the collision. Only then did she note who’d come to visit.

“Patricia,” she said, fingers clenching on the door handle. “Rick didn’t say you were coming by this morning.”

“He didn’t know,” the Ex returned, a tight smile on her face. “I took a chance on catching him at home.”

“How did you get in?”

“I still know the gate code.” Patricia gave a short laugh. “If I were you, I would have jumped over the wall, I suppose.”

Great. Everybody knew she used to bend the law. Okay, shatter it into itty bitty little pieces. And they were changing the damned gate code today. “You probably would have set
off the alarm if you did that,” she returned, leaning back into the house. “
Reinaldo
!”

“Might I come in?” the Ex said, her cultured British accent tight as her gym club ass.

“I’ll leave that for the housekeeper to decide,” Sam returned, handing over control of the door to Reinaldo as he skidded into the foyer.

Edging past Patricia, she trotted down the steps and dropped into the Bentley. A black Lexus half blocked her exit, but she backed around it, close enough to hopefully annoy the crap out of the Ex. It shouldn’t bother her that Patricia wanted help from Rick; he’d made it clear that he wanted as little as possible to do with her. When she thought about it, it was probably just the
idea
that Patricia had gone to Rick for help that bugged her. Patricia had screwed—literally—her chance with Rick, all on her own. Under those circumstances nothing in the world could have induced Samantha to face him again, and even less, to beg for his help.

Sam took a deep breath. Oh, yeah, it was easy to say she would stay an independent as she tooled over the unmarked Palm Beach bridge in a Bentley on her way to Worth Avenue and after spending the night having some really fine sex in a forty-acre estate. “Great, Sam. You stick to your principles, and you’ll be fine. Or dead.”

“No,” Richard said into his desk phone, reflecting that, as Samantha had informed him on several occasions, he was perhaps too accustomed to getting what he wanted. “That’s not necessary. If you’d just let Detective Castillo know I called, that will be sufficient. Yes, he knows how to reach me. Thank you.”

He could call the chief of police to press for more information about Kunz’s death, but once he became actively in
volved in the matter, attention would turn to Samantha as well. And if there was one thing he didn’t want, it was for his actions to threaten her. Easy as it would be, he couldn’t bulldoze through this. Apparently he needed a more delicate tool.

His intercom buzzed. “Mr. Addison?”

He pressed the button on the phone. “What is it, Reinaldo?”

“You have a visitor. Mrs. Wallis.”

Bloody hell
. “Where is she?”

“I showed her to the east sunroom.”

“I’ll be down in a moment.” Swearing again, he released the intercom. When he’d first filed for divorce, dealing with Patricia and her things and her Patty’s Pack friends had been infuriating. Now it was an annoyance—but more than that, as well. She was his greatest failure, and to be perfectly honest, he would have been much happier if she would just go away. Evidently she had a different idea.

Downstairs in the east sunroom he found her gazing at the Manet painting above the fireplace. “Patricia.”

“I remember when you bought this. That auction at Christie’s,” she said, facing him. “We spent the night in Buckingham Palace, at the invitation of the Queen.”

Clenching his jaw, Richard nodded. “I remember. What do you want? I told you I’d talk to Tom.”

“I apologized, Richard. A million times.” She came closer, pert and perfect in her blue Ralph Lauren blouse and pleated tan trousers. “And I’ve changed.”

“Only your location. I have work to do, so tell me what you want, or please leave.”

“What if I stole things from people?” she said abruptly, taking a slow step closer.

He froze for a heartbeat, then continued his stroll to the windows. “What?”

“What if I slipped into people’s houses and into their
rooms and stole their valuables? We could be at a party, and while you distracted the host I could sneak into another room and take a diamond ring—or something—and no one would know who’d done it. No one but you and me.”

Richard looked at her. So Samantha had been correct; Patricia wanted him back. For Christ’s sake, what a mess this had all become. “You think your becoming some sort of cat burglar would be the thing to bring us back together?” he asked quietly, very aware of how carefully he had to tread right now. Apparently Patricia knew or had surmised a great deal more about Samantha than he’d realized.

“Stealing and killing do seem to be the new fashionable way to make a living in our world. And who fits into our world better than we do? Would that excite you, Richard, to know that we were in someone’s house to steal from them, all the while they were serving us champagne and caviar?”

“You couldn’t be anything like Samantha if you tried, Patricia,” he said flatly. “If that’s what you think you’re attempting here, I suggest you give it up. If you had any idea what excites me about her, you wouldn’t bother with this…pitiful attempt at one-upmanship—or whatever it is you think you’re doing.”

“But she’s a thief. What else could possibly interest you about her?”

“Everything.”

He could see the sudden hurt in her surprised, ice-cold expression. Obviously she’d thought her plan of attack through, and had decided that pretending she could be a better Samantha than Samantha was the best way to pique his interest. One bloody thief to be reformed was more than enough. Aside from that, he couldn’t imagine Patricia doing what Samantha did. His ex-wife wasn’t independent enough, or courageous enough, to put her life and her free
dom in jeopardy on a regular basis for the sake of a thrill and a paycheck.

A muscle beneath her left eye twitched, and then she laughed. “Of course you find her interesting. She’s different. And quite charming, in an odd sort of way. I was only joking about stealing things. I told you Peter was a poor influence on me. Please have Tom call me as soon as possible. I need to cut all my ties with Peter, and the sooner, the better. But it’s not just legal assistance I need, Richard.”

“Money? I thought you were being frugal.”

“I am.”

“Perhaps you should try shopping at Wal-Mart instead of buying Ralph Lauren, then.”

“I have to fit in,” she snapped, obviously annoyed. “You notice whether I’m wearing Ralph Lauren or Prada or Diane von Furstenberg, or whether I’m staying at Motel 6 or The Breakers. So does everyone else. I
am
trying to economize, but I don’t think I should have to give up everyone and everything I’m accustomed to.”

He looked at her skeptically. “I thought the idea was for you to find a new group of friends who weren’t familiar with your life and your expensive tastes.”