Perfect Victim, The (16 page)

"We can
'
t have that
.
" The older woman smiled. "Sit down and tell me what
-
the heck happened."

Leaving out some of the darker details, Addison relayed the incident from beginning to end. She kept her voice even and controlled. When he
r
hands began to shake, when the images rushed at her—the gun, the ski mask—she rose from the bistro table and busied herself making a pot of New Guinea dark roast
.
She'd been operating on coffee most of the night
.
She supposed one more cup wouldn't hurt.

"Thank God that private detective showed up when he did." Gretchen followed her behind the counter, angrily digesting the information. "God forbid
,
Addison
,
you could have been killed."

On a day when the reality of her own mortality hovered so near, Addison had little to say on the subject of death. She filled two mugs with coffee and passed one to Gretchen
.

"You should have called me. You had no business spending the night alone after such an awful ordeal
.
" The older woman looked at her chidingly. "You should have at least called me to take you home
.
"

Addison raised her cup to her lips. "Actually, Randal
l
Talbot took me home
.”
An unexpected flutter of pleasure wafted through her at the mention of his name
.
God
,
what was it about that man that had her acting like a schoolgirl?

Gretchen's eyebrows rose and she peeked at her from over the rim of her glasses.
"
Nice of him in light of the fact that you lodged that complaint with the Better Business Bureau
.
"

Real
i
zing her business arrangement with Talbot might need some explaining
,
Addison tried to clarify
.
"He came into the shop to apolog
i
ze
.
"

"He must be a real charmer.
"

"
I assure you
,
charm had nothing to do with it
.
" It was
just a little white lie. She didn't want Gretchen to think she was a pushover, especially after she'd spent so many weeks casting insults about the man. "He offered to look into Agnes Beckett's murder."

"You hired him?"

"I just want him to follow up and make sure her case is being investigated the way it should be."

Sympathy flashed across the older woman's face. "Oh, honey, Agnes Beckett is gone. I know that's painful for you. I know how much it hurts. But you've got to let go and move on."

"I don't want her forgotten, Gretch."

"What in the world do you expect him to find?"

Justice. Closure. The words flitted through her brain, but she didn't voice them, wasn't sure she could explain any of them. "I just want some answers."

Addison had decided not to mention Randall's theory that the robbery hadn't been a robbery at all, but an attempt on her life. There was no proof, and she didn't want to worry her friend needlessly. She wasn't even sure if she believed it herself. Masked gunmen just didn't fit into her safe, wonderfully dull life.

Standing in her coffee shop with the sunshine streaming through the windows and the smell of fresh-brewed coffee in the air, the terror of the night before seemed light-years away.

"I want you to have those answers you need so desperately, honey. But even more, I want you to get on with your life."

"Before I can do that, I've got to get this out of the way once and for all. To do that, I need closure, Gretch. That's what this is all about."

Reaching out, Gretchen sighed and tucked a stray lock of hair behind Addison's ear. "At least you'll have someone looking out for you, I suppose."

"I wouldn't exactly say he's looking out for me."

Gretchen's lips twitched. "There was a picture of him in
the newspaper this morning. Strapping young man
.
"

Addison rolled her eyes
.
"Strapping or not, I'm paying him for his time, Gretch. It's not like he's doing this out of the goodness of his heart."

"I'm sure the man needs to make a living."

Ignoring her friend's tone, Addison stepped behind the counter and ran her hand over the espresso machine, pausing at the hole left by a bullet that had been meant for her.

She hated seeing her shop damaged. She'd poured too much of herself into the place to let someone walk in and destroy it in a senseless, random act of violence.

Reminding herself that damaged equipment could be replaced, she glanced at the clock above the espresso machine and gasped. "I was supposed to be at the police station half an hour ago to talk with Detective Van-Dyne." She caught her friend's eyes and held them. "Will you be all right here?"

"In broad daylight?" Gretchen huffed as she picked up a push
.
broom and swept the scatter of coffee beans into a neat pile
.
"Back in Missouri, we shoot back
.
"

Addison forced a laugh, telling herself it was silly to worry about the robber returning. She didn't keep much cash at the shop. Only an idiot would hit the same place twice.

"The insurance adjuster is supposed to come by late this afternoon," Addison said as she started for the alley door. "If he
gets here before I get back, be nice to him."

The trip to the police station was everything Addison had imagined it would be, only worse. She waited nearly an hour before seeing Detective Van-Dyne. When he finally took her into his office, he spent most of the time on the telephone and the rest ogling her legs
.

He was in his element at the station and she was light years out of hers. They both knew it, and it seemed he did everything in his power to impress that fact upon her. She figured out why when he suggested they finish the report over lunch. A true whiz at getting out of unpleasant engage
ments—especially with men—she quickly mentioned that she had a date with her lawyer. He spent the remainder of the interview acting like a spoiled twelve-year-old.

In the end, a report that should have taken forty-five minutes took nearly two hours. Addison was never quite so glad to leave a place in her entire life. A quick stop at Jim Bernstein's office to pick up the remainder of the records, and on to Talbot Investigations to pay the advance. Then she could go back to the Coffee Cup and figure out which equipment she would need to replace before reopening the shop. Hopefully, the insurance adjuster had left good news with Gretchen.

She was thinking about Agnes Beckett when she parked her Mustang in front of Jim's office. Her search had, indeed, come to an end. At least she could quit with the knowledge that she'd done her best. That her birth mother wouldn't be forgotten. Hopefully, with Randall's help, Sheriff McEvoy would find the killer, and Addison would have the closure she needed to move on.

Shivering with cold, she stepped into the elevator and rode alone up to Jim's office on the fifth floor. She was hungry and had decided to ask him to have a sandwich with her at the lobby deli if he wasn't too busy. He worked long hours and, like most workaholics, never took the time for a decent meal.

Her mind was already jumping ahead to corned beef on rye as she pushed open the door to his office. To her surprise, his paralegal was nowhere in sight. The telephone beeped incessantly. Resisting the urge to pick it up and take a message for him, Addison left the reception area and made her way down the hall. She peered into the small, doorless storage room as she passed and found it empty.

"Jim?" Her voice came sharply in the dense silence. Inexplicably, the hairs at the back of her neck tingled. She moved down the hall, silently cursing when the first thin ribbon of unease skittered through her.

"Get a grip," she mumbled, telling herself he'd probably
taken his overworked paralegal out for a late lunch.

But it was odd that he hadn't left anyone in the office to cover the phones
.
Even in this day of voice mail and e-mail, no lawyer would leave his telephones unmanned. Not even Jim Bernstein, with his relaxed atmosphere and anything goes dress code.

She reached his office a moment later and found it empty as well
.
Puzzled, trying in vain to ignore a growing sense of alarm
,
she stood in the doorway
,
taking in the heaps of paper and files and briefs stacked on his desk. Deciding to leave him a note, Addison walked to the desk and picked up his Mont Blanc
.

She was looking for a piece of scratch paper when she realized the pen was sticky. Puzzled
,
she looked closely at the bright red stain on her palm. At first glance she thought it was ink, then her heart began to pound.

Blood.

Revulsion vibrated through her. The pen fell to the desk, leaving a grotesque red stain on the blotter
.
Addison stared, horrified, and heard herself whisper his name.

She wanted to run. Out of the room
.
Out of the building. But the part of her that knew and cared for Jim Bernstein wouldn't let her walk away, no matter how scared she was. Heart hammering
,
she leaned forward and peered over the desk
.

Behind the chair, Jim lay on his back, legs apart, arms sprawled. His head was turned severely to one side. His eyes were open and staring. His mouth was stretched taut, as if frozen in a scream. Red-black blood coagulated on his lips.

Horror and disbelief ripped through her. She stood motionless for an instant, unable to tear her eyes away from the red
'
stain that stood out starkly on his white shirt. It spread from collar to belt, encompassing the tie and spilling onto the carpet in a perfect arc.

Adrenaline burned like fire in her gut
.
She backed from the room, her heart pummeling her breast
.
The smell of death hovered. Blood clung to her hand. Gasping, she wiped it
against her coat, horrified by the smear it left.

Her back hit the wall. The impact jarred her back to reality. A mass of jumbled thoughts raced through her mind. She staggered to the reception area.

Jim was dead.

Disbelief tumbled through her. She looked down at her hands, shocked once again by the sight of blood. Fresh terror streaked up her spine.

"Oh, God. Oh, God!" Staving off a crushing wave of panic, she ran to the receptionist's desk and snatched up the phone.