I read the back files. Joy Foret Smith’s first husband was a pilot for a major airline. He had a heart attack between Boston and Jacksonville. Died in the cockpit. She took a leave of absence afterward, for her nerves. Her second husband ran an Internet business. A blood clot got him while they were on vacation at Martha’s Vineyard. Word is she’s sworn off marriage and is currently living with a cop because she’s decided it’s no more dangerous than any other occupation.”
Angel found herself smiling—and surprisingly already standing on the kitchen threshold.
She located the overhead switch, but again, the light was virtually nonexistent. “You’re a wonderful distraction, Graydon. Okay, so I’m in the kitchen. I see three containers of Chinese food on a slopey surface that’s probably a counter. He’s got his used paint rollers wrapped in plastic, and the big goodies, hopefully appliances, draped with tarps. Lily’d love this place.”
“Lily?”
“Munster.” She ran her flashlight into the corners. “You own a TV, right?”
“Search, Angel.”
“I can do that and talk at the same time. Hang on, I’m putting you on speaker.” Depressing the button, she set the phone next to a disposable cup.
Wind whistled through the ill-fitting rear door. The bigger gusts shifted the floor dust and caused the rafters to moan.
Angel’s sharp eyes spied the end of a sleeping bag behind the rickety island. Pulling off her cap and gloves, she shook her hair loose. “Looks like Foret slept in the kitchen. I have to say, this area’s a lot better than the entry hall—except for the yellow walls. Too canary-like. If he was trying for French country, which he shouldn’t be in a pre-Revolution house, he missed by a mile.”
“French farmers don’t like canaries?”
She sighed in the direction of the counter. “Do you have even a drop of European blood in your veins?”
She heard the smile in his voice when he replied. “I happen to know you’re one hundred percent American, Angel. Three generations worth.”
“Ah, but go back to gen four, and we’re talking major global mix. One of my great-grandmothers came from Africa. The other was born in Fiji. My mother’s paternal grandfather was a Brit and the maternal one a potpourri—Italian, Romanian and Norwegian.”
“You missed the Argentine connection.”
She narrowed her eyes at the phone. “I swear to God, Graydon, if you can tell me what color bra I’m wearing, I’m cutting you off right now.”
“I’ll go with white and lacy.”
Lips twitching, she resumed her search. “Not going to react, because you can’t possibly know that. I got dressed in my closet this morning. No windows. The only one who saw me in there was my dog.”
“Lucky Moscow.”
“Pushing it, pal.”
“Angel, everyone in the department knows about your Alaskan husky.”
“Yeah, except I don’t recall ever seeing you in the department. I also don’t go around talking about my background. And my grandmother insists it’s a Mayan connection.” Wedging open a metal box, she sifted through the papers inside. “Other than Joe, how many spies do you have?”
“None, and that includes Joe. I pick up on details, I deduce. Sometimes I hit, just as often I miss. What are those papers you’re rustling?”
“Receipts mostly. Some doodles.” She grinned at one of the pages. “Hey, Foret really did like the Munsters. He drew Lily. Or—” she examined it more closely “—maybe it’s Morticia.”
“Who?”
“Buy a TV, okay?” Pushing the lid down, she continued along the counter. A tiny scraping sound reached her from the island. “Terrific.” She glanced over it. “The rats probably are as big as were-wolves.” She moved one of the food containers aside, then gave in, leaned her elbows on the counter and whispered, “It’s ivory.” She skimmed a finger across the buttons. “All lace, but not quite white.”
“It’s a tempting picture, Angel.”
The tone of his voice brought a surprising rush of heat. But then could you tease a mystery man and not expect to pay the price? She really needed to let go of this particular fantasy.
Fanning her face, she continued her search.
A napkin smeared with soy sauce sat behind the metal box. Red markings showed through from the other side. Curious, she used gloved fingers to smooth the wrinkles.
And there it was.
“Oh, hell.”
It was as far as she got. The scratching sound came again, followed by a low growl.
Movement exploded from behind the island. Angel saw bared teeth, gray arms and a pair of very large hands. A split second before she was tackled to the floor.
“ANGEL!”
Noah heard the growl as clearly as if it were a gunshot. When she didn’t respond, he shouted her name again, then swore and grabbed his jacket. He kept his phone activated, snatched up his keys and held them in his mouth while he dragged on his boots.
The sounds of a struggle were unmistakable. Still swearing, he ran for the door.
No shots had been fired, but then Foret’s killer didn’t use a gun. Knives were silent. And equally fatal.
The attacker’s breath whistled out. Noah knew Angel was good at hand-to-hand. She’d also be carrying a gun.
“Shoot him,” he said through his teeth.
But still no shots reached him.
“Angel!” he tried again.
“Big, heavy jerk…Ouch! Damn.”
Noah pounded through the alley exit and disarmed his truck. He almost tore the hinges off as he opened the door.
He was jamming the key into the ignition when he heard her vexed, “You’re really pissing me off, pal. Face down, stay there and don’t move. Don’t twitch. Don’t even breathe hard.” Louder, she called, “Liz!” Then to the phone, “I’m okay, Noah. It’s a vagrant.”
“Street person,” her assailant’s voice sneered.
All the air left Noah’s lungs. He let his forehead fall onto the steering wheel.
“You’re breathing hard,” Angel warned.
“What d’you expect, lady?” Her prisoner grunted. “You kicked me in the…”
“Angel?” Liz clattered in. “I heard a commotion…Ah. Who’s he?”
“Street person. Noah, are you there?”
Drill
