golden-brown eyes brightened and her collagen-smooth lips lifted into a wistful smile. “Yes,” she answered, her voice softening considerably. “The café was horribly crowded and Justin offered to share his table with me.”
Sunny tucked a loose curl behind her ear again. “Do you recall ever seeing Abbott before that day in the café?”
“No.”
“You’re certain?”
“Absolutely.”
“There was nothing familiar about him?” Sunny pressed. “Perhaps he’d been to your home disguised as a repairman, or had attended a social function where you may have seen him prior to that day in the café?” None of the other victims she’d interviewed reported ever seeing the Seducer on a previous occasion, either. Circumstance had little to do with initial contact between UNSUB and vic, but so far Sunny had been unable to confirm her suspicions.
“Ms. MacGregor,” Margo said patiently, “it simply is not possible. I assure you, I would have remembered if I’d met Justin previously.”
“Why is that?” Sunny asked in a milder tone than her curiosity demanded.
“Presence,” the older woman told her. “Justin has a presence that is not easily forgotten.”
Now there was an explanation Sunny easily understood, courtesy of the man seated across from her. She glanced at him and their gazes met, held, and the air sizzled around them. On cue, her heart rate accelerated, and she felt another sharp tug in her tummy.
Ducking her head, she pretended to consult the list of questions she’d prepared. She needed her mind on the job, not in places she had no business venturing—at the moment.
Sunny cleared her throat. “How long after your initial meeting with Abbott did you see him again?”
“That same evening,” Margo answered. “He asked me to accompany him to the symphony. He had a private box.”
From the file Sunny had read, she knew Margo had lived a sheltered, privileged life in the ivory tower her rich uncle had built, but Margo wasn’t a naive kid fresh off the farm. The woman might be low-mileage, but she didn’t strike Sunny as the type to fall for a slick pickup line, either.
So what was it about this particular UNSUB that made his victims fall for an obvious con like naive little fools? As much as she wanted—no, needed—to understand, she simply could not wrap her mind around the concept of being some guy’s patsy.
Duncan shifted slightly in his chair, instantly drawing her attention. She might be entertaining the possibility of exploring the physical attraction between them, but she possessed enough intelligence to know when he was feeding her a line. Sure, she’d flirted with him, but she was also well aware of the fact he wanted something from her, just as she wanted a look at his files. And whatever else he might be willing to show her.
Looking back to Margo, Sunny asked, “Did anyone else accompany you to the symphony? Did Mr. Abbott have a driver?”
“He drove himself.” A slight blush colored the other woman’s unnaturally smooth cheeks. “We were…alone.”
Why did normally reasonable women lose all common sense when it came to the opposite sex? Sunny never would be so stupid as to invite a guy she didn’t know into her home. Didn’t Margo read the newspapers? The world was filled with lunatics and psychos.
She was a fine one to talk. Hadn’t she been on the verge of inviting Duncan to her place? And what did she really know about him? Not much, other than the possibility that for the first time in months she could be changing the sheets on her bed for something other than laundry day.
“And after the symphony?” Sunny asked.
“He brought me home.” A deeper blush this time. “We had a glass of sherry and then he left after we made plans for the following evening to attend the art gallery.”
Sunny frowned and consulted her notes again. Not a single reference existed in the case file about Margo accompanying the UNSUB to an art gallery. “Did you provide the investigating officer with the name of the gallery?” she asked.
“He never asked. But it was the Fifth Street Art Center.”
“Were you aware it hasn’t been open in six months?” Duncan asked suddenly.
“Yes, I was,” Margo answered. “Justin had arranged for a private showing.”
“He may have arranged a private showing, Ms. Wilder,” Duncan said, his gaze intent as he studied the witness closely, “but not with the property owner’s permission. The Fifth Street Art Center went out of business.”
Margo frowned, a barely perceptible action courtesy of regular Botox injections. “That’s impossible. I was there. I even purchased one of the paintings on display.”
This was all news to Sunny and it irritated her that the local authorities hadn’t been more diligent in their investigation. “Do you have the painting?” she asked, but she already suspected the answer.
The older woman’s frown deepened by the slightest degree. “No, not as yet.”
And she never would, Sunny thought, struggling to remain calm. Never one to suffer fools lightly, herself included, she had little patience for stupidity. At this rate, by the time she solved SEDSCAM, her usual lack of empathy would be finely tuned.
She couldn’t help wondering if any of the women victimized had an inkling how fortunate they were to have lost only their material possessions and not their lives? So far the UNSUB’s twisted fantasy thankfully didn’t include physically harming his victims. Hopefully that wouldn’t change.
“Are you sure there were no other individuals present at the gallery that night?” she asked.
Margo shook her head. “No. No one.”
“Then how were you able to make a purchase?” For a painting, Sunny had a feeling, that was a fake.
“I made the check out to Justin. He is a substantial patron so I just assumed…”
Exactly what he’d wanted her to assume. He’d conned her into believing he was such a wealthy supporter he’d practically been given his own key to the place.
Regardless, Sunny finally had a fresh piece of information. In order to pull off such an elaborate scheme as detailed as an operational art gallery, the UNSUB couldn’t possibly be flying solo. Although she’d never personally been involved, she’d heard the stories of the networks of traveling grifters. They moved around the country duping the elderly, ripping off department stores by returning stolen merchandise for cash refunds and running the classic carnie cons. With the exception of big real estate rip-offs and boiler room scams, cons generally ran penny-ante operations nowhere near as sophisticated as the UNSUB’s game.
She jotted down a reminder to have the art gallery searched by the Bureau’s crime lab technicians, then added another note to have the theater checked out, as well. Private boxes hardly came cheap. No doubt the UNSUB had “borrowed” the box for the night—without the box holder’s blessing.
Sunny
