Читать книгу The Perfect Man - Carla Fredd - Страница 8

Renee looked at the Victorian-style clock that separated the biology and botany sections of the bookshelf across the room. At eight-thirty most Saturday mornings, she would still be in her pajamas and enjoying her first cup of coffee. Today, she had been awake since six o’clock, unable to sleep a minute longer. Chris Foster was coming to Birmingham to begin looking for the necklace. She’d been standing at the window waiting for a car to park in front of the house for the past five minutes. There was nothing else for her to do but wait.

She wanted to call and find out his exact location, but she could not bring herself to do it.

“He’ll be here,” she whispered. She turned back to the window. There was no reason for him to not show up. There’d been no reason for her parents not to show up at her school, either, but they hadn’t on so many occasions that she’d stopped expecting them by the time she was in the seventh grade. Unlike her parents, he had an incentive to come here.

He wanted to settle Marc’s estate as much as she wanted to find Aunt Gert’s necklace.

She’d spent every minute of her free time trying to put together all the information she could find on Marc’s travels for the last year. Renee, Danielle and Alex decided to work together and track his movements in hopes of trying to rectify the havoc Marc had played in their lives. Alex was missing about a million dollars that Marc had taken from her family’s business and her personal accounts. He’d taken the opportunity to have children with Danielle, and he’d taken Aunt Gert’s necklace from her.

Marc Foster had a lot to answer for. The anger she’d thought she’d released by beating the living daylights out of bread dough this morning still bubbled inside her. Every time she thought about Marc, she wanted to punch something. Yoga and meditation weren’t helping to release the rage she felt when she imagined how hurt Aunt Gert would be if she learned her necklace had been stolen.

Renee unclenched her hands and rubbed them on her black cotton pants. Getting mad wasn’t going to help. She left the window and walked across the thick rug to one of the sections of the wall-to-wall bookshelves.

She moved a book a quarter of an inch forward to line up with the rest of the books on the shelf. She couldn’t believe how anxious she was to have Chris in her home. With a sigh, she glanced at the clock again. Punctuality hadn’t been Marc’s strong suit. Neither had fidelity or truthfulness.

She tugged on the hem of her white cotton blouse that was still crisp and wrinkle free. It wouldn’t remain that way. No matter how hard she tried, her clothes ended up wrinkled or stained by the end of the day. One thing her parents had drilled into her was that appearances mattered, which was why they’d been so disappointed with her. Renee wasn’t the beautiful, socially adept child they’d tried to mold her to be. Instead they got an awkward child who was more interested in books and learning to cook than looking pretty on demand. She’d spent years trying to please her parents. Marc had accepted her for herself, or he’d pretended to accept her.

She could feel herself getting angrier just thinking about the way he’d lied to her just like her parents had lied when they said they were going to visit her in school. They never had. Renee walked across the room to a chair, slipped off her black clogs and sat down. She closed her eyes and tried to enter into her “peaceful” place, but peace was hard to find when you wanted to strangle someone who was already dead. After a minute she gave up and opened her eyes. She reached for the book on the table. Meditation wasn’t helping her to relax…maybe the latest murder mystery would.

Chris put his Explorer in Park and lowered his window. He didn’t need to check the address because he’d made a point of learning exactly where Renee lived on his last trip to Birmingham. The large, white Victorian house was unexpected. He knew she and Marc had lived in a condo in downtown Birmingham and as of yesterday, she still owned that property. He’d driven down several streets with rows of Victorian-style homes on large lots and sidewalks on either side of the street on the way here. Chris got out of the car. The sound of children laughing drifted from the backyard a few houses down.

This neighborhood was a long way from the falling-apart houses and apartments where he and Marc grew up. It was the kind of house a kid like him had dreamed of living in. How different would his life have been if he’d lived here? He shrugged then reached inside the car and grabbed his briefcase and a box of Marc’s possessions. That was the past. Now, home was wherever his next assignment took him. No strings. No obligations. No ties. Only the next assignment, or in this case, where his promise to Marc took him.

Heat enveloped him as he walked up the front walkway that was lined with a straight row of bushes thick with small, white flowers. As he climbed the short flight of stairs to the wraparound porch, he could smell the sweet scent of the flowers.

When he reached the door, he rang the doorbell and waited under the cooler shade of the porch. The cement floor had been painted the color of the reddish-brown Birmingham soil. A green mat in front of the door spelled Welcome in black letters. He waited a moment then rang the bell again. She couldn’t have forgotten that he was coming, of that he was sure. She’d even sent him an e-mail verifying the date and time of their meeting. The front door was solid and for her sake he was glad. Doors with fancy glass were pretty, but provided little protection if someone was trying to break in.

A few seconds later, Chris walked to the windows on the left. Heavy curtains blocked the view inside. He moved to the windows on the other side of the house and cupped a hand over his eyes. The lace curtains might as well have not been there for all the good they were doing. Four froufrou girly chairs were grouped together. In one of those chairs sat Renee Foster. She sat with one foot beneath her knee and the other leg swung lazily. Her pant leg bunched at the knee revealing her calf. A pair of geriatric black shoes sat at attention beside the chair. His gaze went to the bright blue nail polish on her feet.

She had the prettiest feet he’d ever seen. If they were as soft and smooth as they looked, why in the hell did she hide them in shoes that were just plain ugly? It made him wonder what else she was hiding. He let his gaze follow the arch of her foot, to her ankle and up the smooth curve of her calf. He felt a pull of desire and heat that had nothing to do with the summer weather. What the hell was wrong with him? All she was doing was reading a book and showing her calf and he was acting like she’d offered to strip naked for him.

“Hell, Foster. Get a grip,” he muttered. She was off-limits. Way off-limits. Chris rapped hard on the window. “Just find the damn necklace and get back to Atlanta.” He knocked harder, making the glass rattle from the force. She blinked as if coming awake after a long night’s sleep. She stared at him as if she didn’t recognize him for a second. Then color flooded her cheeks. He watched as she put the book facedown on the armrest and mouthed, “Be right there.”

Chris watched as she walked out of the room. Her black pants outlined the shape of her rear. He stood, enjoying the sway of her hips. If things were different he’d make a point of getting to know this woman. But things weren’t different. He turned from the window and walked to the door.

She opened the door and gestured him inside. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t hear the bell. I hope you weren’t waiting long.”

He stepped inside the foyer. Sunlight streamed in from a large second-story window and the sweet smell of chocolate reminded him of his favorite bakery in Los Angeles. He hoped she’d offer him a sample of whatever it was she’d baked. If it was as good as it smelled, it might make up for him leaving his apartment so early in the morning.

“I didn’t wait long,” he said. “You seemed to be really into your book. Do you always get so involved in your book that you don’t hear the doorbell?”

She closed the door and he saw the faint hint of color in her cheeks. “Not always, but I can pretty much tune out anything when I really get involved with a book. Do you want anything before we get started?”

Not really, but if getting a drink would get things started he’d take one. He shifted the box and nearly dropped it. “I’ll take anything cold.”

“Let me take your briefcase,” she said, reaching for the battered leather case.

Their hands touched briefly, but he could feel the touch as if he’d been branded. Only years of training kept him from jerking his hand away. She walked to the door opposite the library and opened it. “We’ll do most of our work in my office.”

Chris whistled low and long when he stepped inside. Her office was more like a computer lab. He counted at least five computers and various other types of equipment stacked on racks—lights flashed and blinked. All of the equipment looked brand-new. “I can see why you have your curtains closed for this room.”

“I like to play with my computers.”

He raised a brow and looked at her. “This is more than playing.”

“It’s not really,” she said, placing his briefcase on one of the desks. “I’m going to get something to drink before we get started. What would you like? I’ve got Coke, sweet tea, lemonade, ginger ale and water.”

“Tea’s fine.”

“I’ll be right back.” She turned and hurried out the door. He placed the box on the desk beside his briefcase and walked to a rack on the opposite side of the room. He knew enough about computers to know that Renee didn’t “play” with these computers. The equipment looked like top-of-the-line stuff.

When she’d mentioned her computer network, he thought she meant she had a relatively new home computer network. What he saw here was above and beyond the average home setup. There was nothing in her background check that mentioned her skill with computers. Math and library science—yes. If she was so good with computers why didn’t she work in that field? This bit of information played hell with him. Like the blue nail polish. He was beginning to think there was more to Renee Foster.

He turned when he heard her footsteps. She carried a good-size metal tray loaded with a pitcher of tea, two glasses and a plate of cookies. “Here, let me help you with that,” he said. He took the tray and set it down on the desk next to his briefcase. “You didn’t have to do this.”

“It’s no trouble. Besides, I figure we’ll need it. I hope you like chocolate pecan cookies.”

Chris felt his mouth water. “What’s not to like?” He reached for a cookie and bit into it. The cookie tasted like chocolate-covered sin. “This is good. Really good.”

“I’m glad you like them,” she said and smiled. It was the first time she’d really smiled at him. He was surprised how much he wanted her to remain smiling. Keep your mind on the job, Foster.

“The recipe makes three dozen so feel free to eat as many as you’d like,” she continued.

Chris looked at the stack of cookies on the plate and wondered how she would react if he told her he wanted something more than cookies.

“Thanks,” he said. “I am curious why a librarian has a network like this in her home.”

“I have a graduate degree in Information Science. Most people get jobs as librarians with that degree, but you can also get a computer specialization with an Information Science degree. After all, a library catalog is just one big computer database,” Renee said.

He relaxed a little at her explanation.

He opened his briefcase and took out his laptop and the file he’d started on his brother. The file wasn’t as complete as he wanted it to be, but he figured he could get more information from Renee and the other wives to help fill in the gaps.

“Let’s start looking for the necklace.” The sooner it was found the better for him. He picked up another cookie on the tray and bit into it.

“Okay,” Renee said. She walked to the computer cart and rolled it next to the desk beside his. On top of the cart sat a wide-screen laptop that made his laptop look like a relic. Three thick black notebooks lay on the shelf below. She put the laptop on the desk.

Chris got another cookie and opened his file. “I’ve checked with agents in Los Angeles, New York, Miami and Houston. None of their contacts have seen the necklace.”

She gave him a puzzled look. “Is that good or bad?”

“Good because that means the necklace hasn’t been fenced through the major jewel laundering hubs in the States. The stones are sometimes removed and sold or used to make other jewelry.” He bit into the cookie and put it down on the open folder.

“Oh, no,” she said, her eyes wide and filled with fear. “You don’t think that’s what happened, do you?”

“No. If the necklace had gone to any of those locations, someone would have let it slip and Marc didn’t have ties to gangs or organized crime. My guess is he either sold the necklace to an individual or he took the necklace to another jeweler to be cleaned.” He removed a page from the stack. “This is a list of commercial and smaller flights Marc took during the last month,” he said, putting the paper on the desk in front of her.

She slid the paper closer and studied it. Her hands looked soft and delicate. He wondered how they would feel on his bare chest.

“This looks right,” she said, then picked up one of the black notebooks on the cart. “I asked Alex and Danielle if they could track Marc’s travels on their end and I created a travel calendar.”

He took the calendar and compared it to his information. It was an exact match. His gut twisted in a knot. Chris looked at her. Hard. “How did you get this information?”

She looked at the calendar and then back at him and frowned. “I just told you. I got information from the other wives and added it together with my information.”

The look she gave him said she was confused by his question. He was damn confused as to how she’d found information that had been difficult for him to find.

He folded his arms across his chest. “Not all of those flights were booked under Marc’s name,” he said softly. He’d found the information in some of Marc’s possessions from the crash, but most of the information came from sources available to law enforcement and government officials. Renee was neither.

“Yes, I know. I found out that Marc had several credit cards he used under different names and addresses.”

She passed along the information as if she were telling him Marc’s favorite color, not like she’d just revealed that her husband had committed yet another crime.

“And you learned this how?”

“Oh, easy. Marc didn’t know there was monitoring software on our computer network at home. The software recorded everything he did. Once I had credit card numbers, it was easy to find out the rest. You just need access to the right database.”

Chris leaned back in the chair. Playing with computers. Accessing the right database, my ass. He didn’t know who she thought she was fooling, but it wasn’t him. He’d have to dig deeper into Renee’s background. The computers in this office combined with her ability to get that kind of information on Marc said loud and clear that Renee was more than a librarian. He made a mental note to contact a librarian at the FBI Library in Quantico to find out if Renee’s story was feasible. “Which credit cards did you find?”

“I found three so far,” she said, flipping through the notebook. “But I’ve only searched the last four months, so there may be more.”

There were more, but he wasn’t going to share that with her just yet. She seemed to get more than enough information on her own. “What was the date that Marc took the necklace from the bank?”

“It was March 28.”

“During that time, Marc had been to at least fifteen different cities. We need to contact jewelers in the area and see if anyone has seen the necklace.”

“I can get a list of all of the jewelers in those cities,” Renee said.

“That’s good, but it would help to see anything Marc left at your old home. Did he leave any papers, notes or clothing? Did he make calls?”

“I don’t know about phone calls. He didn’t leave much. I put all of his things in boxes after he died. I brought them from the garage this morning,” she said and pointed to the far corner of the room. “They’re over there.”

Chris looked at the two large cardboard boxes. It looked as if Marc traveled light like him. It was a lesson they’d had to learn as boys and neither of them had gotten out of the habit. Chris stood and walked to the corner where the boxes sat. A label with Marc’s Clothing was neatly printed on top. He assumed it was Renee’s writing because Marc’s handwriting was sloppy and barely legible.

He took out his pocketknife and quickly cut the heavy-duty brown tape. The knife was within legal length limits in most states, but it was razor sharp at all times. This knife had saved his butt a few times in the past so he made sure it was always sharp. He slid the blade back into place and opened the box.

A crisp, white dress shirt lay on top. Chris felt nothing but sadness that this was as close as he would come to his brother ever again. He didn’t know why it bothered him. They hadn’t been close since they were boys. As adults, they couldn’t have been more different. He lived his life with justice and honor. Marc broke the law when it suited him. It didn’t matter to him who he hurt.

Chris pushed those thoughts aside. What mattered was the job and he would do it properly. He picked up the shirt and checked the pocket. It was empty. Unperturbed, he checked the seams along the bottom, then the cuffs of each sleeve.

“What are you doing?” Renee asked and came to his side.

“Checking to see if Marc had anything sewn into the seams of his shirt,” he said as he guided his fingers along a side seam.

“People do that?” she said, picking up one of the sleeves.

Chris smiled at her amazed tone. “Yes.”

“That’s good to know,” she said.

What the hell? Chris turned and looked at her. A frown wrinkled her brow as she fingered the seams of the sleeve with the focus of a sniper with a target in sight. He couldn’t just let her comment pass. “Why is that good to know?”

“I have a friend who designs computer games and he’s always looking for new twists to add to the games.”

“I see,” he said and moved to put the shirt to the side, but Renee had a sleeve. He let go of the shirt when he realized that she wasn’t going to let it go.

“What kind of things do you find in clothes?”

“Jewelry, drugs, money,” he said and picked up a jacket. “Anything.”

“You don’t think he put the necklace in his clothing, do you?”

“I don’t know. If he didn’t, maybe he hid something that could point us to what he did do with the necklace.”

Renee shook her head. “I just don’t see Marc being the kind of guy to sew something in his clothes. He couldn’t even sew on a button.”

Chris raised his brow. “Marc knew how to sew.”

“What do you mean? He took his clothes to the tailor if a button fell off.”

“I mean we both had to learn to sew a seam and repair our clothes. We didn’t have enough money growing up to throw away anything.”

“So he lied about that, too.”

“Yes, he did.” Chris wished he’d kept his mouth closed. He could see that this information hurt her. It was just one more mess Marc made that he’d have to clean up. Chris moved his hand along the hem of the jacket and felt something hard. The kick of satisfaction had him reaching for his knife again.