One Scream Away (20 page)

A flicker of amusement crossed his features. “No. That’s letting him go too far.”

“You have a better idea?”

“Smash your forehead into my face.”

Beth blinked. “You’re serious?”

“Deadly.”

“I’ll crack my skull.”

“The only skull that will crack is the one not ready for the impact. You’ll be the one ready because by the time a man gets you in this position, he’s already thinking with his dick. But for God’s sake don’t wriggle,” he said, squeezing his eyes closed for a minute. “You’ll only feed the flame. Crack his nose with your head, and he’ll either roll off from the pain or straighten enough to free your wrists. But you have to be ready yourself. Use some of that focus and control you learned in Muay Thai.”

Intrigued, feeling cosseted yet strangely powerful, Beth went through the motions. He mimicked the fallout, and when she started to scramble away he said, “No. Stay with it; never believe your last hit was the final one until you know he’s really down. Otherwise, you’re likely to get shot. Come after me again.”

It was strangely invigorating, a workout like Beth had never experienced. Forget scream, disable, and run. Neil’s philosophy was a lot simpler: kill.

Thirty minutes later, Beth lay on the floor catching her breath. Neil stretched out beside her. “Not bad,” he said, dragging his finger along her arm.

“Good. Now let’s talk about my gun.”

A single dark brow rose. “What about it?”

“I want my Glock back.”

“All right, tomorrow morning I’ll take you to Keet’s. You prove you can shoot it, and I’ll give it back.”

“Who the hell put you in charge?”

“You did. When you asked for my help.”

“I never asked you to treat me like a child,” she grumbled, sitting up.

She didn’t get very far. Neil rolled her beneath him. It was a turbulent kiss, and very,
very
thorough. His mouth claimed every breath, his hands were everywhere, and by the time he stopped, Beth felt as if her body had dissolved into a pool of shuddering, raw sensation.

He pulled back, and Beth arched up for more. He ran a fingertip over her lips. “Is that adult enough for you?”

She threaded her fingers through the thick hair at his nape. “I don’t know,” she said, pulling him down. “Do it again, and this time I’ll pay better attention.”

They spent Friday morning tearing up targets at Keet’s. Neil gave her a hard time, but inwardly, he was pleased. Apparently, marksmanship was one of Evan Foster’s hobbies; the two of them had spent some time at it.

Not that
that
made Neil feel any better.

At Quantico, Copeland filled him on Bankes: “He grew up in a little town called Samson, about two hours from here. Was raised by his mother and maternal grandfather.”

“No father?”

“Some boy in the next town, but the grandfather beat him up when his sixteen-year-old daughter turned up pregnant. The boy took off and Chevy never knew him. Peggy had a second child when Chevy was twelve, but there’s no indication who the father was. The second baby was born with significant mental and physical disabilities. Her name was Jenny. She disappeared when she was sixteen months old.”

“What?”

“Vanished.” He snapped his fingers. “Thin air.”

“What about the mother? Has anyone talked to her?”

“She committed suicide six months after Jenny disappeared, when Chevy was fourteen. Grandpa was dead by then, so Chevy went into foster care. He actually did okay. Got a scholarship to college and all.”

“Jesus.” Neil ran his fingers through his hair. “I need to go up there, talk to the people who knew him. He might’ve come through that way on his way here.”

Copeland scowled at him. “I’ve got five agents doing that now. Active agents, you know, ones with shields who actually earn a paycheck. Your job is here, remember?”

“I’m not doing shit here.”

“You’re getting Denison’s part of it.”

“What part? What the hell else is she supposed to give us? She screwed up Bankes’s plans for Anne Chaney. Now he wants to make her pay. That’s all there is.”

“Well, Sheridan,” Copeland said, standing up, “you better hope you’re wrong about that. Because if you’re right, we won’t figure him out until
he
wants us to.”

But at the hotel, Neil was loath to push Beth into talking. Making her relive Chaney’s death was like forcing her through a tour of hell. He didn’t want to witness those chills again, or see the terror and guilt that filled her eyes.

He didn’t want to think what more there might be.

Beth was holed up in the bathroom. He waited twenty minutes before he finally knocked, a little worried.

“Come in,” she said, and Neil was taken aback. She sounded perfectly fine.

“Beth?” he said.

“It’s okay. Come in.”

He opened the door, chasing an eerie blue glow from the room. Beth sat on a small chair at the vanity. A doll lay on her lap, her notepad open, and a pencil over her ear. A black light was plugged in at the sink, cord stretched across the floor.

“Do you mind shutting the door?” she asked. “This is the only room without windows. It has to be dark enough.”

Neil closed the door. The ghostly blue-black glow returned, and he felt like he was in another universe. A beautiful woman, a half-naked doll, and a black light, all in a hotel bathroom. There was a film-noir idea in there somewhere, but he wasn’t sure how it would play out.

He stepped behind her. “What are you doing?”

“Looking for damage. Sometimes chips or repairs or hairline fractures aren’t visible to the naked eye, but they show up in black light.”

“Oh.” Well, that was a brilliant response. “What if you find something?”

“That depends,” Beth said. She removed the miniature vest and pink blouse the doll was wearing, adding them to a small stack of clothes. “It’s weird with toys and dolls. If this were a plaything, condition wouldn’t matter much. Folk toys, baby dolls, teddy bears—they can be torn all to heck and still bring big money. Fashion dolls are different. Condition is everything.”

“No kidding.” He didn’t care, but Beth loved this stuff. He bent closer, watching her fingers glide over the bisque, smelling strawberry or raspberry or some-sort-of-berry shampoo in her hair. It wasn’t pulled back, and the thick layers draped over her cheek as she looked down. Funny, the black light did the same to Beth as it did to the dolls: made her scar stand out.

“So what does that mean for Mrs. Chadburne?” Neil asked.

“Money, if these dolls check out. Lots of it.” She set down the doll and, one article of clothing at a time, searched the seams and surfaces with the black light. Looking for stains, Neil decided; crime scene techies did the same thing. “The only thing I’m worried about is this blouse,” she said, more to herself than to Neil.

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t think it was part of the original outfit.” She shook her head. “I’m gonna have to talk to someone who knows this vintage of dolls better. Maybe even Kerry. He’s a jerk, but he knows dolls.”

Neil eyed the miniature clothes, and his nape prickled. Probably nothing, but it was one of those thoughts like toothpaste: Once it’s out, you can’t squeeze it back in.
Her husband didn’t recognize the blouse.

“Honey,” he asked, “where are the first two dolls, the ones you already looked at?”

“I sent them back to Foster’s when I finished. Evan has them locked up there in the safe. Why?”

“Just wondering,” he said but looked at his watch: four-thirty. If he hurried, he could still make it to Foster’s before the office closed.

Even though it was probably nothing.

F
oster’s Auctions was a three-million-dollar spread with a mansion tucked on a hillside and a sprawling gallery at the north end of the property. Manicured lawns stretched among all the buildings, giving way to several acres of natural woodlands farther out around the perimeter. The house itself was vintage, complete with the original barn, carriage houses, and slave quarters. The outbuildings were now used for the business—an interconnected maze that housed offices, storage space, garages, and the gallery.

Neil followed the signs to the main office, slipping in just as the receptionist appeared to be packing up for the day. He asked for Evan Foster and waited while she made some calls. Apparently Foster wasn’t in his office.

“I think he’s at the preview,” came a disembodied voice over the intercom. “Try the main gallery.”

Several cars, almost all rentals or from out of state, were parked outside the main gallery. It was unlocked, and Neil let himself in to what turned out to be the rear of the audience seating, now empty. He strode through the aisles of chairs, passed an antechamber, and stepped onto the main stage where several people were previewing the sale that would take place tomorrow and the next day. They talked, examined items, and made notes in their copies of the catalog. A catalog that was Beth’s handiwork, Neil realized with a surprising tug of pride.

Evan Foster stood to one side, speaking on the phone, looking aggravated. When he saw Neil, he hung up and came across the stage, pointing at a plate in Neil’s hand. A stupid-looking dog was painted in the middle of it. “That’s Sheffield,” he said. “An expensive thing to break.”

Neil bit back the impulse to throw it against the wall and set it down. He nodded to the phone. “Customer relations problems?”

Evan shrugged. “Antiques junkies are kooks. But doll enthusiasts are the worst. They think of their dolls as children.”

“That was the doll lady you were talking to? Margaret Chadburne?”

“She flew in from Boise this morning.”

Neil’s pulse kicked up. “Do you know where she’s staying?”

Evan shook his head. “Why?”

“Oh, nothing, really. Beth wants to talk to her, that’s all.” Neil’s brain was outracing common sense. A sure sign of desperation in an investigation. “Beth wants to see the first two dolls again. I came to get them.”

Evan frowned, his demeanor going from cool to arctic. “Where are they? Beth and Abby.”

“Mmm, sorry,” Neil said without any chagrin at all. “Official FBI business.”

“Damn it, I wanna know.”

“Don’t worry. She has your gun.”

Evan stiffened, lifting a fist. “Listen, you son of a—”

Neil caught his lapels and spoke right in his face. “Bad idea, Foster,” he growled. A couple of people straightened, watching. “Now, why don’t you just make plans to cover for Beth this weekend, and go get me Mrs. Chadburne’s dolls?”

“I won’t have to cover for Beth. She promised she’d be here for the sale tomorrow.”

“She’s mistaken. She won’t be here.”

“What the hell have you done with her?”

“Jesus, Foster,” Neil said, releasing his crumpled shirt before someone called the police. “Do you think I have her bound and gagged someplace? She’s safe, that’s the whole idea. She wouldn’t be if she came here. Crowds, distractions, cars from all over the country. Give me a break, man. Tell her to stay home.”

“She isn’t
at
home.”

“Tell her to stay with me, then.”

Speculation swept over Foster’s face. Clearly, that had been the wrong thing to say.

“You screwing her?” he asked.

Neil was amazed. “That’s none of your—”

“It is.” He went still. “Goddamn it. We have something going.”

“That’s not what she tells me,” Neil said and met him glare for glare. Poor fool. There wasn’t a man in history who hadn’t loved the wrong woman once in his life. In another time or place—with another woman—Neil might have felt sorry for him. Might. “We don’t want anything at Beth’s house to seem unusual,” he said, keeping his voice down. “Keep things moving the way you would under normal circumstances. And get me the two dolls.”

“Screw you, Sheridan. There’s no way I’m letting an old lady’s nest egg walk out of here with you. Beth knows how to unlock the safe. If she wants them, she can come get them.”

So, nothing there, at least not until he got a look at the dolls. Neil called Copeland and talked him into a warrant, then returned to the hotel suite to find Suarez and Beth playing cards. Well, Suarez, anyway. Beth was pacing the floor, the cards in her hands apparently forgotten.

“Where the hell have you been?” she asked Neil.

A smile tugged at his lips. “Hi, honey. I’m home.”

“Sheridan,” Suarez said. “Maybe
you
can get her to stop wandering around. You ever tried to play poker with a woman who won’t sit down?”

Beth crossed the room and slapped five playing cards onto the coffee table. “Full house,” she said. “I win.”

Suarez picked up his suit coat, shaking his head. “Good luck,
amigo
,” he said, shutting the door behind him.

“Evan called,” Beth said as soon as Suarez was gone. “He needs me at the sale this weekend.”

“No.”

“I’m the only one who knows this collection. It’s my catalog, my client consignment.”

“No.”

“Damn it, you can’t keep me locked up here like a child.”

A memory tingled on his lips. “I thought we’d already established I wasn’t treating you—”

“Stop it.” She advanced on him. “You tuck me in here with a guard who keeps filling my wine glass and trying to get me to go lie down or play a card game or look at dolls, anything to keep me busy while you and the rest of the world are out there trying to catch a killer.”

“You’re the
target
, Beth. What am I supposed to do, hang you out there so he has a clean shot? Take you to visit the crime scenes?” He thought the tears might start and let out a curse. “Aw, jeez, don’t do that.”

“I won’t let you shut me out,” she said, her voice shaking. “Adam did that. He wanted to handle everything, and I let him and—”

“All right,” Neil conceded. “I won’t shut you out. But I will shut you
in
. You’re staying under lock and key, like it or not.”

She opened her mouth to say something, and Neil kissed her.

She wilted into it for a moment, then pushed him away to arm’s length. “You can distract me all you want, but you still have to tell me what’s happening.”