Out Of Nowhere. Beverly BirdЧитать онлайн книгу.
amazingly close to the truth, at least when he was in her company. “I’ve never had anyone try to trot the Fifth out at my most innocent question!”
“There’s nothing innocent about you, nothing at all.”
It was out before she knew she was going to say it. Tara turned away quickly before he could see the heat stain her face. He wouldn’t miss her blush, of that she was sure.
He caught her elbow and her pulse beat harder. “Talk to me,” he said, “if only to save your own pretty hide.”
She fell back on everything she knew about holding her own. She gave him a provocative smile as she looked back at him. “You like my hide?” Then the cabbie blared his horn and she jumped.
Fox bent to peer into the car. “Sit tight, pal.” He finally let go of her when he straightened. “Get in.”
“Give me my book back first.”
“I haven’t finished reading it. I’m finding it very entertaining.”
“Then you need a life, Blue Eyes.”
Fox opened his mouth to answer and found that he simply couldn’t. Anything that passed his lips right now would be angry, frustrated, and yes, rude. He thought of the life he might have been having right now if this woman hadn’t decided to secrete herself in her stepbrother’s home for some reason known only to her. He thought of the inviting blonde he’d left behind at Remmick’s on Monday to investigate this mess.
Tara moved quickly, sliding into the rear seat of the cab while he seemed preoccupied. She pulled the door shut fast and leaned forward in the seat. “Go!” she shouted at the driver.
“I been trying to,” the man complained.
Tara shot a glance backward as the car vaulted into traffic. Detective Whittington with the initialed name looked quite irate.
Tara laughed aloud, then the sound tried to strangle her. Her dry-cleaning bag was still sitting on the pavement next to Whittington’s slick, handsome boots. She watched him pick up the bag and get into the cab behind her.
Something told her she hadn’t seen the last of him.
Fox decided to keep the laundry, at least for the time being. He took it back to his own apartment, not far from hers on the north side of Girard College. He used his cell phone in the cab and touched base with both Rafe and Migliaccio. He sent Migliaccio to stand in front of Tara’s high-rise. As for his partner, the man was fretting over the virtues of pistachio ice cream and pregnant women.
“Don’t give it to her,” Fox advised.
“Don’t? I’d want to make sure where that meat cleaver of hers is first before I break the news.” Rafe’s wife, Kate, was a chef.
“Trust me on this one,” Fox said. “What goes down green comes up green.”
“No.”
“Oh, yes.”
“Ah, man.”
“Have a good night.”
“You’ve got everything under control? You don’t need me right now?”
Fox guessed by his partner’s tone that only a portion of his mind was on the case—and it was a small, tidy portion at that. “I’ve put snipers on top of every building near hers. If she moves, she’s gone.”
“Good. That’s great.”
Fox sighed. Life was different, he thought, when you had a woman.
He disconnected and glanced at the bag on the seat beside him, and the aborigine started drumming behind his eyes again. Correction, he thought. Life was different when you had the right woman. Some could purely drive you to a coronary.
The cab let him out in front of his condominium. The Shelby convertible was in his driveway. He ran a loving hand over her curves and angles as he passed it. He didn’t always take her out. Parking was hell in the city and she was the kind of animal who was built for speed rather than a slow prowl. Sort of like a certain brunette who was the key to this crime.
Damn it, he preferred blondes.
Fox went inside and dropped the dry-cleaning bag on his kitchen table. He grabbed a Guinness from the refrigerator. After a fortifying swallow, he pulled back a corner of the bag and peered inside. Peach-colored satin. With lace. He hooked a finger in and brought out a slim strap that was attached to a camisole.
The lady dry-cleaned her lingerie.
Fox dropped the strap and crumpled the top of the bag together tightly and fast. He swallowed deeply from his beer again. She wasn’t his type. She was dark and sultry, polished as glass and too quick on her feet. She had more sharp points than a porcupine. She wouldn’t know good manners if one jumped up and bit her on the nose, no matter that she had grown up in the lap of luxury. Some people like that thought it gave them the right to set their own rules.
At the bottom of it all, there was still another irrefutable fact, the biggest reason she shouldn’t appeal to him: she was the key to this crime. But all the same…he couldn’t get her off his mind.
Fox went to the telephone and made another call. He decided to take over tonight’s surveillance as well. Five minutes later, he showered then he spent an inordinate amount of time dressing so he could go loiter around the Four Seasons. At seven-thirty exactly, he fired up the Mustang, and headed back toward center city.
He was whistling Dixie.
Chapter 4
Tara didn’t go to the Four Seasons. She didn’t go to the art gallery on Thursday night. And by the wee hours of Friday morning, Fox’s mood had soured considerably.
He sat on the park bench across from her high-rise, reasonably sure that his eyebrows were rimed with frost. He’d been living in Philadelphia for nearly eighteen years now but he had never come to appreciate its Decembers. He did not know where the elusive Ms. Cole was at the moment, but he had a hunch that she was blissfully warm.
It had been pushing eleven o’clock before he’d started to realize that he’d somehow been duped. The fresh young artist the gallery had been celebrating had proven to be talented. By eleven, most of the kid’s work had sold—even Fox had snapped up an edgy, sharp-toned cityscape for one of his sisters who enjoyed that sort of thing. Tara hadn’t bought anything because she’d never arrived. He’d finally checked with the gallery owner. She’d RSVP’d that she would attend and hadn’t called back to change her mind.
Last night, at least, she’d phoned the restaurant to break her reservation. He’d only wasted fifteen minutes or so at the Four Seasons.
Fox called Rafe at midnight. He roused his partner from a sound sleep to have him contact the point men they had on the high-rise on Poplar Drive. Neither of them had actually seen her exit the place and Migliaccio was swearing she couldn’t have, but then, Migliaccio had said that about another woman once before.
Fox finally left the gallery at one o’clock. He took a cab to 1222 Poplar and relieved Migliaccio. Then he took up his seat on the bench and he waited.
Her apartment remained dark. The temperature plummeted. And at two-twenty, something itchy started up at the back of Fox’s brain.
He unclenched one frozen hand to take his cell phone out again, then he realized that he didn’t know her phone number. He called information instead. The number was unlisted. Of course it was. And Fox was too cold and too tired to use his authority to chip through the barrier.
With methodical deliberation, he put his cell phone back in his pocket and started across the street. Adrenaline and temper began to thaw him out a little. He flashed his badge at the security guard and went to the elevator while the guy’s worried eyes followed him. He hit the seventh-floor button hard, rode up, and went to her door. Then he knocked, just to be sure.
Where