The Raven Master. Diana WhitneyЧитать онлайн книгу.
“I checked his credentials,” Elaine said. “Marlowe’s for real. He works out of New York.”
And Darcy worked out of Philadelphia for the moment, but credentials could be faked and identities altered. “Did you tell him where I am?” she asked.
“Hard to do since I wouldn’t know if you drew me a map. Look, just get the hell out of there before the freaky Dr. Aquilina stops experimenting on worms and decides cannibalism’s the way to go.”
In spite of herself, Darcy laughed.
Her editor made a considering sound. “Do you have a cousin named Shannon? I thought you said you did.”
“No cousins.”
“Evil twin?”
“I’m ending this call now, Elaine. Wish me luck.”
When he saw she was free, the mechanic waved her over. He smiled broadly and indicated the overheated engine.
“At least you’re at the right end of the car.” Swatting at a persistent wasp, Darcy slid the cell phone into her bag.
Then whirled around as a loud blast erupted from inside the ramshackle building.
“THREE AND HALF DAYS.” Umer Lugo handed Marlowe a certified check, drawn on his legal firm’s Swiss account. “I’m pleased and impressed. She’ll be back in Philadelphia on Thursday, you say?”
“That’s the word at the magazine.”
“Then I thank you for your services. I’ll handle the matter from here.” Lugo swept an arm around the crowded Turkish restaurant he’d chosen for their meeting. “Select anything you want from the menu and enjoy it at your leisure. I’ll be in town until Ms. Nolan returns. Perhaps I’ll relax while I wait. So many wonderful sights to see.”
And while he wouldn’t be seeing any of them, Marlowe thought the man talked a good game. Just not good enough to fool an ex-cop.
Not his concern, he decided, and shook the hand Lugo offered.
With the check stuffed in his pocket, he made a mental list of outstanding bills and calculated he might have enough left over for a trip to Chile. The Andes. Somewhere remote, where he didn’t know a soul.
His phone, clipped to the waistband of his jeans, began playing Clapton. He checked the screen and saw the name of someone he hadn’t heard from for years, not since they’d worked together in Los Angeles and again briefly in Chicago.
“Hey there, slugger.” Regardless of the circumstances, Valentino Reade always sounded cheerful. “I heard you were in town. What’s up?”
Propping his elbows on the table, Marlowe rubbed a tired eye. “According to your captain, no one in your division. Hell, Val,” he said with a faint grin, “you punched an old woman in a bar.”
“A cage-wrestling bar. We were making a bust. Things got out of hand.”
The grin became a chuckle. “Word’s out, and it’s made its way to Manhattan. Blydon’s got five of you on restricted duty.”
“Nice to hear your voice, too, old friend. Look, I’m off duty in ninety minutes. You working?”
“Was.” Guilt snaked through his system. He picked up a stained menu. “I thought about heading home tonight, but I might hang around for a few days instead.”
“Are you hanging around for yourself or because of a woman?”
“None of your business.”
“Hot woman, huh? I’m fascinated.” He named a local bar. “I’ll meet you at ten. If you get there first, ask for table ten. And bring money. I’m flat until Friday.”
Marlowe shook his head as he ended the call. One thing about Val, no one was a stranger.
Someone pumped up the volume on an already loud Turkish folk song. No idea why that, coupled with the suffocating layers of heat, smoking incense and spicy food, should bring to mind a blue-eyed blonde he’d never met. But there she was, the woman he’d located, floating front and center in the haze across from him.
Picking up his glass of ouzo, he took a contemplative sip. And tried to figure out why a case that should be done refused to let his cop-trained senses rest in peace.
A BACKFIRING TRUCK.
If she’d been older, Darcy’s heart would have stopped. Luckily, the only explosive device in the area had been an ancient Ford truck that had coughed and sputtered its way out of the rickety service bay, then died for good behind her rental car.
It hadn’t been a promising sight.
Yet, here she was, Darcy reflected, at ten-twenty on a Thursday night, two cars, four flights and a cab ride later, home at last. She was still on alert, though, since no one but a P.I. sent by one of Frankie’s brood would be asking questions about her.
She paid the cabdriver, then hoisted her laptop, shoulder bag and carry-on. Three years and one month had passed since Frankie Maco’s trial. She’d lived incident-free in Chicago, Minneapolis and Dallas. She’d covered stories from London to Sydney to Shanghai. Beyond the fact that she hadn’t liked the insect life in Australia, nothing really strange had happened.
Her cover had held in all those places and for all this time—until now.
“Darcy? Is that you? Oh, I’m so glad you’re home.”
Darcy halted as a woman clattered down the stairs of the old Victorian across the street. Hannah Brewster was a sight, right down to her flowered muumuu, her flip-flops and her clacking costume jewelry.
“I’ve got a package for you in my storage room.” The older woman patted her heaving chest. “It’s from Switzerland.”
“That’ll be my godmother. If I don’t call her every month, she sends me a clock.”
“Really?”
“It’s Nana’s quirky idea of a reminder.” Darcy’s conscience gave a tiny ping. “I, uh, have a lot of clocks.”
Hannah waved that aside. “Count yourself lucky. My one and only clock is upstairs snoring, with his feet six inches from the AC unit. My husband, Eddie,” she said at Darcy’s puzzled expression. “He’s a cuckoo clock. You name an upcoming sporting event, he’ll tell you what time it’s on. Poor dear lost his baseball buddies when three of our boarders moved out last month, but I’m slowly refilling the rooms. I took on a new one just yesterday.”
Darcy slanted a look at her neighbor’s darkened house. “Long-term or short?”
“Day-to-day, for the moment. But it costs more that way, so the arrangement could change. Dear?” She tapped Darcy’s arm at her prolonged stare. “Are you all right? You know, jet lag can make people a bit loopy.”
“I’m fine. What’s your new boarder like?”
“His name’s Hancock. He has an accent, though I can’t pin it down. Possibly English. But he’s not your type.”
“I have a type?”
“You do, and Mr. Hancock isn’t it. You need James Dean.”
What she needed, Darcy reflected, were answers. For the life of her, however, she didn’t see getting them tonight.
So she let it go and pulled her gaze from the boarding-house. “I’ll pick up my package tomorrow, Mrs. B. Does your new man who’s not my type have a first name?”
“John.”
John Hancock… Okay, a bit pat, but not necessarily suspicious. She shifted her bags. “Maybe I’m tired at that,” she murmured. “Good luck renting your rooms.”
“Thank you, dear, and welcome home.” Hannah fluttered a hand as she recrossed the street. “Don’t worry about the rent