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 until Monday. You’re a wonderful tenant, and I’d hate to lose you.”
Darcy gripped her suitcase and started along the sidewalk of what Hannah Brewster swore was the finest rental property in Philadelphia. All in all, it was probably fine enough. But when and if she ever settled, she wanted something simpler than turn-of-the-century American. Something modern, with lots of glass and hopefully no more worries about Frankie Maco and company.
A cat meowed from the bushes as she disengaged the alarm.
“I know, Podge, it’s ridiculously hot.”
She didn’t see it coming, didn’t hear a thing. One second she was about to go inside, the next she was crashing into a bed of purple dahlias. Something scratchy whipped across her eyes. Another softer cloth—saturated with chemicals, her brain warned—descended on her face.
Twisting sideways, she avoided it, and with her forearm knocked her attacker’s hand away. His fist rapped against his mouth, and she heard him grunt.
Still squirming, she rammed the heel of her hand into the side of his head. She’d been aiming for his ear and from his reaction thought she might have hit it.
When he jerked back, her instincts took over. Planting both hands on his chest, she shoved. It gave her the space she needed to work her leg out from under him.
He felt strong, but she couldn’t see well enough to fix an age on him. Young or old, however, she knew a man’s vulnerable spots, and she aimed for the one that would cripple him the fastest.
Did she make full contact? Her brain said no, yet a second later, he was gone, tackled sideways by something or someone else she couldn’t see.
The wool strip that had partially covered her eyes lay on the ground beside her. The chloroformed cloth had vanished with her attacker.
She rolled out of the flower bed and onto the grass. It took a moment to steady her breathing, another to realize that there was no one in the tiny front yard except her and Hannah’s long-haired cat.
“What the hell was that, Podge?” she demanded, pushing to her feet. She swayed slightly, but shook herself and scrambled to locate her cell.
She had her thumb on the key pad when a man’s hand closed over hers and a low voice came into her ear.
“Let’s leave the police out of this, Ms. Hunt.”
Chapter Two
Darcy’s blood pressure spiked, then slowly settled. This man was holding her, not choking her. Relaxing her muscles, she offered a pleasant, “Let me guess. Damon Marlowe?”
“I’m impressed.”
“Don’t be. Word travels at warp speed in my business. Uh, do you mind?”
For an answer, he released her