On cue, he shrugged and took a swallow of Mountain Dew. “I’m just looking out for you, Ron. I don’t like worrying about you. Knowing you’re scared.”
“Nat,” she crooned, trying out her reasonable-and-responsible-sister voice, “you’re supposed to be on a plane in just a few days. A Galápagos shoot for National Geographic is a really big deal. Worry about that. Not me.”
“I’ll always worry about you, McDonald.”
Ronnie rolled her eyes at the silly nickname. During eighth grade, she’d had a crush on Billy Hobbs, who happened to like redheads, not girls with uncooperative, mousy-brown ringlets. After a little mishap with a bottle of hair dye, Ronnie had ended up with curls more flaming orange than sultry red. Billy Hobbs had laughed and Nat had cheered her up. And after he was sure she’d survive, he’d pinned her with the rather annoying nickname of Ronald McDonald. Apparently the rule book for big brothers required an obnoxious-to-nice ratio of about three to one.
She looked at him fondly, and he smiled back, an easy gesture. Finally, she shook her head, half laughing. “You’re impossible.”
“That’s why you love me.”
“Who says I do?” she teased.
He flashed her a smirk. “I know all. I see all.”
As she laughed, he took another sip of soda. She squinted at the nasty-looking scratch above his elbow. “What did you do?”
“Huh?” He followed her gaze. “Oh, that.” He shrugged, dropping his arm. “I was hanging some of my photos and I tripped. Managed to catch my arm on the nail.”
“Ouch,” she said. She ran her finger along it, and he winced, as if he was holding back a burst of pain. “Jeez, Nat. Is it infected? What did you put on it?”
He tugged his arm away, looking sheepish. “Hydrogen peroxide. It’s fine. I’ll put some more on it when I go back up.”
She frowned but didn’t argue. “You shouldn’t be doing that, anyway. I told you I wanted to frame your stuff for you, and then hang it. You need more color in your apartment.” Her brother was a wonderful photographer, but he kept most of his best stuff shoved in boxes, and he had no decorating sense whatsoever. For more than a year, she’d been promising to place his stuff in colorful frames and arrange it on his deathly dull bare walls. Being a terrible sister, she hadn’t yet gotten around to it.
“No big deal,” he said. “And no fair trying to change the conversation.” He aimed a stern finger in her direction. “I know what you’re trying to do.”
She rolled her eyes. “I’m fine. Really.” She spread her arms wide. “Snug as a bug in a rug.”
“You’re nervous,” he said, holding out his hand to her. “I don’t like that.”
Bless his big-brotherish little heart. She took his hand, giving it a little squeeze. Ever since their mom had walked out, Nat had played parent. Granted, it was a role that needed playing, particularly since her dad had been too busy with his books to take any interest in the job.
Nat’s father had died when he was five, and their mother had married Kendall Parker, who’d promptly adopted the little boy. A couple of years later, Ronnie had come along. Two days after Ronnie’s fifth birthday, Ashley Parker had decided she was tired of motherhood. She’d walked out and never looked back. Then twelve, Nat had been Ronnie’s calm during the storm of the next few years. He’d helped her through a typically rocky adolescence, and held her hand when her father had died.
But she was thirty years old now, and Nat’s days as the daddy du jour had run their course.
But when she told him so, he just shook his head. “I don’t care how old you are, Ron. You’re still my little sister and I’m gonna watch out for you.”
Exasperated, she pulled away. “I don’t need looking out for. It was just a robbery. The electrician is coming tomorrow to rewire the alarm system.”
Nat pressed his soda can against his forehead. “Ka-ching,” he said. “The place is a money pit, Ron.”
She crossed her arms over her chest. “Then you fix it.”
He shook his head. “Beyond my capabilities, I think.”
She doubted it. Her brother was as handy as they came. He’d built a state-of-the-art darkroom in his apartment, installing the special lighting and other fixtures. But he was also a bit lazy. With the proper motivation, he could do anything. Without it, nothing would ever get done.
She loved him, but the truth was the truth.
“Come on, Ron. We’re sitting on a fucking fortune here. Sell the store, sell the building, and we can run off to Paris. I’ll take pictures and you can work on your dissertation.”
“Nat, we’ve had this conversation. I’m not selling.” She crossed her arms, hoping she looked dug in. They’d been down this road before. They sure as hell weren’t going to travel it in the middle of the night. Too many bumps, and Ronnie couldn’t afford to stumble.
His chest rose and fell. “Fine. Whatever. I mean, hey, I’ve got a fabulous apartment in Gramercy Park that I don’t have to pay a dime for. It’s not like I’m complaining.” He met her gaze, his brown eyes dark and serious. “But when my sister stays up all night worrying, I start wondering if maybe she needs a change of scenery.”
“I’m not worrying,” Ronnie said. “I was working.” A half truth. She had been working, but only because she was too keyed up to sleep. “Besides,” she added, hoping to appease her brother, “the cops are on it. There’s nothing to worry about.”
He kicked back, feet on the desk. “The cops made any progress?”
She had no idea. “Tons. They’ve got a zillion leads.” Maybe the cops just thought it was a nothing case, and that’s why they hadn’t updated her. Certainly nothing much was taken. Of course, it was that very fact that gave her goose pimples.
“Ronnie,” he said, and she snapped to attention.
“What?”
“What kinds of leads?”
“Oh. I don’t know. Just leads.” She examined her fingernails.
“For God’s sake, Ron. We live here. We have a right to know what they’ve found out.”
She shrugged, wishing she had something definitive to tell him. Hell, wishing she’d actually spoken with an officer. “You know how vague cops can be.”
“I know how vague my sister can be.”
Ronnie sighed. She knew when she was beaten. “Okay. Fine. I want you on that plane. Short of hiring a guy named Guido, what do I have to do to make sure it happens?”
A slow, smug grin spread across his face. “Well, little sister, I guess you’re going to have to hire the biggest, baddest security dude you can find to sit down here at night—”
“I don’t think so.”
“—or you’re going to have to turn on the charm for the cops, and sweet-talk some information out of them.”
“Working early or staying late?”
The voice, more or less familiar, filtered through the mush in Jack’s brain, finally spurring one cohesive thought—Irving. The voice belonged to Lieutenant Irving. With a grunt, he peeled his face off the government-issue desk and squinted up at his interrogator. “What?” he croaked. Not exactly a stunning response, but it was the best he could manage.
Dan Irving smirked and plopped down a coffee cup. “You