Torie shook her head. “No. In some ways, it shows their true colors. It’s better to know.”
“Hmmm, I guess. So, key first. Then we’ll run by the house and change. There’s a nice family restaurant near the house. We’ll go there.”
“What kind of food do they serve?”
“What else? Italian.”
“Excellent.”
“So—” he rose to unlock the door. It wouldn’t do for someone to come along and try it, find it locked, and jump to all the right conclusions. “What’s on the list?”
He pointed to the pad, covered in neat, precise notations.
“All the miserable details of finding a place to live, and replacing some of my things.” She eyed the pad, flipped up several pages to reveal more writing. “You can see why I got a little overwhelmed.”
“Yeah, I can. So what’s the key?”
“It’s to a safety deposit box. I kept it in my desk drawer so I could get it easily if something happened to the house.” She looked at him, her eyes dark and sorrowful again. “I never thought I’d really need it.”
He pressed his hand over hers. He’d made that gesture a thousand times to clients, to friends who needed reassurance or succor, even to women he was dating, keeping them interested. Never had it felt like it meant anything. Now, it did. He really did want her to feel how much he empathized with her plight. The gesture seemed so very little.
Torie sighed and sandwiched his hand between hers. “Thank you for offering to go. If this is part of the ‘Truce with Torie Campaign,’ I really appreciate it. I can go by myself,” she said, beginning to temporize.
“I know. But won’t it be easier if I go with you?” he said quickly, knowing she’d talk herself into facing it alone if he didn’t. He didn’t want her to go alone. He wanted to be there for her.
Another shocker.
She smiled, nodded. “Yeah, it will be easier if I have company when I go. Thanks.”
“Oh, so I’m company now,” he teased. “Jeez.”
“You know what I mean.” She pushed at his shoulder and he pretended to be knocked back.
“Wow, you pack a whallop. And yeah,” he said and returned to serious mode, “I know. Let me just wrap up a few things here and we’ll head out. That way, we get there just before five. You can get the key and get out without a lot of fanfare and gossip.”
Torie closed her eyes, winced. “Yeah. Sounds like fun.”
“Stick with me, kid. We’ll have ’em rollin’ in the aisles,” he joked, hoping to make her laugh.
Fortunately, she did. He went to his desk and checked the printout Martha had managed to make of his schedule for the next few days. Thankfully, he could indeed leave early.
“Hey,” he said, and turned as a thought struck him. “What was up with Pam? Was she any help figuring out where your cousin went?”
“No, not really.”
Another thing occurred to him, and he was about to ask when Martha knocked on the door, easing it open.
“Oh, I beg your pardon, I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
“That’s all right, Martha, I was just checking to see what was on the docket for tomorrow.”
“You have several clients who are scheduled to come in tomorrow. Did you want me to reschedule those again?”
“Don’t reschedule on my account,” Torie interjected, hefting the list she’d made as an addendum to her comments. “Obviously, I have a considerable amount to do. And…” She forestalled his suggestion that she come with him to the office. “I can do that from—” she stopped her gaze on Martha, then shrugged—“from your house just as easily as I can do it here.”
“Very well, then.” Martha nodded without waiting for him to reply. “I’ll see to it. I have the information on the dinner, as well as several other items. I understand you’re having breakfast with Mister Pratt Sr.”
“If he says so. His schedule was jammed more tightly than mine.”
“His assistant just called to confirm it. His office at seven-thirty.”
Paul snagged a pen from the drawer, and wrote the time and particulars on the paper calendar. “Got it.”
“Very good, sir. Unless you need me, I would still like to leave early today. Does that suit you?” she added stiffly, not looking at Torie. Paul wondered if she just didn’t want the younger woman to know she had a real life, or if she still just didn’t like Torie.
“That’s fine. I have to assist Torie with a matter about her office, so I’ll be leaving shortly as well.”
To his surprise, Martha turned to Torie, her lips pursed and disapproval written all over her face. He was about to interrupt, forestall any negative comment, but he needn’t have worried.
“Ms. Hagen, I have to say that your firm has not lived up to its obligations to support you. I’m sorry for that.”
Torie managed to not look shocked as well. “Thank you.”
Martha’s nod was sharp and decisive. She was done with that topic. “Will you need me to get your tuxedo sent to the cleaners again?”
Crap. The dinner. He hadn’t thought about the tux. When was the last time he’d worn it? Had he sent it to the cleaners? Hell. He had no idea, and said so. “I’ll check it.” He jotted another note to himself on the paper.
“Very well. Good night, sir. Ms. Hagen.”
They replied in unison, and when the door was closed, glanced at one another.
“Did I miss something, or was she just nice to me?” Torie asked.
It was infuriating. That’s what it was. Now she was with another man. Again. And who was it? The odious Paul Jameson, whom she professed to despise.
How like a woman to go from one man to the next, turning to the worst possible man if the potential for profit was there. Paul Jameson. The man’s very name made his blood boil. He thought he’d gotten rid of the problem, laid out his plans so carefully, and disposed of the bastard who’d caused him so much grief.
He’d been sure, sure that he would be able to let it go, with the ever cutesy Torie and Todd out of the way. But she hadn’t died. Once again, Paul Jameson had been there to ride to the rescue.
Damn Paul Jameson.
“That’s it,” he realized, saying the amazing words out loud. “Fuck me, that’s it. It was never Todd. It was Paul. Always in the way. Always the one to call the shots.”
He leapt from his chair, paced the room, thinking furiously. It had been Paul, then. Damn.
The revelation was startling.
Not that he regretted killing Todd. It had been a rush to kill him, despite having to handle the illegal firearm. He preferred his own sleek weapons, but they were traceable. The twenty-two had been effective, however. He thought of the neat, tidy hole in Todd’s forehead. It had been so symmetrical. So clean, in fact, that he’d been surprised. The television sensationalized so much that he shouldn’t have believed it about the pools of blood and the spurting spray so often depicted in films and cop shows. It had been remarkably precise, and the blood had been so minimal as to require almost no clean up.
Of course, he’d used a small caliber weapon. He’d done his research on the internet. Off site, of course, never while he was working. Not that it would matter with his safeguards, but everything must be separate.
The twenty-two had been easy to purchase. He hadn’t even had to look very far for it. South Philadelphia was so helpful for procuring the things he needed.
That’s why he would succeed so brilliantly. He was a master at thinking things through.
“Paul Jameson,” he said, returning to his earlier thoughts. He slowed his pacing, glanced at the press release which had come through, featuring a sober looking and entirely too competent Paul. Part of him wanted to shred the noxious document, toss the scraps into the nearest toilet, and flush.