If he wasn’t, then someone out there knew so much more about this. McKnight. His suicide. The note he’d mailed to her with the photo.
Before she had a chance to contemplate what any of that meant, she heard someone on the steps.
She glanced toward the door. A bit too early for Carillo with their lunch. Scotty probably. She got up to look.
Topper gave a low growl, and she hesitated.
He’d never been wrong yet.
36
She knew better than to ignore Topper’s instincts and she walked over to the door, peered through the peephole.
Donovan Gnoble and his aide walked up the steps, Donovan carrying flowers.
Her breath caught. She stepped away, thinking this couldn’t be good. Where the hell were the spooks, the guys who were supposed to be watching her place?
She looked around, saw her things, the drawing, the notes, the photo. Okay. Stop, think. Not the time to panic. Surely, if what Scotty said was true, that Gnoble or someone in his office was really trying to kill her, they wouldn’t do it in broad daylight.
Like she was going to sit around and find out?
She grabbed her gun from the counter, shoved it in the waist of her jeans at the small of her back, then pulled her sweatshirt over it.
A sharp rap on the door sent her pulse racing. Topper barked.
She glanced around, saw her sketch, shoved everything inside the briefcase, dropping the lid on it, snapping the clasps closed. And then she grabbed her cell phone, stuck that in her pocket.
Now or never. They tried anything, she’d blast them.
She clipped Topper’s leash to his collar, then opened the door, holding the dog tight with one hand, while the other was placed casually on her hip, just inches from her weapon.
She tried for a pleasant look of surprise. The surprise part was easy. The pleasant part another matter entirely. “I was just leaving. What on earth are you doing here, Uncle Don?”
“We heard about your accident last night, and I called your office.” He held up a very large bouquet of mixed flowers, arranged in a cut-glass vase. He smiled, stood there, no doubt waiting to be invited in.
She came to her senses. “They’re lovely. But you caught me at a really bad time. I need to take Topper for his walk.”
His aide said, “We’ll just be a little while.”
“Wish I could, but he gets very cranky when he’s been cooped up all morning.”
“It’s a beautiful morning,” Donovan said. “Why don’t we put the flowers inside. We could walk with you. I actually came here to talk to you about something important.”
“Perfect.” She stepped aside, let them in, making sure the front door was wide open, and she was standing well within it and view of the street.
Donovan set the flowers on the coffee table, stood, took a look around, his gaze catching on the painting of flames. “ What on earth is that?”
Prescott stepped in to look as well, crossing his arms, a perplexed look on his face. “It’s very… unusual.”
“Just an abstract I’m working on.”
“Do you have others?” Prescott asked. “I’m a closet painter myself.”
“I didn’t know you painted,” Gnoble said.
“I have a lot of interests.”
Sydney glanced out the door, saw a man walking up the sidewalk, his casual glance toward her apartment giving her a semblance of hope he was someone from the surveillance team, and not some neighbor out for a walk. “Against the wall in the kitchen. But really, I need to get this dog on his walk.”
Gnoble slowly reached out toward Topper. “Does he bite?”
“Never bit me,” Sydney said, watching as Topper eyed the back of Gnoble’s hand with an unusual amount of wariness. Just in case, Sydney reached down, grabbed Topper’s collar, and scratched him behind his ears with her other hand. “Good boy. He’s okay.” Not.
Topper allowed Gnoble to pet him, and she was vaguely aware when Prescott stepped around the corner to look at the paintings. “Ready?” she said, uncomfortable that he’d left her sight.
“Some of these are good,” Prescott called out from the kitchen.
“The dog?” she said, jiggling Topper’s leash. “He really needs to go out.”
“Oh, sorry.” Prescott popped out from the kitchen, walked toward them, making kissing noises. “Hey, puppy.”
Topper growled, and Prescott yanked his hand back.
“Easy, boy.” Sydney patted the dog’s head. “Like I said, he gets cranky when he hasn’t been on his walk.” She held out her hand, indicating they should precede her out the door. When they did, she grabbed her keys and was about to step out, when she thought of the way Prescott had walked into the kitchen. Since the two men were halfway down the steps, she quickly walked into the kitchen, looked around, but didn’t see anything but her paintings stacked against the wall beneath the kitchen window. No bombs hidden beneath the table, and he certainly didn’t have enough time to get into her fridge, poison her food.
Deciding she was right, if they were up to something, they weren’t going to try it now, she followed them out the door, stopping only long enough to lock it behind her before heading down the steps. Gnoble’s driver, a tall burly man with a crooked nose, got out, started walking around to open the door for him, but Gnoble waved him off. “We’re going for a walk,” he said, just as a Siamese cat sauntered past and Topper strained at the leash, wanting to give chase.
“Stay,” Sydney ordered, waiting until the cat was past before starting up the hill. The sidewalk was a bit crowded and Gnoble walked beside her, while Prescott walked in the street. Though a thin fog layer usually shrouded her neighborhood, today the sun shone down, which made it a bit surreal to think that she might be walking with someone who had placed, or was going to place, a hit on her. Then again, perhaps she had nothing to fear. People who paid someone else to do the killing didn’t want to get their hands dirty, which meant she probably had less to fear from them at the moment. And now that they were outside, she felt fairly certain Scotty’s surveillance team was on top of things. Surely they wouldn’t have let the senator get up to her door if they thought there was any danger?
A car drove past and Sydney glanced at it, wondering if it was one of the men. She told herself to relax. Pretend as though she didn’t know a thing, which only made the silence as they walked all the more noticeable. “So, how goes the election?” she asked, when they came to Topper’s favorite fire hydrant.
Gnoble sighed. “Too busy. This time of year always makes me wish I’d listened to my mother and gone to work with my father. Of course, if I lose, I might just want to step into the family business.”
Prescott gave an exaggerated shudder. “Bite your tongue. You do not want to leave politics.”
Like many politicians, Donovan Gnoble came from old money, which begat more money. His father had owned a very successful chain of convenience stores in the Midwest, probably the largest, the fortune making Gnoble the fourth richest senator on Capitol Hill. Having that to fall back on wasn’t a terrible thing, and it certainly came in handy when it came time to seed campaigns or cull political favors where needed.
“That day may come, when I have to leave,” he said, staring at the ground. He looked up at Sydney, smiled, then said, “Not that you care about that. You’re probably wondering why I really came.”
“It crossed my mind.” Topper tugged on the leash and they continued up the hill.
“I’ve been thinking about what you said regarding the man who killed your father.”
She tried to keep her voice casual. “Have you?”
“About your thoughts that he might be innocent. I can’t help thinking that what if he is, and that’s what I built my platform on, then I’m committing the most grievous of injustices.”
She looked toward Prescott, wondering what he thought of all this. And Gnoble, apparently reading her look, said, “I’ve already spoken to him about it. As far as Prescott’s concerned, what’s done is done, and looking into the matter will only hurt my campaign, not help it. But, to his regret, I’m sure, this isn’t his decision to make.”