"He's a screw-up," Hope said as she finished reading aloud to Karl. "If this photo is Irving and his very young mistress, it might explain what happened. He's already on thin ice with the Cabal, so he came up with a plan to get the photo back."
"And fucked up royally."
"Yep. On the plus side, though, not rating a bodyguard means it would be easy to interrogate him, if it came to that."
Karl checked his watch. "He should be sleeping. We could – "
"I said 'if it came to that.' Kidnapping and questioning a Nast VP would get me into the kind of trouble even I don't enjoy. So don't tempt me." When he opened his mouth, she went on, "And don't say that you aren't bound by council rules. You're bound by Pack rules, as much as you like to pretend otherwise. Relations are strained enough between the Pack and the Cabals already. Jeremy doesn't need that kind of grief."
Hope navigated to MapQuest. "If we don't find leads by tomorrow night, we'll reconsider. In the meantime, I have a home address. It might be wise to swing by, get the lay of the land."
"And if he happens to be out for a late jog or walking his dog, he might be inclined to chat."
She smiled. "Exactly."
Irving Nast was not out walking his dog or running. He was, as far as they could tell, inside with his family – a wife and two preteen sons according to his dossier. Even Karl wouldn't suggest a home invasion when children were involved.
They circled the block, then parked a street over and walked back, playing strolling couple again as they got a closer look at the property and made a note of the vehicles and license plates, anything that might later help them nab Irving if a "chat" was required.
On the way back, they finally picked up dinner for Robyn. As Hope returned to the car, she nearly bumped into Karl, walking around from the building rear.
"They have a bathroom inside, you know," she said as he took the take-out bags.
He only gave her a look, the thought that he would ever piss behind a building clearly not warranting comment.
"What did you see?" she said.
He waved it off, but she could feel the fading chaos vibes still flowing from him.
"Karl?"
"I thought I was being watched. He ducked behind the building. I followed."
"And?" Hope prompted.
"Apparently, he didn't find the restaurant facilities to his liking."
"Ah. See, I was partly right. My psychic skills are improving. Some one was taking a leak back there."
He opened her door and waved her in, shaking his head.
ROBYN
Robyn lay on her side, staring at Hope's hair fanning over her pillow. It had been that hair, twelve years ago, that made her decide she would not like Hope Adams.
By that point, Robyn and her classmates had pretty much decided they weren't going to like any of the girls they'd been teamed up with for the fund-raiser. After all, they were private school brats, rich little snobs. The popular clique times ten.
Robyn and her friends didn't envy those girls their manicured nails and platinum credit cards. Perish the thought. No, they pitied them. Those poor privileged girls, destined for a life stuck in a fifties time warp, as pampered and petted housewives who would one day be chugging back Cosmos at the golf club, whining about their husband's fling with the nanny, while Robyn and her classmates worked in board rooms and surgeries, changing the world.
And Hope Adams? The moment Robyn had been assigned to her as a partner, she'd known who'd be doing all the work – and it wasn't the pretty girl with the flawless skin and long black curls.
That had been Robyn's first lesson in stereotypes. While Hope could play debutante with the best of them, she was happiest in blue jeans, kicking back with friends or chasing down one of her weird tales, not giving a rat's ass what anyone thought of her.
Now Hope was here, sound asleep beside her, exhausted after finding Robyn, nursing her out of her shock, then racing off trying to solve two murders, which Robyn was suspected of committing. And what had Robyn done? Sat on her ass in a hotel room, scarfing down brownie bites and watching TV, like the pampered princess she'd once thought Hope.
When Hope called to say they had the laptop, what had Robyn done? Asked whether her apartment was still under guard? Whether the police had searched it? Whether Hope had looked at the photo yet? Nope. Total disinterest in the situation.
That had to end. She'd had twenty-four hours to recover from the shock, wallow in self-pity and clear her head. Time to start helping herself.
A key turned in the door lock. Robyn went still. Hope rolled onto her back and pushed up onto her elbows. The second bed was empty. Robyn shut her eyes as the door creaked open.
"Is everything okay?" Hope whispered.
"It took a while to find an open drugstore," Karl said.
A rattle, like pills in a bottle.
"Ah, thank you," Hope said. "You're a saint."
"Credits. Rack in' 'em up."
Hope's soft laugh. Pills clicked again, Karl shaking them into Hope's hand. A gulp of water. The mattress moved as Hope lay down again. A soft voice, too low to make out. Robyn cracked open her eyes to see Karl bending over Hope, whispering. She nodded and murmured, "Good," then pulled the covers up.
Karl stood there, watching Hope. His expression made Robyn ache. She knew they were being careful around her. No embraces or kisses. No words of affection. Sleeping in separate beds. It didn't matter. What hurt most were the little things that she'd always taken for granted with Damon, the touches, the looks that said "I love you" better than any words.
At Damon's memorial, her sister, Joy, had sat with her, holding her hand, saying, "He loved you, Rob. He really loved you." Now, as she watched Karl looking down at Hope, the envy and the yearning cut deep, and she understood what her sister had felt all those years, watching her and Damon, yearning for something Joy had never found.
Robyn should call her sister. It had been weeks since they'd spoken. Her family respected her need for privacy and trusted Robyn to climb back onto her feet, because that's the kind of person she was. She'd failed them, retreating deeper into her hole, no longer even looking for a way out. If they ever found out, they'd blame themselves for giving her that space.
Well, no more. It was time to fight.
FINN
Finn's phone rang at 3:45 a.m. He answered on the second ring.
It was Luis Madoz, one of the detectives helping on the Kane murder. Another officer had picked up a guy trying to fence a diamond bracelet to an undercover officer. The officer ran it and discovered it was registered. The owner? Portia Kane.
When they'd brought the guy in, Madoz had noticed he was wearing shoes with a distinctive tread that seemed to match a partial print found in Kane's blood.
"I've sent it to the lab for a definite answer, but it sure as hell looked like it to me. And the guy still has a stamp on his hand from Bane Thursday night. Thought you might want to come down."
When Finn arrived, he found himself looking for Trent. He wasn't really hoping to see him, but he wouldn't have been disappointed if he did.
Madoz updated him as they walked through the station. They'd lifted a single set of prints from the gun, but until they had Robyn Peltier, they couldn't test for a match. Her record was spotless – not so much as a traffic ticket.
The dress they'd found at Judd Archer's – matching the one Peltier had been seen wearing – was being tested for gunshot residue. If it came back positive, great. Otherwise, it didn't prove anything. The residue wouldn't necessarily transfer onto a dress with short sleeves.