Game for Anything (13 page)

In all the fantasies that he'd allowed himself to spin about Sophie Wainwright, he'd never once pictured her here in this sterile apartment that he used when he was in the city. Now he might never be able to use it again without wanting her here. The realization moved through him like an ache, gnawing and relentless.

They both stepped back from each other at the same time. “I'll get dressed. I need to get back to the shop. I want to catch up on my paperwork and there are some phone calls I need to make. For some reason, several people in D.C. are interested in ceramic horses all of a sudden.”

“I'll go with you,” Tracker said.

She met his eyes. “You don't have to. I'll be fine.”

He hadn't a doubt in the world that she would be. He could see that she was already gathering her rather formidable strength around her.

“And you have your job, too. This…what we have going between us…we can't let it interfere with our work.”

“Until we find out how John Landry ended up murdered in your shop, you are my job, Sophie.”

Tracker watched the feelings play themselves out on her face, in her eyes: a brief flash of resentment, then anger, then a touch of fear. He'd exploit that first. “It might have been you lying on the floor.”

Her brows snapped together. “That's ridiculous.”

“No.” For now, he would have to choose his words carefully. He'd already decided on the time and place to tell her the truth. “Landry either let someone into your shop or he surprised another intruder and got shot. If you'd been in your apartment, heard something and rushed down, do you think you would have been allowed to live?”

Silently cursing himself, he watched her face blanch. Then he added, “If I called Lucas and filled him in on what's going on, what do you think my orders would be?”

“Don't call him.” The anger that flashed into her eyes was easier to handle than the fear.

“On one condition.”

Her eyes narrowed. “What?”

“You'll allow me to keep you safe.”

She hesitated for just a moment. “Agreed.”

He watched her walk away into his bedroom, knowing that her life might depend on her keeping her word.

“A
RE YOU READY FOR THIS
?” Tracker asked gently as they left the garage and walked into the alleyway that led to the back of Sophie's shop.

“I have to be,” she said simply. Still, she paused—they both did—when they saw a little group gathered in the courtyard.

Noah and Chance sat at either end of a wrought-iron bench, while Chris Chandler served iced lattes from a cardboard tray. Rounding out the group were Detectives Gibbs and Ramsey, standing at the back entrance to the shop.

Noah spotted Tracker and Sophie first and hurried over. “Are you all right? The moment I heard about it on the news, I called. When you didn't answer your phone, I thought—”

“I'm fine, Noah,” she assured him. “I should have called you. I'm not going to open the shop today.”

“Do you know that there are men inside? They just punched some buttons and walked right in. I was going to call the police, but then they showed up.”

“The men are from Wainwright's security department,” Sophie explained. “They're changing the security codes.”

“Smart move, my dear,” Chris Chandler said, of
fering her one of the lattes. “You look like you could use this. Such a terrible business. And in Georgetown. I wouldn't have come by today, but Ambassador Lipscomb called me first thing this morning, yammering about some of the unique pieces that he'd heard about in your shop. Word travels so fast at one of Millie's parties.”

“She's not doing any business today out of respect for John Landry,” Tracker said.

“Oh.” Chandler looked taken aback for a minute. “In that case, I won't disturb you.” Setting his own latte down on the table, he waved his hands in imitation of flapping wings. “I'll fly away so fast you won't even see me. Just one word.” He stopped flapping his hands long enough to lay one on Sophie's arm as he passed her. “Ceramics. Equestrian is good, but if anything at all comes in by that potter who made the blue-green bowl I picked up for Millie, tag it for me. I'll take it sight unseen. Can you do that for me?”

“Sure. But what if the ambassador doesn't like it?”

Chandler winked at her. “Then I'll have to convince one of my other clients that it's the one piece their salon has been crying out for.” He pitched his voice lower. “I want the ambassador to know the kind of twenty-four–seven service he'll get if he chooses me to redo the embassy. He's actually talking to Beltaire.” Chandler drew himself up to his full height. “Imagine, working with Beltaire when you can have Chandler. I cannot allow him to make that kind of a mistake. I'm depending on you, Sophie.”

“I'll call you if I see anything, Chris.”

Chandler kissed her hand. “Ta.”

Chance rose from his end of the table. “I think that's my cue. Now that I see you're safe and sound, I really do have to get the gallery open.”

Once Chance had left, with Detective Ramsey following, Natalie Gibbs said, “I have a few follow-up questions for Mr. McBride. Could we go inside?”

Tracker moved to the door and punched in the temporary code. Behind him, he could hear Noah say to Sophie, “I need to talk to you, Sophie. In private.”

Turning, Tracker said, “Why don't you take Noah up to the apartment? Detective Gibbs and I can talk in the shop.”

The moment they were alone in the back room, Natalie Gibbs flipped open her notebook. “Carter Mitchell visited the Wainwright Building at five this morning and came out an hour later. I also know that he has no alibi for last night. He says he went straight home after the party, but no one can verify that.”

Tracker studied her for a minute. She was striking—red hair, flawless skin and the body of a model, only with more curves. And she was annoyed. Since Natalie Gibbs was his backup plan for protecting Sophie, he decided to sacrifice Chance. “I can tell you that Carter Mitchell is not involved in this.”

Natalie's eyes didn't waver from his. “I'm not as trusting as my partner is. I also have a bigger stake in this. I want to find out who killed John Landry because I have a hunch it's the same guy or gal who killed Jayne Childress.”

Tracker frowned. “Jayne Childress?”

“I worked on her case about a month ago, and it's still open. She was killed by a hit-and-run driver
within a few minutes of buying a vase from this shop. I happened to be here when she bought it. She was a P.I. who did some freelance work for government agencies. That particular day, she had a job that was making her nervous. She asked me if I would give her some backup. I arranged to have a day off, and I followed her after she left here. She made a stop at the gallery next door and then she headed toward the corner. I saw her get shoved in front of a car, and the men who did it ran off with the package. Now Mr. Landry has been murdered in this same shop. I don't believe it's a coincidence. If you fill me in on everything you know, we can work together. If not, I'm going to be getting underfoot a lot. What do you say?”

What she said meshed with what Chance had said, and Tracker found his respect for the work of the D.C. police moving up a notch. Chance was just going to have to go with the flow on this one. “I'll fill you in on everything I know, but my priority is to keep Ms. Wainwright safe. To do that, I may need a favor from you in return. I don't want her to end up like Landry and Childress.”

Natalie Gibbs smiled. “Neither do I. Talk to me.”

 

C
HANCE UNLOCKED THE DOOR
of the gallery and punched a code into the inner door. The two detectives had arrived only minutes after he'd stepped into the courtyard himself. While it could have been a coincidence, Chance had a gut feeling that they knew about his visit to Tracker that morning.

“How well do you know Tracker McBride?” Ram
sey asked the moment the door clicked shut behind him.

Shit,
Chance thought, but he didn't let his stride falter as he headed toward the front of the gallery and punched in another code for the door. “Let's see. I met him yesterday at Ms. Wainwright's shop, and we chatted briefly at the Langford-Hughes's party. Seems like a nice enough chap, but he could really use some variety in his wardrobe. I did give him the name of my tailor.”

When he turned, Chance saw that Ramsey was examining one of the paintings on the wall. Chance was about to inwardly breathe a sigh of relief when the detective turned and met his eyes. “Was that why you visited him at 5:00 a.m. this morning? Because he was having a fashion emergency?”

Chance said nothing for a moment. It was an old trick he'd learned in his brief career as a cop in L.A. Nine out of ten times, your opponent would fill in the silence. But Ramsey merely waited. Evidently, he'd gone to the same cop training school. “Do I need an attorney?”

Ramsey's brows shot up. “Feel free to call one. But all I want to know is why you and Mr. McBride met this morning. I figure it has something to do with Ms. Wainwright's shop. Detective Gibbs has been watching One of a Kind ever since a woman named Jayne Childress was killed by a hit-and-run driver. She thinks you might have had something to do with it.”

Chance stared. “Why would she think that?”

Ramsey scratched his head. “Call it woman's in
tuition. Or it may have something to do with her suspicion that you're not gay.”

Chance worked to keep his expression blank. So far he hadn't been prepared for one thing Ramsey had said. “What makes her say that?”

“My partner has a personal interest in the Childress case. On her own time, she's been staking out this gallery and Ms. Wainwright's shop. She wears a disguise she created when she was working vice. Perhaps you recall a blond man, good-looking, fancy dresser?”

Chance remembered all right. “Yeah, he's been in here. One time he hit on me.”

“Yeah, so she says. And when you didn't take her up on it—well, Gibbs doesn't take rejection well.”

“So she tags me for a murderer?”

Pulling a notebook out of his pocket, Ramsey said, “Not solely because of that. Your initials, C.M., and the name of the gallery appeared in Jayne Childress's appointment book on three different occasions. One of those was the day she purchased a vase in Ms. Wainwright's shop. Did she show it to you?”

Chance masked his surprise. Jayne Childress had stopped into the gallery right after she'd picked up the vase. That had been his signal that she was on her way to meet the headman. The moment she'd left, he'd flipped the Closed sign on the door and stepped out onto the street. He'd been just in time to see one man snatch her package and the other push her into the path of an oncoming car. Their timing had been perfect. Chance still pictured the scene in his dreams as if it were a carefully choreographed ballet. Shoving the im
age away, he forced himself to concentrate on the man standing in front of him.

“Of course, you don't have to answer any of my questions. But my partner is in the process of making the same offer to Mr. McBride that I'm making to you—a free exchange of information.”

“What's in it for me?” Chance asked.

“I'm thinking that we might be after the same bastard, and it might be helpful to both of us if we don't get in each other's way.”

It took Chance about a second to decide. Since he figured that Tracker had already opened up, he didn't have much choice.

 

S
OPHIE SET THE ICED LATTE
down on her kitchen counter and turned the flame on under the teakettle. “I'm going to make a pot of real coffee. Would you like some, Noah?”

“No. No, thanks. Sophie…”

She turned to find him twisting his hands nervously. He met her eyes for a second, then shifted his gaze away.

“What is it?”

He paced two steps to the window and back to the counter. “I don't know how to say this. I wasn't going to say anything. I even thought I was mistaken, but before I left, I took a quick tour of the shop to check. I figured it wasn't any of my business. But now…a man is dead.”

“If you know something, you should tell Detective Ramsey.”

“I don't know anything about Mr. Landry's death.”

At the sound of agitation in his voice, Sophie rounded the counter and took his hands. She'd hired Noah in his first year as a grad student at Georgetown. What he had that had gotten him the job was a passion for beautiful things. Within the first week of his employment, she'd discovered that he had an almost photographic memory, not only for people but for her inventory as well.

“Noah, no one thinks that you had anything to do with John Landry's death. I'm sure of that. What is it that you're afraid to tell me?”

“I may be making too much of it. But usually you tell me if you set something aside.”

Sophie squeezed his hands. “What?”

“There's a piece missing from the shipment yesterday. You checked it off the packing list, but it's not anywhere in the store. I checked.”

Sophie let out a sigh of relief. “The ceramic horse. I brought it up here and unpacked it myself.”

Closing his eyes, Noah let out a sigh. “Oh my heavens. Now I feel like a fool. When I read the paper this morning, all kinds of scenarios began to run through my mind. I thought that perhaps Mr. Landry had taken it, or that friend of your brother. I even suspected Mr. Mitchell. We've never had that many people in the shop before when we were taking a delivery.”

“Well, you can relax now. The horse is safe. It's right over there on the bottom shelf.”

Noah walked toward the couch and began to study her collection as she measured coffee into the French press and poured boiling water over the grounds.

“Which one is it?” Noah asked.

“It's in the center. Here, I'll show you.” She'd taken three steps when she heard the glass in the window at her back shatter. Acting on pure instinct, she ducked behind the end of the counter. The dull thud of a bullet sounded over her head, and she saw the edge of the counter splinter. “Noah, get out of here.”

Noah was already moving, disappearing through the door as glass shattered again. This time she caught the strong scent of coffee. The first drips hit her neck just as footsteps thundered on the stairs.

 

T
RACKER HIT
the second landing just in time to see a figure come hurtling out of Sophie's apartment. Noah. Recognition filtered into Tracker's brain, and fear dug its claws even deeper into his gut.

“Sophie,” he called as he reached the top of the stairs.

“Don't come in,” she cried.

“Someone shot at us,” Noah said.

As he moved past him, Tracker pushed the young man firmly to the floor. “Stay here and keep your head down.” Then he turned to look into the apartment. When he saw her, sitting on the floor at the end of the counter, relief hit him like a low, hard punch in his gut. For a moment he couldn't get a breath. Then, grabbing on to his control, he ruthlessly shut his feelings off.

One quick glance told him that she was pinned. If she showed herself at either end of the narrow counter, whoever was out there would have a clear shot. But she was safe for the moment. Pushing away a fresh wave of anger, Tracker pulled his gun, flattened his
back against the apartment wall and began to edge toward the window.

“Be careful,” she said.

“Yeah.” But he hadn't been careful enough. Someone had gotten close enough to kill her. Later he would indulge himself in the luxury of rage, but for now his brain had to be cool. As he inched his way along the wall, he called up an image of the row of shops across the street from One of a Kind. In the past, he'd staked out the Princess's shop often enough to have memorized the surroundings. There was a flat roof on the three-story building directly across the street, and the odds were pretty good that a pro would find it an ideal spot.

Reaching the frame of the window, he said, “Sophie, you just have to do one thing for me.”