Crossing the Line: Without a Trace series, a contemporary erotic romance novel (18 page)

Once I snuggle down in bed, I reach for my book, hoping to drown my thoughts in suspense and romance, but it’s no use. I check my phone, hoping for a text message from Ian. Then I remember that I turned it off the second I got home. There’d been a text message on the screen, but I’d looked away, refusing to read it when I felt so powerless and low. My finger hovers over the power button, but I drop the phone on my nightstand and decide to do something I don’t normally do. I trudge to the bathroom and dig out the sleeping pills I bought for Noah a few months ago when he was having trouble sleeping. They’re the non-habit forming kind, but I still eschew taking anything like this. But I swallow a dose, ignore my annoyance over my need for them, and try to fall asleep.

CHAPTER 17

S.O.S.

S
ome days, things go from bad to worse.

Help. Again.

Lux calls minutes later. “What’s up?”

“I sent Noah to the clinic up the street. He’s got a raging fever, and I think he actually has the flu, and not just a bug. We’ve got two parties this week, I’ve got to call in understudies because of Noah, question all of my actors about the theft at Ian’s, contact Ian about his guest list, finalize the details of two parties back-to-back this week, return invoice estimates to four new clients—”

“I’m in. Let me email you my free time this week, and you let me know where you need me.”

I nearly sob with relief. “Thank you. Seriously.”

“
Mwah.
Any word from Ian?”

I don’t say anything right away. I turned my phone on this morning, but silenced the ringer and didn’t look at the screen. “I don’t know.”

She blows out a breath, and I can practically feel her pity. “Sweetie, you can’t hide from him. If he’s as good a man as you believe him to be, he doesn’t blame you for this. If he’s otherwise…well, better to find out now.”

I nod, more for myself than for her since we’re on the phone. “I know you’re right. I just don’t want to face it if he thinks this is all my fault.”

“Check now. I’ll stay on the line.”

I groan but pick up my cell. He’s texted me four times.

Yesterday afternoon:
Hey, just checking in to see how you are doing. Call me tonight?

At midnight:
Ella, I’m worried about you. I don’t want you to blame yourself for all of this. Let’s talk in the morning?

This morning:
I’m down at Just Call Me Joe.

Just a few minutes ago:
I’m getting the impression you don’t want to talk to me. I’m going to be here for a few more minutes. I hope you’ll change your mind.

“Oh God.”

“I knew it. What did he say?”

I relay the texts to her. “What do I do?”

“Um, hello, get your ass down there. The man loves you, Ella. No guy is that desperate for a woman he sees as just a fuck. Throw on some clothes and go get coffee.”

We hang up, but even her command doesn’t get me moving right away. I stare at his messages, fear coursing through me. What if I’m wrong about everything?

My phone rings in my hand.

“I’m dying.”

“I highly doubt that, Noah. What do you need?”

“Can you get my medicine? I just want to come home and go back to bed.”

“That’s fine. Come home. I’ll head up and get it in a few.” Because I don’t have anything else to do, I grumble inwardly, but it’s not like I can blame him. He sounds terrible. “Do you want me to call you a cab?” It’s only a couple of blocks, but that can seem like miles when you feel crappy.

“You’re the best sister ever.”

“Yeah, yeah. Hold tight. I’ll make the call.”

After I order him a cab, I grab my wallet and head out the door. The universe is pushing me to make a decision, I guess.

Just Call Me Joe is packed, which isn’t surprising. It’s nearly nine, and this place is always jumping with the rush hour crew. I gaze longingly at my favorite table, which is currently inhabited with headphone-wearing hipsters and their laptops. I stare daggers at their oblivious heads as I pass. Oh, for a normal day instead of the mess I’m in.

Ian sits on the massive couch in the upstairs lounge, his iPad propped on his knee.

“Hey,” I say softly when I’m close enough to smell the faint citrusy scent of his aftershave.

When he looks up, his relief is obvious. I barely have time to register him standing before his mouth is on mine. The urgency of the kiss piques my own barely contained anxiety, and I clutch his shoulders to pull him in even closer.

Breathless, he rests his forehead against mine. “Here you are.”

“Here I am.” My voice cracks over the words. “What are you doing here?” I ask as though I don’t know the answer.

“You mentioned they have the best organic dark roast ever. Figured I needed to try it.” His thumb strokes my neck. “That client I met with last week—we needed to go over some notes this morning, and you spoke so highly of this place…”

He didn’t come here for me. That’s the first thought that pops into my head, and even though it’s irrational—I read his texts—it’s all I can focus on.

I step out of his arms gently, reaching for his hands instead. “I need a favor, for the private investigator.” If you ever need a buzzkill, there’s the phrase for it.

He looks a bit wounded, but he nods. “Sure.”

“I need a list of all the guests who were at your party Saturday night. She’s checking backgrounds and doing a little a digging, to see if there’s any logical place to start.”
Other than Noah.

“Of course. I can do that right now.”

“Great. Thank you.” I check my phone, more for something to do than actual need. “I have to get going. Noah’s really sick.”

Ian tightens his grip on my hands. “What’s wrong with him? Will he be okay?”

“The flu maybe? That’s my guess. I’m sure he’ll be fine, but the doctor called in a prescription—I have to pick it up.”

Ian looks at me, his eyes holding mine. “I can walk with you.”

I waver, wanting nothing more than to pretend that everything is okay, that I wouldn’t love to feel him beside me, to take his hand easily like I did in Greenwich. I want to go back to Saturday and pay more attention. “I should get going. I have a lot to do today, and I’m sure you do, too. I’ll call you as soon as I hear something from the private investigator.”

When he nods and releases my hands, I feel even worse. There’s a gaping hole where I just punched him.

“I’ll email you the list.”

We stand there for a moment, as awkward as strangers standing too close. I reach up and press a kiss to his cheek. Then I turn and hurry out, desperate for the damp chill of the street.

With Noah bedded down for the day, I turn my attention to the actors I tried to call yesterday. Only one answered their phone, and she couldn’t remember seeing the framed book at all. I try the other actors, as well as the band members. I do my best to make it sound like we’re just nailing down timing, not that we think they had anything to do with it. But the bulk of my conversations are spent assuring them of that. Only one of the actors has anything helpful to offer.

“Yeah, I remember it. Shit, my brother would kill for that issue.” I can practically see Justin stroking his goatee.

“Do you remember if it was there when you went back up to change?”

He’s silent for several moments. “You know, I think it was. I remember throwing my coat in the bag and saying something to Noah about it. But yeah, I think it was there when I went back downstairs.”

A thrill quickens my heartbeat. “Do you recall if Noah went downstairs before you did?”

“Oh, yeah, I followed him down. ‘Course, there were two more bags upstairs when I left, so someone had to take them down, right?”

Shit. “Right.” I go over his memory of the evening one more time, but there’s nothing else helpful. I thank him, reassure him that he’s clear of blame, and remind him that he’s working for us twice this week.

This is pointless. These actors are like family to us. We’ve known two of them ever since the beginning of Elementary. There’s no way they did this.

But then, who did? It’s not like Mick Jeffries needs to take something he could afford to buy a thousand of tomorrow. Everyone else there was friends with Ian. Of course, that meant there was a high likelihood that they knew about the book, too. But would they steal from him?

Hell, I’m a mystery writer. I make whole plot arcs out of coincidence. Could a stranger have snuck in during the party, stolen the book, and snuck out? Didn’t he have a housekeeper? Possible guilty parties swirl in my head.

Fiona’s number on my phone rouses me from my inventive theories.

“I have good news and bad news, sweetpea. Which d’ya want first?”

“How about alphabetical order?”

Fiona chortles after a brief pause. “I knew I liked you. But I only do A-B-Cs for a fee, so I’ll just lay it on you: the butler did it.”

Her cheesy joke forces a smile on my face. “Haha. Okay, give it to me straight.”

“I ran a few quick checks on the list you sent me today, as well as the one you gave me yesterday. The good news is the folks you work with have clear records.”

My heart sinks. “Which means Noah’s the obvious suspect.”

“I’m afraid so, darlin’. I’m going to do a bit more checking on the list you sent me earlier, as I didn’t have time to do more than a cursory search. And I don’t have in-depth details to begin with. But if I had point the finger at someone to investigate…”

“I was afraid of that.” I don’t know what else to say, so we sit on the line, only the soft shush of cell phone interference between us.

Fiona breathes a sigh. “You know, my daddy had a colorful background. We’ll say it politely for the sake of today’s story, but trust me when I say, I know something about loving someone with a penchant for other people’s things. One thing I
did
know was when he was telling me a tale. I didn’t want to admit it, mind you, not for many years. And that man could sell snow to Eskimos, sweetpea, let me tell you. But hindsight really is twenty-twenty, as they say. And I knew, as sure as I know my little girl’s sweet face, when he was telling stories.”

I appreciate her attempt to soften the blow. “Don’t get me wrong, Noah’s given me reason over the years to want to think less of him.” I bite my lip, pondering her words. “I might be blind to it. I can’t say I’m always the best judge of character. But I really don’t think he lied, Fiona. And it was eight years ago. There’s been no indication of anything like that since.”

“Fair enough. I don’t envy your position, that’s for damn sure. I’ll let you know if I find anything else.”

“Fiona,” I say quickly before she hangs up. “I’ll pay you to keep digging. Whatever the next step is: do that.”

“Will do, sugarplum. I’m on it.”

Regardless of what else Fiona finds, I need to have a conversation I really don’t want to have.

CHAPTER 18

FRIENDS DON’T LET FRIENDS DRINK & DIAL

I
wait until Noah stumbles downstairs in search of food.

“Hot tea?” I ask as he slumps at the kitchen table.

“Please.” He crosses his arms on the tabletop and rests his head on them. “I feel like death.”

“We could probably get you a walk-on role as a corpse on
CSI
this week,” I tease.

He coughs, a racking, vicious sound that makes his chair squeak.

“Then again, maybe not.” I turn on the burner beneath the teapot, then join him at the table with a pad and pen. “I need to talk to you.”

He narrows a groggy eye at me. “That doesn’t sound good.”

I shake my head. “It’s not good.”

He pulls himself upright, though he still lists to the right a bit. “What is it? What happened?”

I inhale, wishing I didn’t have to tell him right now—at all, really. “A valuable comic book was stolen from Ian Crane’s apartment Saturday night. There’s every chance it happened while we were there.”