Grand Theft Retro (Style & Error Mystery Series Book 5) (22 page)

Between the bar of Irish Springs and the coarse loofah sponge that Nick had left in the shower, I scrubbed myself raw. I turned the water off and emerged from the cloud of steam. The words
I’m going to get you
formed in the condensation on the mirror. I screamed and slid the shower doors closed. But there had been more. I slid the doors open.
I’m going to get you some food. Check the kitchen.

I needed a break.

I dried off and dressed in the clothes Cat had brought me. A striped boat neck T-shirt, sailor pants, and a pair of deck shoes. In the bottom of the bag was a beret. Apparently to Cat, undercover meant dressing like Jean Paul Gaultier. Or Popeye.

The clothes were both comfortable and warm. I wrung out my hair and then pulled it back in a loose braid to keep it off my face. When I was finished, I found my phone and called Nick.

“How did you know I was here?” I asked.

“I stopped in to grab a couple of boxes and heard you singing in the shower. I didn’t know you sang in the shower. How’d you know I knew?”

“I saw the message you left on the mirror after taking a shower. It scared the crap out of me.”

“I thought you were going to stay put today. Where did you go?”

“I think it’s better if I don’t tell you. I don’t want us to get into an argument.”

“Kidd, I told you, whatever you need, I’m there.”

“Okay. I went to Bethany House and found Nancie tied up in the basement. So I climbed through the air conditioning vents and came out in the lobby, where I made the connection between them and my source.”

He didn’t respond. I waited a few moments, then said his name a few times, just to make sure the call hadn’t dropped.

“I’m still here,” Nick said. “Do you want to know what I did today?”

“What did you do today?”

“I designed a shoe.”

“You went shopping, too. You bought grapes and cheese.” I closed the refrigerator and opened the pantry. “And pretzels! You bought me pretzels!”

“You somehow just went from being the most complicated woman I’ve ever met to being the easiest to please. Is that all it takes?”

“Pretzels? They’re a start.”

“I’ll remember that. Are you in for the night?”

“I hope so. Truth is, I don’t know what to do next. Somehow the skull from Jennie Mae Tome’s attic connects back to Pritchard Smith, Bethany House, and the
Retrofit
magalog, but I don’t know how.”

“Why not write an expose? Technically, you’re a reporter for
Retrofit
, right? You have a press card. You can use my laptop. Why not write an article about what you know, quote your anonymous source, and watch what happens? Just keep Loncar in the loop. Maybe you can set up a sting.”

I smiled. Whether he’d realized it or not, Nick was starting to speak my language. “That’s not a bad idea.”

“Then I’ll leave you to it. Good night, Kidd.”

“Good night, Taylor.”

The bag of pretzels was mostly empty by the time I clicked save on my expose. I knew one person at the Ribbon Eagle/Times, Carl Collins. He was the reporter who had written the article about me that had given me local fame. What better time than the present to ask him for a favor? I called the main number and asked to be connected with his desk.

“Carl, this is Samantha Kidd,” I said. “You know how you’re always asking for a scoop? Well, you better sit down, because have I got a story for you.”

Chapter 25

AND
STILL
,
MONDAY
NIGHT

“Samantha Kidd? What are you into now? Exposing sweatshop conditions in Philadelphia? Child labor in Allentown? Wait.” His voice dropped to a lower decibel. “Duty free garments coming in from New Jersey?”

“Not exactly. It has to do with a scandal that leads back to Bethany House in Sanatoga.”

He laughed out loud. “Sure, and Sotheby’s keeps a room filled with kids knocking of Picassos. Seriously, Kidd, what’s the joke?”

“No joke. I was there today. They were holding a woman captive. An anonymous source told me.”

“Whoa. Who’s your source, Deep Throat?”

I pictured her plunging necklines. Deep V was more like it. “Even if I did know her name, I wouldn’t reveal her identity.”

“You need to get better at the game of reporting, Ace. You just let on that your source is a woman.”

He was right. If I could convince him to print the story, whoever was watching me could easily follow me around and spot me talking to her. “This could be big for both of us. I need this guy to come out of hiding and make a mistake. You need a really big story that could get you national attention. We could help each other.”

“Why are you asking me?”

I weighted my options and settled on the humbling truth. “Because you’re the only real reporter I know.”

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were a crackpot. But you’re lucky, Kidd, because you have a track record for being in, shall we say, newsworthy situations. Send me your article and let’s see what we can do.”

I hung up and read over my article before sending it. If Carl kept his end of the bargain and published it, this would set a chain of events into motion that would end this thing.

In some circles, fashion is a dirty word. In others, it’s a hobby. But to the men and women of the industry, it’s a way of life. Fashion represents who we were and where we’ve been. Curators and archivists have elevated fashion to an art form and dedicated their lives to preserving the styles of yesterday. But news of corruption at the esteemed Bethany House may change how people view the way we celebrate styles of the past.

Bethany House is an auction house that specializes in clothing, jewelry, and accessories. Founded in the 1980s, they’ve been the go-to inheritor of private collections around the Tristate area. They are the Sothebys of Style. Or are they?

Rumors from an anonymous source claim that they continue to hide their underhanded business dealings behind press releases about their acquisitions and news that all but the most fashion-minded would tune out.

I rested my fingers on the keys and leaned back. What else could I say? I could out Tahoma Hunt as being a felon, but that appeared to be old news. My coworker, on the other hand, had taken on more roles than an actress trying to land her first big break. He’d been the talented and connected overachiever at
Retrofit
, the surprise visitor in my office, and the gun-wielding sharpshooter who’d sprayed the Motel 6 with bullets.

The information I’d uncovered at the library spoke of a counterfeit ID operation, which led me to believe that the guy I’d worked with had the wherewithal to create fake identification. What it didn’t do was explain why he would want to.

Except that by using the name Pritchard Smith, he was waving a red flag. He wasn’t hiding his identity, he was putting it front and forward, trying to elicit a response from someone. Pritchard Smith—
either
Pritchard Smith—seemed to have no connection to Bethany House. But I knew it was there.

The short amount of time I’d spent in his presence left me with a keen awareness that, despite the fake identification and the status as coworker, I knew ridiculously little about him. I looked back at the article that I’d written. I put my fingers back on the keys and slowly typed.

The man at the center of all of this goes by the name Pritchard Smith. He should be considered dangerous. Anyone with information on him should contact Detective Loncar with the Ribbon Police
.

I saved the document and emailed it to Carl Collins before I lost my nerve. I included my untraceable cell phone number in the event he needed to reach me, and closed with a request:
Let me know when this runs.

I cleaned up the evidence of my cheese, grapes, and pretzel meal, wiped down Nick’s kitchen, and then used his bathroom. I dried my hands on his monogrammed towels and wandered back to the living room. I could have left. Maybe I should have left. But a part of me wanted to give Carl Collins a chance to email me back.

And a part of me wanted to find out what else I didn’t know about Nick. Especially why his monogrammed towels had the initials “D.T.” Whose initials were they?

I’d like to say I wasn’t proud of my snooping. I’d like to say that snooping around about my coworker had led to seven very good reasons as to why snooping, in general, was a bad idea. Seven very good reasons should have been enough to put me on the straight and narrow, reformed me from the same idle curiosity that had me almost run a background check on him. On the other hand, if I’d done that background check, I’d probably have learned that Nick’s full name was Domenic Taylor, a fact that I only learned today because I found his notice of late payment for the electric bill under the coffee pot in the kitchen.

I was dating a man named Domenic and I didn’t know it?

I put the electric bill back in the drawer and slammed it shut. It wasn’t snooping on my coworker, but it was snooping nonetheless. And it—my behavior—was Reason #8 that snooping was a bad idea: some things are better left undiscovered.

But it was too late. Because after learning of the poker games, the sax playing, and the protein powder, after finding the stash of signed and personalized Janet Evanovich books in the closet, after seeing him in his black plaid boxers, I couldn’t
not
snoop. Nick had been the one constant in my life since I’d moved from New York to Ribbon. He’d been the normal guy, the rock that I thought I could lean on, the port in the middle of the storm, the flotation device that I grasped when I was in choppy waters. Even when things hadn’t been going well, I’d projected a form of perfection onto him that made me feel not good enough, and then, by default, too difficult for him to handle. But every detail I’d found over the past few days had told me one thing. Nick was as human as I was, only I hadn’t given him the chance to show me his flaws.

I went through the kitchen, opening and closing drawers, looking for I didn’t know what. The angel who normally sits on my shoulder had taken a coffee break, and the devil was in full control. The only rational thought that occupied my mind was that, in a way, what I was doing was good practice should I ever need to search someone’s apartment without leaving a trace. Because if I left any evidence of what could only be described as the actions of a crazy person, the door to any kind of relationship with Nick would be closed, locked, and probably sealed with the Gorilla glue I found six bottles of under his sink.

Who needed six bottles of Gorilla glue?

I moved on to the bedroom. Brown corrugated wardrobe boxes lined the wall just inside the door. I raised the flaps on the first box and saw a wooden bar lying across the top, holding several zipped garment bags on wooden hangers. Nick’s suits.

I pulled out one garment bag, laid it on the bed, and unzipped it. Inside was a chocolate brown pinstriped suit of summer weight wool. I slipped the blazer off of the hanger and put it on, and then looked at my reflection in the mirrored doors of the closet that lined the south facing wall. Even though the jacket was too big in the shoulders, too boxy throughout the waist, too brown for my colorful sensibilities, it was perfect, because it was the Nick I knew. The professional shoe designer with the sartorial style. The scent of his Creed Bois du Portugal clung to the fabric, a faint aroma that made me feel like the man I knew was in the room with me. It was enough to shake me out of my temporary insanity.

What was I doing? If I couldn’t learn my lesson now, then I was incapable of growing, of changing, of becoming a better person. I didn’t have to ruin my life because I had an opportunity to snoop. I could tell Nick that something came up and I could leave right now.

I took off the suit jacket, rehung it on the wooden hanger, and, forgetting that the garment bag was on the bed, eased the closet door open so I could hang it inside.

Scratch being a better person. Because what I saw in the closet was enough to cancel out at least half of reason number eight. It was the most powerful evidence I could possibly have found to prove that my instincts to snoop were correct.

On the floor, next to a row of hanging trousers, bound and gagged on the floor, lay Nick Senior.

Chapter 26

LATE
MONDAY
NIGHT

I dropped the suit jacket on the floor and knelt beside Nick’s dad. He was dressed in the same clothes he’d worn the night that we’d watched the Son of Sam documentary. His wrists were pressed together and his fingers entwined like he was praying. I tried to push my hands between his palms to find a pulse, but had no luck. I pressed my fingers against his temple instead and felt a faint heartbeat.

“Mr. Taylor,” I repeated over and over. “Wake up. Mr. Taylor, come on, wake up.” He didn’t respond.

I looked for a closet light, but the socket was empty. It was too dark outside to get any kind of light from the window. My eyes had adjusted as much as they would, but it wasn’t enough. I pried at the knot on his gag until it was undone, and then unknotted the rags that bound his wrists and ankles. One by one I unbent his knees and laid his legs out in front of him. He hadn’t reacted, hadn’t appeared to notice that I was even there.

I ran out front and felt around for my untraceable phone. I pressed the 9 and the 1 before stopping to think about what Nick’s dad’s presence meant. Him being here was no accident. The poker game, the trip to Atlantic City, the hot tables and winning streak that kept him from answering his phone had all been made up. So had the message that he was okay. Whoever was stalking me had kidnapped him and made his life miserable to send a message to me. But how long had he been here? And why had he been brought back at all?

The fight. Whoever had done this must not have known that the fight was staged. He must not have known about the extraction by the parade location or the fact that the bearded, mustached, side-burned guy driving the Crown Vic was Nick himself. Which meant I
couldn’t
be the one to find Nick’s dad, because it would give away the fact that none of that had been real. It would bring the danger right back to the people I loved.