And then the door opened. Caleb McAllister stood there, his face awash with shock and anger. The first intruder used the moment to wrench away, shoving Caleb out of the way and racing out the apartment. Randall was on his heels and disappeared into the night, leaving Maggie draped over the living-room furniture. Her face throbbed from its collision with the chair, and her breath shuddered through her body. He had left her to face a very angry Caleb McAllister.
He stood erect, closed the door quietly behind him, and walked into the living room. Looking down at Maggie, he reached out a large hand to her. She considered it a moment, took it, and he pulled her upright with far more courtesy than she deserved, considering the situation he found her in. Damn it, and damn Randall, too, for not having come up with a believable story in case they were caught. Caleb should have gone straight to Sybil’s for supper, but there were never any guarantees in this life. Apparently he’d found a reason to stop by his home between parties. Damn and damn again.
Caleb just looked at her, a long, steady look. “I expect you could do with a drink,” he said finally. “I know I certainly could. That should give you enough time to think up a plausible excuse. I just hope you’re a better liar than your sister. She always blushes.”
“Does she lie to you very often?” Maggie’s voice came out a little rusty as her breathing returned to normal. Her pulse was still racing and would continue to race until Randall returned in one piece. Not that she gave a damn about Randall, she reminded herself. She just wanted to know if he’d caught the intruder.
“Often enough. Scotch okay?”
“Scotch would be perfect. Straight, no ice. By the way, why didn’t you go to Sybil’s?”
“I had a funny feeling that something was going on here. I always trust my instincts.” He gave her the drink, dark amber and very potent, and waited until she sank down into the comfortable sofa. “Were you and Carter responsible for the shape of my office, too?”
“No. We’re much neater than that. I expect it was the man Randall chased out of here who trashed your office.”
“Do you have any idea what he was after? Or what you were after, for that matter?” He was unfailingly polite, almost unimaginatively so, and Maggie could see how Kate could underestimate him. The intelligence in those bright blue eyes belied his innocuous manner. Kate would be well advised to look further beneath his polite exterior—it might be well worth it.
“We didn’t know what we were after. Anything that might have some bearing on Francis’s death. Your intruder seemed to have zeroed in on videotapes.”
Caleb nodded. “Of course.”
“Of course?” Maggie prompted, taking a deep, soul-satisfying drink of the Scotch.
“I confiscated the tapes of Francis’s newest masterpiece, The Revenge of the Potato People, Part Two. He was ready to send them out to the packagers in Europe, and I wasn’t about to do that until he answered a few questions.”
“What kind of questions?”
“Simple ones. Like why they were so far over budget. Why several versions were filmed. Why, when Revenge of the Potato People Part One lost so much money, he had gone ahead with Part Two. Why his biggest customer didn’t have a phone, an address, or any record of payment when I tried to track them down.”
“Who was his biggest customer?”
“Red Glove Films. They’re supposedly located in a small industrial town in Eastern Europe that no one’s ever heard of.”
Maggie had a curious, sinking sensation. “What town?”
“
It’s called Gemansk. Why the hell they’d have a film distribution company is beyond me.” He shook his head, taking a deep sip of his own drink. “So you want to tell me why you and Carter thought you had the right to break into my apartment? And why you decided to suspect me? Or were you more interested in framing me?”
“Caleb, that man hiding in your apartment who Randall was wrestling with was the bad guy, not us. And, apparently, not you. We didn’t really suspect you, Caleb. We just had to start somewhere.”
“Why didn’t you start with your own sister?”
“Do you think she had something to do with it?”
Caleb looked at her. “I don’t know,” he said finally. “She knows more than she’s saying.”
“So do I.”
He smiled briefly. “You probably had something to do with Francis’s death, too. Am I right to assume The Revenge of the Potato People, Part Two has something to do with it?”
“It certainly seems so. In which case, we’re all involved, whether we know it or not.” Was that the sound of someone in the hallway? Her hands were shaking around the warm glass of whiskey. Caleb didn’t indulge in air conditioning, and the room still held the trapped daytime heat. That must have been the reason her palms were sweating as she strained to listen.
He didn’t bother knocking. The door was still unlocked, and Randall stepped into the apartment—alone. His perfect black suit was slightly rumpled, his hair was mussed, and there was the beginning of a bruise on his forehead. He looked more human than Maggie had ever seen him, and she took another gulp of her whiskey.
“Could I have one of those?” Randall inquired politely. “I need it.”
Without a word, Caleb rose and poured him a drink.