“Did you lose him?” Maggie demanded, wondering why she felt an odd sense of relief.
“I lost him. What a complete waste of time,” he said disgustedly.
“Not completely,” Caleb said. “I still have the videotapes.”
nine
Randall wasn’t accustomed to wishful thinking. He’d managed to avoid that weakness all of his adult life, but when he’d returned to Caleb McAllister’s third-floor apartment, bloody but unbowed, he could have sworn that Maggie Bennett had greeted his arrival with heartfelt relief.
Not even his news that he’d lost the intruder had put a shadow on the first real smile she’d given him in six years. The sight of that genuine, warm smile had been like a fist in his stomach. With that glowing look on her face, he had to admit that she was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen in his entire life. And his desire, his semipathological need to have her, to own her, grew to almost unmanageable proportions.
He’d taken his drink calmly. None of his reactions had showed on his well-schooled face as he sat down beside her, grimacing at his scuffed shoes and rumpled suit. And she hadn’t moved away. Step one, he thought with wary relief.
“You still have the videotapes?” he now repeated. “Where? And why, for that matter? Did you think someone might try to take them?”
“I had no idea they were of any particular importance,” Caleb said. Randall wasn’t sure whether to believe him or not. “They’re in a box in the trunk of my car. I was going to take them to my sister’s in Evanston. She’s a sci-fi buff, and I thought maybe she could tell me if the movies are as lousy as I think they are. And maybe she could tell me what the difference is between the two versions—they look identical to me. Certainly not different enough to warrant the expense.”
“And they’re still in the car?”
“They were ten minutes ago, when I got here.”
“Do you mind if we take them?” Randall made the request politely enough. It wouldn’t hurt to give McAllister the impression that he had a choice in the matter.
Caleb’s ironic smile made it clear that he wasn’t fooled. “It wouldn’t do me much good to say no, would it?”
“No.”
“Then be my guest. You might consider telling me who the two of you are,” he said, pouring himself another, lighter drink and holding up the bottle in silent inquiry. Maggie nodded, and Randall could see her reserve creeping back in around the edges. She’d moved away from him on the sofa. That small piece of body language was inescapable. She was withdrawing, and at that moment he couldn’t spare the energy to pull her back. It would have to wait.
“Maggie is Kate’s sister,” he said, shaking his head at the proferred drink. “There’s no mystery about that.”
“And you?”
Randall smiled, and he could feel Maggie pull away even further, which infuriated him. Next time he wouldn’t let her go. Not until he was ready to. “I’m Maggie’s lover.” He felt her tense and saw her open her mouth to deny it, then close it again. There was a mutinous look on her beautiful, open face.
“And?”
“And what?”
“Why have the two of you decided to find out who killed Francis? Your … mistress”—the slight, ironic inflection made it clear that Caleb wasn’t swallowing the tale—“already explained that you were searching my place for clues. Do you have an Agatha Christie fetish, or is there some reason you’re out to best the police?”
Randall shrugged. “Just idle curiosity.”
“Don’t treat other people like fools, Randall,” Maggie snapped. “Caleb knows something is going on. Surely if he were part of it, no one would have trashed his office and ransacked his apartment. He wouldn’t offer us the videotapes if he were part of the espionage scheme.”
“Espionage scheme?” Caleb echoed, shocked out of his usual polite complacency.
Damn the woman, Randall thought. “Maybe I will have another drink.”
“Maybe you’ll tell me what the hell is going on,” Caleb said.
“You know, Maggie, you shouldn’t be so gullible,” Randall turned to her, ignoring Caleb’s pugnacious demand. “If McAllister were part of this whole thing, he probably has a partner. What better way to appear innocent than to have him look like a victim, have his office trashed and his apartment searched? And then he could helpfully offer us useless videotapes and keep us busy while he took care of the real dirty business of getting the information out of the country and covering up Francis’s murder.”
“God, you’re suspicious,” Maggie breathed, awe and disgust clear on her face.
“You’ll find, my dear Maggie, that it pays not to trust anyone. Anyone at all.” He watched her withdraw even more, and silently he cursed himself.
“That’s fine. You live your life that way, if you can call it living,” she snapped. “I prefer to take my chances and trust my fellow man.”