“No, I’m fine, thanks.” They both sat down together. “How you holding up?”
As Mrs. Cambourg gathered her thoughts, Erika glanced around. Unlike the gallery below—or the collection rooms, for that matter—up here, there was a lot of color. Well, assuming gold was a color. Even the sofa was gold and black. It was like the eighties had stalked through the previous three decades and decided to camp out in the present.
Through the archway, Erika noted that even the kitchen appliances were gold.
Toilets, too? Probably.
“I didn’t sleep at all.”
“I’ll bet. Anyone bother you?”
“Oh, no. I put the panic walls in place. They seal up the stairwell and everything, including the windows up here. Even if someone would have wanted to get in, they wouldn’t have been able to . . . you, know get at me. I mean. Yes.”
Erika cleared her throat. “So I have some news. I believe we’ve found your husband’s watches.”
Mrs. Cambourg sat forward. “You did?”
Erika nodded. “The insurance pictures you emailed us were really helpful, and we happened to be at another scene last night where we think they may have been fenced. May I show you some images for identification?”
“Yes. Please.”
Firing up her laptop, Erika put the screen between them. “Do you recognize any of these—here, use the cursor. Yup. That’s it.”
Mrs. Cambourg’s eyes teared up as she went through the pictures. “Yes. These are his—and yes, that’s the storage case he kept them in. The one that was in our safe.”
Absently, Erika wondered whether that diamond necklace was still on under that turtleneck. She was willing to bet it was. Although why that was relevant to anything, she hadn’t a clue.
“And nothing else is missing, correct?” she asked.
“No, nothing else was taken.”
Erika nodded. “While we were at the other scene, we found some security cameras. Their footage shows your husband’s watches being delivered by a man, and I’d like to see if you recognize him? May I play you a clip?”
Mrs. Cambourg dragged a hand through her silken hair. “Of course.”
“Here.” Erika pulled the laptop to herself and loaded the next file. “Look at this.”
As she hit play and angled things back to the other woman, she felt her lungs tighten up. And then, even though she’d watched the footage a dozen times, and had been the one to crop the file, she got lost once again . . . as the man in black walked on-screen.
He was tall, and given his muscular contours, he looked like he worked out often and intensely—and he sure as hell moved like he was in total control of his body. Up top over those big shoulders, his hair was dark and cut short, but it was his affect that really got her attention. There was such a cold, calculating calmness to his stunningly attractive face. Even as he stopped and looked at the corpse with its brains blown out on the wall behind the couch.
It was like he’d seen a lot of dead bodies.
But of course, the image of the deceased had been redacted from this cut. Mrs. Cambourg had had enough shock. Speaking of which—
Erika frowned at her expression. “Do you know who that is?”
It was a while before the other woman answered. And when she did, it was in a soft, confused voice.
“That’s the man in my dream.” She pointed at the screen. “That’s the man I dreamed of.”
• • •
“Blue shirt . . . red shirt.”
Nate held one in front of himself. Then the other. Both were flannel. Both had a black-based plaid. Both—
No, the red. The red was definitely better.
Tossing the blue aside on his bathroom counter, he leaned over the sink to make sure where he’d nicked himself shaving was healed. Looked good. He took the piece of toilet paper off the blood spot.
Well . . . shit. The red shirt was a good idea until he tucked it into his blue jeans. Then he looked like the Brawny paper towel man.
“Damn it.” He checked his phone. “New shirt.”
As he removed the offending flannel, he took a minute to study his chest. His arms. His shoulders. They were okay—by a human standard. Against someone like his father? He was the skinny kid at the beach who got sand kicked in his face.
If Elyn really needed me, could I make sure she was safe? he asked his reflection.
“Fuck.”
And he wished he had some cologne.
Out in his bedroom, he went over and pulled open the closet door. Sweatshirts. More flannels. Polos that would have worked if it were May. June. July.
Unless he was Shuli, of course. And he wasn’t on so many levels.
In the end, he went with a plain white Hanes t-shirt that was brand-new and a let’s-be-casual Mark Rober sweatshirt. Just as he was pulling the latter over his head, there was a knock on the door.