She took out a thin leather-bound tube and flipped the top cover off. Putting it up in position, she let the defense weapon speak for itself.
"Make sure you aim at my good one," he said, tapping his left eye. "The other side won't get you shit." When she opened her mouth to speak, he cut her off. "Did you expect to find Isaac here?"
"We're not alone. The landlady is downstairs."
"Oh, I know. She's talking to her sister about their brother's wife." Those patrician blue eyes of hers widened. "They don't like her because she's too young for him. I'd give you the details, but it's private. And not very interesting. Now, tell me, did you expect to find Isaac here."
She took a moment to reply. "I'm not answering any of your questions. I suggest you unlock that door and leave. You're trespassing." "If you own the world, there's no such thing as trespassing. And a word of advice--you want to come out of this alive, you'll be a little more accommodating." Matthias casually wandered over to the window above the sink and looked out of the milky glass. "But I suspect I know the answer anyway. You didn't think you'd find him here because you believe he's left Boston. You're basing this assumption on the cash he left behind with you--and don't bother to deny it. I listened to you talk to your buddy at the public defender's office--"
"It's illegal to tap someone's phone without a warrant."
Pushing against his cane, he straightened back up. "And I would say to you again that words like `trespassing' and `illegal' and `warrant' don't apply to me."
He could feel her fear . . . and see it, too. She had her fingers cranked down so hard on that cylinder that the knuckles were white. But really, she didn't need to worry all that much. It seemed highly unlikely that Isaac had told her anything material--that would be her death sentence, and the guy knew it: Nothing would keep her breathing if she had intel on XOps. Not even a desire to shut her father up for good.
"I think you and I should come to an agreement," he said, putting his hand inside his coat. "Hold it--don't go crazy with your bug spray. I'm just getting you a business card."
He pulled one out, holding it between the tips of his index and middle fingers, leaving the guns he was packing right where they were holstered. "If you see your client again, call this number, Ms. Childe. And know that it's the only reason I came here to see you. I just figured you and I should meet in person so you understand how serious I am about Isaac Rothe."
She kept the Mace with her as she came forward and tilted in, as if she wanted to stay as far away from him as possible. And he knew damn well as she took the card what she was going to do with it. But that was part of the plan.
As she studied what little had been imprinted, Matthias left his free hand where she could see it. "Isaac Rothe is a very dangerous man."
"I have to go," she said as she shoved what he'd given her into her purse.
"No one's keeping you. Here, I'll even get the door."
Opening the thing wide, he stood to the side and approved of the way she measured both him and the stairs that were revealed. Cautious, oh so cautious . . .
She went to hurry by him . . . and at the last moment before she was free, he snatched her arm and held her back. "I left something for you in the trunk of your car. After all, most accidents happen in the home, and you might need to call for help."
She ripped herself out of his hold. "Don't threaten me," she snapped.
As Matthias stared into those beautiful eyes of hers, he felt ancient. Ancient and broken and trapped. But as he had learned two years ago, he couldn't stop the trajectory of his life. It was like putting your palms up to an avalanche: You got crushed and the rush of snow and ice didn't even notice.
"I am not afraid of you," she said.
"You should be," he replied grimly, thinking of the twelve different ways he could make it so she didn't come down for breakfast tomorrow morning. "You should be very afraid."
He let her go, and she took off like a rocket, her blond hair flowing out behind her as she raced down the stairs.
Going back to that window over the sink, he watched her head around the house and go out to the street.
She was going to be so very useful in this situation, he thought.
On a number of levels.
Chapter Twenty-one
As Grier walked up to her Audi, she had the key remote in her hand and her heart in her throat. She'd seen that man before; there was some kind of flicker in the back of her mind, some memory of him. He hadn't had the eye patch or the cane--she would have remembered those. But she had definitely seen him.
Approaching the car, she stood beside it, every muscle in her body braced as if at any moment the thing was going to go Sopranos on her and blow sky-high. And just as she finally raised her key to unlock it, a black sedan with darkened windows eased by her on Tremont. Looking into the glass . . . she got nothing. All of it was impenetrable, and the sunlight glinted off the windshield so she couldn't see who was driving.
She knew damn well who was inside, however. And she'd bet that he was lifting a hand in a little wave.
The sedan didn't even have a license plate.
As the thing took off, all kinds of smart ideas went through her head, including the ever-present 911 call or doing a dial to her friends at the Boston Police Department or getting her father to come over. But she didn't think whatever was in the trunk was going to kill her. That man had already had his shot at her, so to speak: He could have easily drugged her and dragged her out the back or killed her outright with a silencer.
Letting her fingers do the walking would only lead to complications--and although the first thing she was going to do when she got home was get in touch with her father about this card, she wasn't sure she needed him to come screaming over here in a panic.
Shit, her cell phone might be tapped, too.
Hitting the remote, she released the trunk latch and slowly lifted. . . .
Frowning, she bent down and wondered if she was seeing things right. Sitting on the dark gray felt of the trunk's interior was . . . well, it appeared to be one of those Life Alert buttons that old people used, nothing but a cream-colored plastic transmitter in the shape of a triangle with the logo across the front in red. The chain it was on was silver, and long enough so that if you put it around your neck it would dangle below your heart.
She got a tissue out of her bag and picked the thing up for closer inspection; then she went around, got behind the wheel, and laid it out on the seat next to her. When she hit the ignition, she did flinch--in the event the Audi burst into flames--except her heart rate settled fast. But come on, she was an innocent bystander when it came to whatever was going on with Isaac, and she had to imagine that an American civilian on American soil was not the kind of collateral damage the U.S. government wanted to deal with.
As she drove over to Beacon Hill, she put a call in to her father, and when she got voice mail, she tried to leave a message, but what could she say given that she didn't know who was listening? She ended up deleting the fits and starts and figured he'd see the missed alert on his phone and get back in touch with her.
At home on Louisburg Square, she parked in her spot against the fence and looked around through the car windows. Who was watching her? And from where?
No wonder Isaac had been twitchy. The idea of getting from her Audi to her front door made her wish she had a Kevlar vest on.
Grabbing her purse and palming the Life Alert with the tissue, she got out and hurried over--except as she got closer to her house, she slowed. On the lantern, wrapped tightly around the base, was another strip of white cloth.
Pivoting fast, she stared up at all the brick buildings and wished she could see inside them.
She was not alone anywhere she went, was she.
As her heart got back on the Pony Express and her blood rushed through her veins and her brain, she ducked into her front door, disengaged the big alarm, and put the Life Alert on the breakfront. Dropping her bag, she quickly shut up the ADT's beeping, and then leaned out of the house only long enough to pull the cloth free.
One, two, three: she shut herself in, locked the door and reengaged the monster system--something that she never did in the daytime when she was at home.
With grim purpose, she went into the kitchen with her bag and put everything on the counter: the business card, the pieces of cloth, and the transistor. All of which she was careful to handle with a tissue.
The two sections of fabric were identical and had clearly been ripped off the same source--and she had a feeling where they were from. Isaac's muscle shirt.