Stolen(75)

“Not to me,” Spense said.

“Our anonymous tipster is Laura Chaucer. She’s looking for someone who’ll listen without assuming she’s gone off her rocker—Grady doesn’t fit the bill, and her parents are swayed by his opinion.”

“How do you figure it’s Laura?” Spense arched an eyebrow.

“I can’t be one hundred percent certain. It’s a guess, but not a wild or uneducated one. Eight is how old Laura was when she was kidnapped. The ‘voice’ of the e-mail’s author seems feminine, and there’s a lot of subtext. If the sender were sitting in front of us, we’d be analyzing her body language as much as her words. So I’m just reading between the lines, trying to pick up the tone of the sender’s communication.”

He pulled out his cube and tossed it in the air. “I’ll play. The e-mail starts by mentioning your father. The subtext could be your father was railroaded. Please don’t let that happen to me.”

“That’s exactly how I’m reading it. And the part about you’re not the type to pre-judge could mean you won’t assume I’m a lying, crazy murderer just because I wrote that note. My guess is Laura is trying to defend herself. This is a cry for help, Spense, and I for one do not plan to ignore it.”

His back was to her.

“Where are you going?”

“I’ve got facial recognition software in my suitcase. I intend to find out who our mystery woman is, and what that photograph has to do with Ty Cayman’s passport pages.”

“He’s been traveling with the Chaucer family for over a decade. His room always adjoined Laura’s. What if she suspects him of some sort of crime?”

“You mean like murder? It wouldn’t surprise me at all to find that this dark-haired, blue-eyed mystery woman went missing in a foreign city around the time Cayman was there.”

Her gut was pinging an even louder warning. “The question is . . . how many cities are we talking about? And how many blue-eyed brunettes?”





Chapter 39





Sunday, October 27

7:00 P.M.

Boulder, Colorado



Spense set the platter containing the standing rib roast the moms had prepared on the dining room table, and a drop of hot grease splattered onto his chest just below his open collar. He felt the pop and smelled the faintest odor of singed chest hair, but better him than his fancy white dress shirt. Looking down, he double-checked, then smiled. No grease stains, just a bright red burn directly on top of his sternal notch. He was good to go.

Only he’d forgotten the matches.

He raced back into the kitchen for them, returned to the dining room and lit two tall tapered white candles. He centered a short crystal vase loaded with red roses between them, glanced up and forgot to breathe.

Caity stood at the foot of the table, her eyes shining like blue diamonds.

“God, you’re beautiful.”

“Thank you. What’s going on?” She pointed to the table, set for two.

“It’s a surprise.”

She tilted her head back and laughed. “I’ve had more than one surprise today, and I have to say this is definitely the best of them. Did you do this all by yourself or did the moms help?”

He came around and took her by the hand. In spite of present circumstances, everything felt right with the world when Caity was around. “They made the dinner, but I set the table and arranged the flowers. Does that count?”

She pulled his head down and pressed her lips against his, making his heart skip around in his chest. At this rate, he was going to need a defibrillator before the evening was over.

“Of course it counts. Spense, this is so thoughtful.”

“You don’t mind that I sent the moms to a movie?”

“No . . . but I have to say, I’m a little confused. I would’ve thought after your big talk with Agatha today you would’ve wanted her close.”

“I did. Actually, in a way, this was her idea.”

A small wrinkle appeared between her eyebrows.

“It was your mother’s idea to plan a romantic dinner for me?”

“No. That’s not what I meant. I just meant she was eager for you and I . . .” This was getting all screwed up. They were supposed to have a delicious, intimate meal. He was going to loosen her up with a bottle of wine, and then . . .

He dropped to one knee.

“Spense!”

It was too soon. He hadn’t warmed her up yet, and he needed to go over his speech a few more times in his head. He stuck his hand in his pocket searching for his Rubik’s cube, then pulled it out and looked down at the ring box.

Wrong pocket.

Right woman.

He heard her exhale sharply.