Whiskey Beach(135)
“No. He’d be my first. I’d enjoy it. Fuck speculative.” He rammed his hands into his pockets as he paced the terrace. “Just fuck it. I don’t know if he killed Lindsay, but odds are. And I know, I know he’s responsible for what happened to Gran. I know he put his hands on you. He put a bullet in Duncan. He’ll do it all again and more to get what he’s after. And I can’t do a goddamn thing about it.”
“Yet.”
He stopped, tried to shrug off some of the frustration. “Yet.”
“What can you do at this point?”
“I can talk to Mike. I can think about talking to Eden Suskind, and the best way to approach her if I do. We can give the cops your ID of Justin Suskind, which gives them a reason to have a conversation with him—in a few days, to give Sherrilyn some time first. Not much is likely to come from that, but it should worry him when it happens. I can keep researching the dowry, and try to figure out why he thinks he’ll find it here.”
As he thought it through, he calmed. “I can trust the investigator to do her job. And as insurance? I can put together a plan to lure Suskind into the house so I can catch his sorry ass.”
“We,” she corrected.
“We can see his place, therefore he can sure as hell see Bluff House. So he’s watching it, at least off and on. We’d have to make sure he was in there. Then we could make a show of leaving the house. Maybe we even take a couple of overnight bags.”
“Like we were taking a quick trip.”
“It would give him the perfect opening. We just park out of sight, circle back on foot and go in the south side. And into the passageway with a video camera. I’ve been looking at some online, and nanny cams.”
“Excellent, proactive. And it could work. What about Barbie?”
“Crap. Yeah, he might not come in with her barking. We take her with us, leave her with Mike. Would they keep her for a few hours?”
“Absolutely.”
“We’d need to refine it.” And he’d want to walk it off, judge the timing. “It’s a good backup. Hopefully, between Sherrilyn and the cops, they’ll put together enough to pull him in and pressure him.”
“I like the idea of huddling in a secret passage, with my lover.” She wrapped her arms around him. “Preparing to ambush a cold-blooded killer. It’s like a scene from a romantic thriller.”
“Just don’t sneeze.”
“As if. And speaking of scenes from a book . . .”
“Yeah, a deal’s a deal. I’ll pick one. Let me think about it.”
“Fair enough. Now about that tie.”
“You’re serious about that?”
“Deadly. You can go pick one while I run those wet clothes I completely forgot about through the wash. Then I can look at those files while you do the dishes. Barbie will need her bedtime walk by then.”
“You’ve got it all figured out.”
“I do try.” She kissed him, one cheek, then the other. “One tie,” she repeated, and tugged him back inside.
More reluctant than he’d expected, he went upstairs, pulled his tie rack out of the closet.
He liked his ties. It wasn’t as if he had an emotional attachment, but he liked having a variety. Choices.
Which still didn’t explain why he’d brought them all to the beach, especially when he’d worn a tie a spare handful of times in the last six months.
Okay, maybe a slight emotional attachment. He’d won court cases in these ties, and lost a few. He’d selected one every day of his working life. Had loosened them during late nights at the office. Knotted and unknotted them countless times.
In another life, he admitted.
He reached for one—blue and gray stripes—changed his mind, lifted a maroon with a muted paisley pattern. Changed it yet again.
“Oh hell.”
He shut his eyes, reached down and grabbed one blind.
It just had to be a freaking Hermès.
“Done.”
It actually hurt to carry it away from the others. To offset the downer, he swung into his office.
She’d tell him it was good, he thought as he tried to decide what scene to give her. She’d lie.
He didn’t want her to lie. He wanted it to be good.
Oddly, he realized that he knew just the scene for her to read—one where he could use her feedback.
He scrolled through his manuscript, found the pages. Before he could change his mind, he printed them out.
“Don’t be a pussy,” he ordered himself, and took them and the tie downstairs.
She sat at the counter, one bare foot rubbing the flank of the dog that sprawled on the floor. And wore glasses with bold orange frames.