this morning.”

“You’re kidding.”

Maybe that wasn’t the right response. His smile slipped. “No. Here, I’ll show you.” He

rose, went to the desk and picked up a postcard, which he handed me.

I opened my mouth to mention the possibility of fingerprints, but it seemed pointless

now. I took the postcard gingerly and studied it. Malibu Beach at sunset, sure enough. I

glanced at the back. The postmark was Malibu, dated yesterday. I considered the

handwriting. I’d seen enough of Gabe Savant’s writing the night of the signing to recognize

what superficially looked like his bold, erratic hand.

Sorry, Bobby. I need some me time. You’ll see me when you see me. G.

“Is this his handwriting?” I asked Bob.

“Of course!” There it was again, that high-pitched, slightly unsteady laugh. “Of course,

it’s his. This is exactly like Gabe.” He got up, as though he couldn’t handle sitting still one

minute longer and slopped himself a drink from the bottle on the table.

“Are you okay?”

He swung on me, nearly spilling his drink. “Of course, I’m okay! Everything is fine

now. I wanted you to know so that you wouldn’t keep” – he swallowed – “worrying. I

mean, it’s awkward, of course, to cancel the book tour now. But there was only the Pacific

Northwest left anyway. I mean, they’ll get over it. The main thing is that Gabe is A-okay.”

“That’s great news,” I agreed courteously. “So you don’t actually know where he’s

staying?”

“I don’t need to know.” He tossed his drink back. “So, I want to thank you for all your

help.”

“I didn’t actually do anything.”

“Well, for your concern, then.” His smile was plastered back in place – plastered being

the key word.

“Will you be leaving soon?” I inquired.

“Leaving?”

“You don’t live here, do you? You’re not local?”

“I – no, I live in New York. And yes, I will be leaving. Shortly. I have to wrap up a few

loose ends, then I’ll be flying home. This weekend, in fact.”

I rose, offered a hand. “Good luck, Bob. I’m glad it all worked out.”

He stared at me, his expression calculating. “Thank you. And you’ll…”

He didn’t finish the thought. I said curiously, “I’ll…what?”

He shook his head, said brightly, “Take care of yourself!”

“I’ll do that,” I said.

Chapter Sixteen

If Gabriel Savant was sitting on a beach in Malibu sipping mai tais and enjoying some

me time, I was an NHL first-round draft pick. I wasn’t sure why Bob Friedlander felt like he

had to convince me his meal ticket was safe and sound, but I wasn’t buying the postcards

from the edge act.

What I didn’t understand was why Bob pretended to.

I was still turning this over in my mind when I stopped at Vons on the way home to

pick up a few essentials, including a couple of steaks on the off-chance that Jake might drop

by one evening. The tabloid headlines at the checkout counter reflected the public’s

perennial fascination with space alien babies, miracle pets, and celebrity indiscretions. By

next week, Angus and Wanda would be hitting the stands.

Unless Savant’s body had turned up by then.

If he wasn’t dead, I didn’t get Bob’s distress. Unless Savant was being held for ransom.

I’d seen enough crime films to know that kidnappers always wanted their targets to hide

what was going on from the police, but I wasn’t the police. I wasn’t involved at all. Okay,

maybe I’d shown a little curiosity, but it’s not like I was investing any time or effort in Bob’s

problem. I had enough problems of my own.

Bob was still scared, I thought, going into the dry cleaner’s, but there had been another

emotion in play that afternoon. What was it? Suspicion? Yeah, maybe. I tried to remember

my first impression of Friedlander the night of the signing. Quiet and mild-mannered. But

what else? I thought back. Friedlander had struck me as smart, aware, and apologetic. Clearly

he was under no illusions where Savant was concerned. He was used to cleaning up Savant’s

messes, used to apologizing for him. Maybe tired of it?

I picked up my dry cleaning and headed for the local carwash, running this over in my

mind.

He was frightened, he was wary, and he was…guilty?

* * * * *

I expected to find everything closed by the time I got back to Cloak and Dagger Books,

but when I walked in the side door I found the lights on and an extremely uptight Velvet

waiting with a couple of guys. Judging by their suits and ties, I thought they might be

plainclothes cops.

“They said they needed to talk to you,” Velvet said defensively, in answer to my

surprise. “Can I go?”

“Yeah, you can go,” I said, and go she did, banging out through the back.

The foremost guy, a tanned fifty-something with a gray buzz cut and a Batman tie,

introduced himself as Luke Best, one of the legal investigators working for Angus’s defense

team.

I set the grocery bags on the wooden counter. We shook hands. My mind was going a

million miles a minute, but I tried not to let any of my alarm show on my face.

I didn’t catch his partner’s name, but he was a bit younger, lankier, with a superb

haircut and no superhero fixation.

“We want to verify some facts about Angus’s employment,” Best said with a smile I

didn’t trust. “This is a nice place you have here.”

“Thanks,” I said. “What did you want to ask?”

“Are we keeping you from putting your groceries away?”

“They’ll keep.” The personal items Jake left lying around wouldn’t fill a shoebox. But I

didn’t want to take a chance. I didn’t want these two upstairs.

Best and his partner exchanged glances. Then Best proceeded to ask the basics: how

long had Angus worked for me, how much did I pay him, what kind of employee was he, did

we socialize, blah, blah, blah.

I was starting to relax when he said, still friendly and easy, “Angus says you paid him

quite a bit of money to disappear.”

I blinked. “You can spin that a couple of ways,” I said. “The truth is, he was scared, and

I thought it would be better for him to get away for a couple of weeks. He couldn’t afford to

go on his own, so I gave him the money.”

“This is when the whole Devil-worship issue arose?”