Page 121 of Homeport

“I was more frightened than hurt,” she murmured, and stared hard at the surface of the table.

“I’m sorry you were either. He didn’t go for the house?”

“No, just grabbed my purse, my briefcase, slugged me, and ran.”

“Jewelry?”

“No.”

“Were you wearing any?”

“Yes, I was wearing a gold chain and watch—the police wondered about that too. But I had my coat on. I don’t suppose he saw them.”

“This watch?” He held up her wrist, examining the slim eighteen-karat Cartier. An idiot could fence it for a grand, minimum, he mused. “A hit and grab like that doesn’t sound like an amateur who’d miss this sort of easily liquidated asset. And he doesn’t force you into the house, steal any number of excellent and portable items.”

“The police figured he was someone passing through, short of cash.”

“He might figure you had a couple hundred on you if he was lucky. Not worth armed robbery.”

“People kill for designer tennis shoes.”

“Not this kind of deal. He was after your ID, darling, because someone didn’t want you to get to Florence too soon. They needed time to get to work on the copy, and couldn’t afford you underfoot until they had it under way. So they hired a pro. Someone who wouldn’t be messy or make stupid mistakes. And they paid him enough so he wouldn’t be greedy.”

The explanation was so simple, so perfect, she only stared, wondering why she hadn’t made the connection herself. “But the police never suggested that.”

“The cops didn’t have all the data. We do.”

Slowly, she nodded, and slowly the anger began to inch up into her chest, into her throat. “He held a knife to my throat for my passport. It was all to delay me. To give them more time.”

“I’d say the probability ratio is very high. Run through it again for me, step by step. It’s a long shot, but maybe some of my connections can tag your man.”

“If they can,” she said soberly, “I don’t want to meet your connections.”

“Don’t worry, Dr. Jones.” He turned her hand over and kissed her palm. “You won’t.”

• • •

There was no place to buy a bottle on Easter Sunday. When he caught himself driving around and around, looking for one, Andrew began to shake. It wasn’t that he needed one, he told himself. He wanted one, and that was different. He just wanted a couple of drinks to smooth out the edges.

Damn it, everybody was on his back. Everything rested on him. He was sick to death of it. So fuck them, he decided, tapping his fist on the wheel. Fuck them all.

He’d just keep driving. He’d head south and he wouldn’t stop until he was damn good and ready. He had plenty of money, what he didn’t have was any fucking peace.

He wouldn’t stop until he could breathe again, until he found a goddamn liquor store that was open on a goddamn Sunday.

He glanced down, stared at the fist that was ramming over and over into the steering wheel. The fist that was bloody and torn and seemed to belong to someone else. Someone that scared the hell out of him.

Oh God, oh God. He was in trouble. With his hands trembling, he jerked the car to the curb, and leaving the engine running, rested his head on the wheel and prayed for help.

The quick knuckle rap on the window had him jolting up and staring through the glass at Annie’s face. Head cocked, she made a circling motion with her finger, telling him to roll down the window. It wasn’t until he saw her that he realized he’d headed for her house.

“What are you doing, Andrew?”

“Just sitting here.”

She shifted the small bag she carried and studied his face. It was a mess, she noted, bruised, sick in color, worn out. “You piss somebody off?”

“My sister.”

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