Page 53 of Dangerous Lover

Deaver slammed his hand on the walnut desk, cracking it slightly. He stood up and walked the perimeter of the room, trying to calm himself down.

That son of a bitch had over 15 million dollars plushisdiamonds. Deaver was going to take the diamonds back, have Prescott wire all his money to Deaver’s account in the Caymans, and then break every single bone in the son of a bitch’s body, before slitting his throat.

After he’d killed the woman.

It took fifteen minutes before he could settle back down, but when he did, it was with a soldier’s concentration. The beautiful surroundings, the staff on call, quivering to be of service, the lavish meal—they all disappeared as he focused like a laser beam on the mission.

There would be no more indulgences, no more foraysinto the good life, until Jack Prescott was found.

Where did he go?

Half an hour later, Deaver had the answer. A credit card corresponding to Jack Prescott had been used to buy a one way ticket from Freetown to Seattle, via Paris, Atlanta and Chicago. He couldn’t find any car rental agencies that had rented out a car to him.

So Deaver knew two things. One, Jack Prescott was in the Pacific Northwest and two, he hadn’t bothered hiding his tracks. He’d left a clear trail behind him, which meant he didn’t know Deaver was on his trail. Well, no. He’d left Deaver behind, in jail.

If Jack hadn’t wanted to be tracked, Deaver would have ended up playing with his dick forever. So Jack wasn’t expecting anyone to follow him. Perfect. Surprise attacks worked best.

So, Deaver thought, leaning closer to the screen showing a detailed map of Washington State, where in Washington are you? Did you go up into Canada? His eyes tracked to the top of the screen, which cut off about a hundred miles north of Vancouver. He let the thought run through his mind, examining it from different directions.

Nah. He had a valid passport and he wasn’t on the run. If he wanted to go up into Canada, he would have gone straight there.

No, everything pointed to Prescott being a man on a mission and taking a beeline to get there. Just as soon as he humanly could, he liquidated his assets and made straight for…

Straight for the girl—now a woman. Find her, find Prescott. Deaver was sureof it.

Once more, Deaver placed the two stolen photographs flat on the table and studied them, more intently this time. This time, they had to tell him where Prescott was, and fast.

It was entirely possible that Prescott would find a married woman with six kids, who over the past twelve years had gained fifty pounds and lost teeth and hair and didn’t remember him.

If that was the case, Prescott would disappear and Deaver would never find him, or his diamonds, again.

So he studied the photographs the way soldiers going into battle studied a terrain map—carefully and thoroughly, because it all depended on knowing what you were going to face.

The photograph had to date back to 2012 at the latest. Prescott hadn’t been linked to any particular woman since the Colonel found him. So this obsession he had was with someone he’d met in 2012 or earlier. The date on the newspaper clipping was October 12th, 2011, so maybe the photograph was from that period.

He studied the high school photo. Staged, like they all were. Deaver hadn’t had one. The old man wouldn’t spring for it, but he remembered everyone else’s at the high school. For most of them, it was their first formal portrait and they had fixed grins, or at least the ones whose teeth were good enough to show did. The girls had slapped on the makeup with a trowel and the boys had worn dress shirts instead of tee shirts, some for the first time in their lives.

This girl’s smile was natural, not stagy. Maybe she wasused to being photographed. She looked like a million other pretty teenagers, though prettier than most. Long, strawberry blonde hair with a little curl to it. Straight, even, white teeth. Some kind of pink sweater with a pearl necklace. No indication of what her body looked like, only a general impression of slenderness.

Deaver switched his attention to the photograph of her playing the piano, dressed in a sweater and a long skirt, showing off a great body, though the face was in profile.

He looked again at the newspaper heading.ville Gazette.

Well, he had a state to start with, Washington. Why would Prescott head straight for Seattle if what he wanted wasn’t in Washington?

Deaver called up all the townships in Washington state. Seventeen cities, ninety two townships. Four ending in—ville. None of them had a newspaper called theGazette.

Deaver sat back, thinking furiously.

This whole exercise might be futile. Maybe he was barking up the wrong tree. Caroline Lake had been a pretty girl. If she’d grown into a beautiful woman, she’d be married by now. Hell, she might be on her second or third marriage, having changed names a couple of times. She could be Caroline Warner in Las Vegas, or Caroline Yoo in San Francisco or Caroline Steinberg in New York.

Fuck.

Maybe he should start looking for Jack, who wasn’t bothering to hide his tracks. Maybe he should just hole up here for as long as Axel’s credit card lasted until the next time Jack usedhiscredit card.

Idly, Deaver Googled ‘newspaper + Gazette + Washington + 2011’ and bingo! There it was. He leaned forward, surprised at the hit. Goddammit, bless the internet because there it was in black and white, cursor blinking gently, just waiting for him to connect the dots. The Summerville Gazette, local rag for a small city called Summerville.

Eyes narrowed, Deaver leaned over the keyboard, Googling Caroline Lake + Summerville, Washington and came up with ten hits, all concerning a Caroline Lake who ran a bookshop, gave prizes and played the piano in church. To be on the safe side, he clicked onimagesand gazed at about fifteen photographs of Caroline Lake. Prescott’s Caroline Lake. Still beautiful, still unmarried.

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