Page 37 of Girl, Sought

‘Not yet.’ She kept her tone just south of friendly. Miss Blackburn and I need to talk immediately.’

‘I'm sorry, but Miss Blackburn is tied up.’ The receptionist had a tone like sour ice cream. Ella would bet her pension this woman filed her nails to points. ‘If you'd like to schedule-’

‘Well, untie her. Tell her to cancel the rest of her day while you're at it.’

Pointed silence crackled over the line. Ella let it stretch; gave the receptionist time to picture the cavalry about to trample her appointment book. Sometimes imagination did the heavy lifting.

Finally, a tight sigh - the verbal equivalent of clutching pearls. ‘One moment please.’

Muzak oozed through the speaker. Somewhere in that office sat files on Eleanor Calloway and Alfred Finch. Somewhere in those records, their killer had found his victims.

Luca perched on the desk edge, watching her with that half-smirk that said he knew exactly which buttons she was pushing. She covered the mouthpiece.

Luca said, ‘At least we know Vanessa is in the office.’

‘Catch more flies with battery acid than honey.’

‘Amen.’ He held up his fist for a bump just as the line clicked.

The line clicked. ‘Miss Blackburn can see you at eleven.’

‘Wonderful.’ Ella checked her watch - 10:15. ‘What’s your address?’

‘1542 Newbridge Avenue. We’re on the second floor.’

‘We'll be there in fifteen.’ She clicked off before the receptionist could muster a snippy goodbye. Luca was already grabbing his coat, reading her momentum like always.

‘Nicely done,’ he said.

‘Come on, Hawkins. Time to see how the other half lives.’

‘The collecting half or the appraising half?’

‘Either is fine with me.’ She scooped up keys and badges with one hand and her cell with the other. A few swipes pulled up a map - the CVG's bolthole was nestled in a corner of the historic district, where money got old and built mansions to match. ‘Let's see what an antiques appraiser with an elusive web presence has to say for herself.’

They headed for the car under a sky that promised yet more rain. Ella's gut churned with that familiar tension - the moment before pieces started falling into place or everything went sideways. Sometimes both.

Either way, someone was going to start talking. And Ella had a feeling Vanessa Blackburn knew something about why collectors in Chesapeake were suddenly joining their own collections.

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

The Curated Value Group's headquarters reminded Ella of one of those nothing-to-see-here sex shops she used to see in Abingdon. Their entrance was a black door wedged between a coffee shop and a law firm, with a brass number that had oxidized to the color of an old bruise. No sign. No window display of precious things.

‘This is it?’ Luca asked. He limped over to a trash can and dumped his coffee cup.

‘You okay there, Hawkins? I thought it was me who had leg pain.’

‘Worse. I really need to pee.’

‘Christ. Now?’

‘Bladder waits for no man.’

Ella shot him a look that could curdle milk. Sometimes she forgot Luca was human, with all the inconvenient biological imperatives that entailed. ‘Just try to maintain some dignity until we're inside. I’m sure they’ll let you use their bathroom if you ask nicely.’

He shifted from foot to foot, doing the universal dance of the overhydrated. ‘Yeah. Let’s make this snappy.’

‘Keep your eyes on everyone. Vanessa might not be our killer, but someone else in here might be.’

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