Page 9 of Evidence of Deceit

“Ashley would have said something, but we can call her,” George replied.

“Would you? Can we do it now? I’m worried about Claire and what’s happening to her.”

George pulled out his cell phone and dialed Ashley. He spoke to her for a few minutes and hung up the phone. “Ashley hasn’t heard from Claire in months.”

Damn.They were either good at hiding her, or they really didn’t know where she was. He was going to have to think of an appropriate punishment for Claire when he found her. She’d embarrassed him too many times.

He stood up. “I’m so sorry to drop this on you. I need to get back to the condo in case she comes home. If you hear anything, please let me know.”

They said they would, and George walked him to the door.

“I don’t understand any of this. Claire never had depression before. Please call if you hear from her.”

Keith nodded, shook hands with her father and left. Who else could he contact?

Maybe someone at the museum? He knew most of the women who worked there or their husbands, but there were a couple of new employees. Had Claire befriended one of them? She knew better than to confide in anyone, especially someone they knew. She’d learned that lesson the hard way, and he was sure she remembered what happened the first and last time she confided in acquaintances. So maybe it was someone new.

Keith drove backto the city, dropped off the car. He waved to the doorman and took the private elevator to his fifth-floor penthouse. Fifth Avenue—the best address inNew York City. Apartment on Fifth Avenue—the second best.

He got the penthouse for a steal. A former client had some financial difficulties that he helped him with, and part of the deal was the apartment. Not that the client wanted to part with it. But hey, you fool with bad guys, you pay the price. And the price was a “get out of jail” card for the client and a two-story penthouse with a rooftop garden overlooking Central Park for him. Five bedrooms, five baths, 7,000 square feet of luxury. Too much for just him and Claire, but the price had been right.

He set the mail he had picked up downstairs on the console. It was raining outside, the sky a deep charcoal gray. The apartment had a depressing feel to it. Where was Claire? Didn’t she know he needed her? Well, not exactly need, but he wanted her. Wanted to consume her. Wanted her to adore him. Shit, where did that come from? He didn’t need anyone. But he paid for and deserved her love and devotion.

Going into the kitchen, he opened the double-wide door of the Sub-Zero refrigerator and took out a beer—the microbrew he preferred and Claire always stocked. Snapped the cap off and took a healthy slug. Where else could he go? Claire’s parents and sister were not going to be any help. She didn’t have any friends except for the ones they saw occasionally, but they were his friends, not hers. Not that he had friends, but they all pretended. Even at the museum, he knew practically everyone there.

Maybe a visit was in order. First, he needed to shower and change his clothes. Finish his beer. Check his phone. Perhaps she had called and was begging to come home. He didn’t think so, but he was optimistic.

The hot water sluiced over his body, and he scrubbed with the Hermes soap he preferred. A luxury for sure, but he wasnever going back to the cheap stuff his father bought. He stood under the shower for a good ten minutes, his thoughts consumed with Claire. The many times he had taken her in the shower. The last time she went down on him. How he loved her breasts and the way she screamed when she came. Damn. She was his.

Where was she?

His cock was hard, and he was furious. Furious that he had to take matters into his own hands—again. With vigorous rubbing, it only took a couple of minutes to explode over the shower wall. He welcomed the relief, but his anger returned. He rinsed off and got out to towel-dry. He wrapped the super plush towel around his waist and lay down on their king-size bed for a few minutes, inhaling the floral scent he preferred on Claire.

Next steps. Keith tapped his chest with his fingers and contemplated how he was going to find out where Claire was. It was Tuesday, the day Claire usually worked in the museum shop. It was only a short walk to the museum. He would visit this afternoon.

Plan made. Keith took a short nap before he went out again.

A couple of hours later,Keith entered the Metropolitan Museum, flashed his pass to the guard, walked through the Great Hall and turned right. He passed through the columns at the entrance of the museum store and walked around the cases of jewelry, books, paper, magnets, tchotchkes—something for everyone to remember their visit to the museum.

“Keith,” a woman’s voice purred behind him. He turned and almost bumped into her rather ample bosom.

“Mary,” he said, “long time no see. How’ve you been?”

The silver-haired bimbo had been trying to get in his pants for over a year now. She was always rubbing her breasts against him whenever he saw her. Yuck. He was usually faster to avoid her, but today he let her take some liberties.

Mary told him she was fine. She was working here part-time. Keith remembered she lost her husband, a member of his firm, a year ago, and they talked about Bob for a while.

Taking her arm, he led her to a corner. “Mary, I’m in a jam here.”

“Oh, no!” Her blue eyes widened. Her false eyelashes moved like caterpillars on her lids, and he tried not to stare. Didn’t she know how silly she looked? Claire was always subtle with her makeup. Just the way he liked it.

“Is Claire here? I know this is her day to work.”

“Claire?” she cocked her head. “We were told she was sick and taking some time off. Is everything okay?”

Sick, my foot.

“No. Not really. Claire hasn’t been feeling well.” He leaned in closer, forced another tear, made his lips quiver. “She’s having an issue with depression, not taking her meds, and disappeared a couple of days ago.”

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