“Don’t you think it’s time you retired that lame line? You’ve been using that since college,” said a man from behind him.
“It’s not lame, it shows off my wry sense of humor and makes a good icebreaker.” Tucker turned back to Victoria for agreement. “Right? Good icebreaker?”
Before she could answer, a second man, holding a bottled beer, appeared in the doorway—the guy in the hipster hat whom Audrey had been eyeing at The Violet Hour.
“Hello, Ford’s new neighbor,” he cheerfully greeted her, extending his hand. “I’m Charlie. We hear you’re a divorce lawyer or something.” He cocked his head. “Huh. Have we met before? You look familiar.”
“I was just thinking the same thing,” Tucker said.
“I think we were at the same bar two weeks ago,” Victoria said. “The Violet Hour?”
Charlie pointed. “That’s it! You’re the girl Ford was checking out.” He tapped Tucker on the shoulder. “Remember, right before we joined the bachelorette party?”
Tucked nodded. “Oh, yeah. Man, he was really into you that night.” He paused. “Probably, I wasn’t supposed to say that out loud, either.”
“So. That’s some coincidence, huh?” Charlie asked her. “You two living next to each other now.”
“Like a freaky, kismet kind of thing,” Tucker agreed.
Charlie snorted. “Kismet? Who uses that word anymore?”
“Um, lots of people,” Tucker shot back.
“Yeah, lots of people like my grandmother.”
“Well, then your grandmother must be cool as hell, because Kismet happens to be the name of a comic book character. Marvel and DC,” Tucker emphasized victoriously.
Charlie rolled his eyes, then turned to Victoria. “Anyway.”
“Yes. Anyway,” Tucker said, looking a bit peeved.
Both men stared expectantly at Victoria.
“So, just to clarify . . . is Ford actually home?” she asked.
“Right. That.” With a chuckle, Charlie pushed open the door. “He’s in the shower—we just got back from the gym. He didn’t know what time you’d be stopping by, so he asked us to hang around until he got out.”
Victoria stepped inside the loft, checking out the place as she followed Charlie and Tucker. Layout-wise, the condo was the mirror image of hers, and the kitchen granite and shelves were basically the same, but that was about where the similarities ended.
“Wow,” she said, both surprised and impressed. Clearly, he’d invested a lot of time and effort into the place. Half of the open floor plan was designated as a living space, with a leather couch and chair, brick walls, and a sliding door that led out onto the terrace. But the other half appeared to be a combination dining/work space, with a striking reclaimed-wood-and-steel table and matching stools, and two entire walls of built-in reclaimed-wood bookshelves.
It was a great space, masculine and urban and yet also warm and inviting, too. The wall shelves were various heights and filled with a mixture of books, artwork, framed photographs, and other interesting odds and ends: an antique clock, a sculpture of a hand, and something that looked like a replica Star Wars blaster.
She walked over to take a closer look. Good thing this wasn’t a date, because if it had been, she would’ve been tempted to spend a good, long time examining all the nooks and crannies of those bookshelves, trying to discover what they said about the man who owned the place. “This is nice. Really nice.”
“Try not to sound so surprised,” said a dry voice.
Victoria turned and got her first look at the shower-fresh version of Ford Dixon. Gorgeous as ever; six-foot-plus inches of incredibly blue eyes; wet, mussed hair; low-slung jeans; and a T-shirt stretched across his broad, solid chest.
And bare feet.
She heard the tiny cry of a hundred unfertilized eggs as one of her ovaries exploded.
She cleared her throat, pointing to the wall shelves. “Did you do this yourself?”
“I did.”
“With our help,” Charlie said, waving from the kitchen. “Well, mostly Tuck and I just drank beer and held a few boards. Speaking of which . . .” He tossed his empty beer into a recycle bin under the sink and opened the fridge. He grabbed another beer, then stopped short when he saw Ford staring at him.
Charlie looked between Ford and Victoria, then smiled innocently and put the beer back. “I’m guessing you two have work you want to get to.”
“What are you guys working on, anyway?” Tucker asked. “Is this something for the Trib?”
“It’s a project for one of Victoria’s clients,” Ford said ambiguously, giving Victoria a subtle look.
“Huh. Sounds very . . . boring.” Tucker pointed a finger at each of them. “Well. I guess we’ll let you two worker-bees get down to it. Shall we, Charles?” He headed to the door with Charlie, then turned and walked backward the last few steps. “Victoria, it was a pleasure.” Putting his thumb and pinky to his ear, he mouthed Call me as Charlie yanked him by the back of the T-shirt and pulled him out the door.
“Yep. That would be Charlie and Tuck.” Ford turned to Victoria. “Nicole asked me to not say anything to my friends about the fact that she doesn’t know who Zoe’s father is. That’s why I was vague about what we’re working on tonight.” He went to the couch and pulled his laptop out of his messenger bag. Absentmindedly, he ran a hand through his hair, giving it a rakish, finger-combed look.
One stubborn, errant lock fell across his forehead.
He caught her looking at him. “What?”
For some reason, she couldn’t resist teasing him. “Your friends said you were quite taken with me that night at The Violet Hour.”
He walked over, moving in close. “My friends say a lot of things. I learned a long time ago to ignore ninety-nine percent of them.”
She smiled to herself as he strode over to the table, laptop in hand.
That wasn’t a denial.
* * *
“SO TONIGHT, WE come up with our list of baby-daddy contenders,” Ford said, setting his laptop on the table.
Victoria took a seat on the stool next to him. “Great. How do we do that?”
“That’s what I’m about to show you, Ms. Slade.” He typed in the Web address for Tracers Info Specialists, and entered the log-in and password he had via his status as a Tribune reporter. Then he angled the computer toward Victoria so she could see what he was doing. “This is a people-search database. From here, we can generate a list of all possible Peter Sutters in Chicago.”
“Are we even certain the guy lives in Chicago?”
Good question. “Nicole said he mentioned being a Cubs fan. So keep your fingers and toes crossed that he’s somewhere in this city, or we’re essentially screwed.” Next, he clicked on the link to run a new search. “First, we enter the information we do know.” He typed in the blanks he could fill—all two of them. “Name: Peter Sutter. City: Chicago.”
When Victoria leaned in closer to watch, Ford noticed her perfume. Something light and feminine. And kind of sexy.
“How do we know that’s how he spells his last name?” she asked. “What about S-u-d-d-e-r? Or just one ‘t’?”
He blinked, refocusing. “Nicole remembers him making a joke about being nicknamed ‘Peter Butter’ and ‘Peanut Butter’ when he was a kid. So I think we should start with a double ‘t’ spelling and then try other options if we strike out.” He clicked “search” and, within seconds, onto his screen popped a list of approximately twenty Peter Sutters and their respective info. “Okay. Now we have something we can work with.” He pointed to the screen. “This gives us dates of birth. Nicole said she thought her Peter Sutter was between twenty-five and forty years old, so let’s be overcautious and go with an age range of twenty to forty-five. That means we take out anyone with a birthday before 1970 and after 1995.”
“The first guy on the list is out,” Victoria said. “And the second.”
Ford removed the eliminated candidates as they scrolled thro
ugh the entire list. When finished, he sat back as Victoria did a quick count.
“Eleven men left,” she said.
“Yep. One of these Peter Sutters is likely the dickhead who had sex with my sister, got her pregnant, and then sneaked out while she was sleeping.”
She gave him a sideways look. “This is probably a good time to reiterate my don’t-do-anything-stupid-and-screw-up-my-case speech.”
“Maybe it is,” Ford growled. Because right then, he was trying to remember all the reasons he shouldn’t give Peter Sutter a swift kick in the ass when he found him.
Victoria leaned her elbow on the table, angling her body to face him. “Okay, so I can see you’re going into caveman mode or whatever. But remember, we agreed that we would do this my way. That means the professional way. So while it’s sweet that you’re protective of your sister, if we’re going to do this, you have to take off your big brother hat and simply be an objective investigator.”
Like that was even remotely possible. “Do you have a brother?”
She sat back and looked at him, as if already aware of what he was going to say. “No,” she conceded.
“Okay, your father, then. Think about how he would feel if he was in my shoes.”
“I haven’t seen the man in over twenty years, but fine—I get the point you’re trying to make. But can you at least fake being objective while you’re out and about and doing . . . whatever it is you’re going to do to track down the right Peter Sutter?”
He gave her a look that said, yes, he could be cool. He wasn’t dumb enough to do anything that might cause trouble for Nicole. “I can manage that.” He turned back to his computer and continued on. “All right. For each of the eleven remaining Peter Sutters, this report gives us a home address, phone number—which could be home or mobile, depending on what he’s provided to credit agencies—and a social security number. And with those social security numbers, I can run additional searches that’ll tell us all sorts of interesting things.”
She appeared amused. “You’re getting into this, aren’t you?”
“Hell, yes. I’m a journalist. Information is my currency.” He saw her smile. “What?”
“Nothing. I’m just picturing you at your desk at the Tribune, typing away with a little ‘Information Is My Currency’ sign framed on your desk.”
“Cross-stitched and everything.”
She laughed. “Really?”
“No, not really.” He raised an eyebrow. “But if these hot-reporter fantasies are something you have often, Ms. Slade, we could always explore that in more detail . . .” He smiled innocently at her withering look. “Or maybe we should just get back to the search.”
“Good plan.”
Hands hovering over the keyboard, he paused and looked over. “I’m going to begin typing now, so you might want to brace yourself for the onslaught of sexiness.”
“I’m braced.”
Rather enjoying himself now, he turned back to his laptop. “So, like I was saying, with the social security numbers, we can run additional searches for all these guys. I’ll go ahead and pull one up . . .” Using the first Peter Sutter as an example, he clicked on the link for “Premium Profile” and scrolled through the various categories. “Okay, so here we can see if he has an arrest or criminal record. Also, whether he’s ever filed for bankruptcy, has an eviction record, has ever had any judgments filed against him in a civil case, holds any professional licenses, is a registered sex offender, has any tax liens against him, and any outstanding warrants.”
“And people say there’s no privacy on the Internet.” When he didn’t immediately answer, she looked over. “What’s wrong?”
Ford frowned. “It says that this guy—Peter Sutter Number One—has a criminal record.” He went ahead and ran the search, which pulled up the man’s criminal history. “He served a three-year sentence for felony battery . . . Oh, and he also has two class B misdemeanor convictions for possession of a controlled substance.” His tone turned dry. “Ah, what every man hopes for in his sister’s baby-daddy.”
Leaning back in the barstool, he sighed. Great. Now he had to worry about whether he might be tracking down a criminal and bringing him into his sister’s and niece’s lives.
“It’s probably not him, Ford,” Victoria said reassuringly. She pointed to the computer. “For all you know, Zoe’s father is . . . Peter Sutter Number Six. And Peter Sutter Number Six is going to turn out to be a really good guy. He’ll be one of those dads who drives his daughter to ballet practice every Saturday morning while singing Disney songs in the car.”
“God, anything but that.”
She laughed, and their eyes held for a moment. Then she looked away and turned back to the computer. “This is great stuff, by the way. But how do you plan to figure out which one of these eleven guys is the right Peter Sutter?”
“Nicole thinks she could ID the guy from a photo, so I guess I’ll have to go to their home addresses and somehow get a picture of each of them. I’m not a professional photographer, but I know my way around a camera well enough.”
It took her a moment. “Meaning, you’re going to stake out these guys?”
He shrugged. “I don’t have much choice. Although first, I want to check out the bar where Nicole met the guy, to see if anyone knows a Peter Sutter. Maybe he’s a regular there and we’ll get lucky.”
“Huh.”
She was giving him a look he couldn’t read. “What?”
“Nothing,” she said. “I mean . . . it’s not un-interesting, this idea of going on stakeouts and doing all this snooping around.”
His tone turned coy. “Having another hot-reporter fantasy? There’s always room in the car for two during a stakeout, Ms. Slade.”
Yep, that got him another withering look.
* * *
AFTER VICTORIA LEFT, Ford did a sweep of his loft and began packing up the Restoration Hardware boxes. The hole in his bedroom wall was patched and the shelves were installed. Now that Victoria was helping his sister and niece, he figured the least he could do in exchange was temporarily dial back the rest of his noisy home improvement projects. He’d probably gone a little overboard with that, anyway.
Besides, he wasn’t going to have time to start a new project right now—this search for Peter Sutter would likely soak up most of his spare time for the next few weeks. Not that he was daunted by the task. In fact, it felt good to be helping his sister and actually doing something. Still, he planned to reach out to an acquaintance this weekend, an FBI agent who was a friend of a friend, to see if he had any suggestions about ways to make the search for Sutter easier.
He stacked the boxes in the closet in his master bedroom, thinking that a trip to the storage room might be in order. While shifting things around to make more room, he pulled out the box his mom had given him, the one with his dad’s things. He held it for a moment, debating, then set it down on his bed and opened it.
It was a mixture of stuff—photographs, some school yearbooks, an old stamp collection he remembered his dad showing him when he was a kid. Wrapped in tissue paper was a picture frame, one that held a photograph of him and his father at the Illinois football game on Dad’s Weekend his junior year of college.
He remembered that day well. His fraternity had been tailgating in the stadium parking lot, and his dad had commandeered the grill, joking around with all Ford’s fraternity brothers and the other fathers as he cooked up burgers and brats. He’d been in a good mood then, the life of the party, hamming it up for the crowd and proudly sharing his grilling secrets.
One flip. You gotta let the meat do its thing.
Two hours and six beers later, he was “asked” by security to leave the stadium after starting a fight with an equally drunk fan of the visiting team.
Ford set the picture frame aside. He dug a little deeper into the box and smiled when he found something else—a model rocket he and his dad had built together when he was nine.
Ah, now that had been a gr
eat day.
He pulled the rocket out of the box, turning it in his hands and recalling the weekend he and his dad had spent building and painting it with painstaking care. Afterward, they’d launched it in the field next to their townhome, and all the neighborhood kids had gathered around to watch as it flew over five hundred feet into the air. His dad had high-fived him when the parachute released, and then the two of them had stood in the grass, his dad’s arm over his shoulders, watching as the rocket floated gracefully to the ground and landed without a scratch.
Clearing his throat, Ford set the rocket aside and repacked the rest of his dad’s things into the box. While stacking it in the closet, he realized he’d left one small box in his bathroom, the new towel rack he’d planned to install. He went into the bathroom to grab it and heard the sound of running water coming from the other side of the wall.
Victoria was filling her tub.
He shook his head. What was with this woman and her damn baths? Was she part mermaid? He could just picture her right then, pouring herself another one of her “nice, jammy” zinfandels as she waited for the tub to fill. Probably piling her long, chestnut hair on top of her head . . . and then slowly stripping off her clothes, one item at a time. Closing her eyes in hedonistic bliss as she stepped in the tub, perhaps even moaning softly as she eased into the water and slid her hands over her naked, wet skin.
Ten feet from him.
With an irritated grunt, Ford grabbed the towel bar box and hauled it into his bedroom.
Looked like he picked the wrong day to stop hammering away his frustrations.
Twelve
HER EYES CLOSED, Victoria took a deep breath and exhaled, listening to the sound of Dr. Metzel’s voice.
“The key is to breathe from your diaphragm,” he reminded her. “Try putting one hand on your chest and the other hand on your stomach, above your waist.”
As she had when they’d first started practicing these exercises during their last session, she felt a little silly and self-conscious, sitting in his office with her hands on her chest and stomach. But according to Dr. Metzel, “diaphragmatic breathing” was the core foundation for the relaxation techniques that would help with her tiny panic problem (she still refused to call it a disorder), so she went ahead and did it anyway.