There was a pot of coffee keeping warm on a hot tray, half a loaf of moldy bread in the bread box, and a six-pack of Beck’s dark in the fridge. And not even a cannoli in sight, she thought with a groan, sagging against the open refrigerator door. The hell with the long hot bath—a shower would have to suffice. And then she’d be bold enough to go out and buy enough food to feed them both, and to hell with him if he thought she was being encroaching. She was, and he’d have to put up with it. After all, he’d started it.
The shower went a long way toward making her feel more human; two aspirins helped, and a cup of rich, strong coffee almost completed the job. All she needed was food in her stomach and she’d feel like a new woman.
The light wool suit and high heels felt tight and restricting after the freedom of Blackheart’s black denims, and for a moment she considered raiding his closet for something more comfortable. Then she dismissed the idea. The last thing she wanted to be caught doing was rummaging through his apartment. She’d just managed to convince him that she did trust him—and she didn’t want to risk blowing that fragile belief.
He’d left an extra set of keys on the hall table. Tossing them in her leather purse, she let herself out of the silent apartment and headed for the nearest food store.
It took her longer than she expected. The first place she stopped had fresh croissants and Ben and Jerry’s ice cream, a good enough beginning for the day, but as she was leaving she developed a sudden craving for cannoli. They weren’t to be found for seven blocks, and by that time several other delicious ideas had come to mind. It was one of those rare, brilliantly clear days that San Francisco so seldom got, with a chilly little breeze that made her glad for the wool suit, if not for the tottery high heels. By the time she was back on Blackheart’s street her arms were aching, her ankles were tired and her stomach was knotted. So preoccupied was she in getting back to the apartment that she almost didn’t notice the small dark Porsche parked illegally by the curb. It was a pretty car, oddly familiar. But even more familiar was the slender figure strolling casually down Blackheart’s front steps.
Even half a block away Ferris could recognize Olivia Summers’s greyhound elegance. Ducking quickly behind a large American car, she watched with dawning horror as Olivia made her way back to the Porsche, sliding into the front seat with a pleased expression hanging about her pale lips. Every blond hair was in place, and her patrician blue eyes were glistening with triumph. Triumph that didn’t allow her to notice Ferris’s watching figure as she drove off down the street, gunning the motor.
Ferris ran the rest of the block to Blackheart’s apartment. The elevator was in use, and after slamming her hand against the buttons and cursing, she dashed to the back of the hall and ran up the five flights of stairs, pausing only long enough to yank off her obstructive shoes.
Blackheart’s door looked the same—no sign of forced entry. But what the hell did she expect? Olivia Summers carrying a crowbar beneath that elegant suit she was wearing? With shaking hands Ferris fiddled with the three locks. They all turned beneath the key, and Ferris’s blood ran cold. She’d only locked two of them.
The apartment looked exactly as she’d left it, silent and deserted, the lingering smell of the warming coffee lending a false air of coziness to the place. And with a sudden, horrifying clarity Ferris remembered. The light beside Olivia’s bed had been on when they’d broken in. And she had been stupid enough to turn it off when they left.
It was a small enough thing, but anyone with Olivia’s compulsiveness would notice it. And know that someone had been in the apartment.
What had she done? Why had she sneaked into Blackheart’s apartment when no one was there? There could only be one reason. To find some way of incriminating him, rather than herself. Olivia could feel the noose tightening around her, and she needed another scapegoat. Trace and Kate weren’t enough. Blackheart was a big enough prize to divert attention from the Summerses permanently. And this time, when the police came after him, they’d hold him a great deal longer than five hours.
Ferris quickly, methodically, began to tear the apartment apart. Somewhere was something incriminating enough to send Blackheart to prison for a very long time. It might be something as easily overlooked as a receipt for copying the jewels. If forgers gave receipts. Or it might be the Von Emmerling emeralds themselves.
Nothing but clothes in his drawers and closets. Nothing but papers in his desk. She tried to take the time to see whether anything was incriminating, but panic was beating down around her like bat’s wings and she couldn’t concentrate. Nothing under the couch, unlike her own apartment, nothing under the bed or between the mattress and spring. To her horror she found a handgun, complete with ammunition, in his desk, and she slammed the drawer shut on it with absolute terror.
No, you can’t do that, she told herself sternly. Olivia might have planted a murder weapon. Not that anyone’s been shot, much less murdered. But you have to check.
She opened the drawer again, staring down at the ugly black thing with a shudder of distaste. Slowly, reluctantly, she picked up the cold gray metal and brought it to her nose, sniffing for the smell of gunpowder. It smelled of metal and oil, and if it had been fired recently there was no way she could tell. With a shudder, she dropped the gun back in the drawer, slamming it shut.
She was mumbling under her breath as she upended sofa cushions and dropped them back haphazardly. “Where is it? Where the hell is it?” Inspiration struck, and she dived for the ice bucket. Nothing in it but three inches of cold water.
“The kitchen,” she murmured under her breath. “Check the kitchen. Lots of drawers. Maybe in the freezer.”
The first drawer spilled onto the floor as she yanked it out, and she refilled it with shaking hands. Cabinets, drawers, refrigerator, oven—all were empty of anything remotely suspicious. The bags of recently purchased groceries were in a pile on the floor, the croissants and cannoli probably crushed, the ice cream melting. The coffee had heated down to a thin layer of sludge in the bottom of the pot, and she reached over and turned it off, her mind still intent upon her search. There was a two-pound bag of coffee beans out on the counter. How odd that a coffee snob like Blackheart hadn’t put the beans back in the air-tight container with the other two-pound package. And why did he have two packages, when beans were better fresh roasted? He certainly didn’t stock up on anything else.
The other bag was half full. With shaking hands she reached for the new one. Did it feel heavier, was there anything bulkier than coffee beans in it? She upended it on the counter, and the small dark beans scattered over the butcher-block surface, raining over the floor like marbles. But it wasn’t two pounds of beans. In the midst of the pile lay a plastic-wrapped package of tawdry silver and green. The Von Emmerling emeralds.
Damn her, Ferris thought savagely. Damn her soul to hell. Her fingers were trembling so badly she had trouble dialing the phone. Which precinct, damn it, which precinct? She got lucky on her third try. Patrick Blackheart was there, all right, but he was in conference. Would she care to leave a message?
What the hell kind of message could she leave, she thought savagely after she’d hung up. The stolen jewels are in your apartment, but don’t tell anyone. Damn and double damn.
They’d arrive at Olivia’s, search warrant in hand, and would find exactly nothing. And it wouldn’t take much effort on Olivia’s part to put the shoe on the other foot. Even if Ferris re-hid the emeralds, what in heaven’s name was she going to do with them? And how would anyone ever prove that Olivia had masterminded this whole plot?
She had no choice. And no time to hesitate, to panic, to have second thoughts. Her course was clear, and she had to take it.
“Darling, what’s wrong?” Regina responded to her breathless phone call. “You sound in an absolute panic.”
“Regina, can you do me a huge favor? Can you somehow get Dale and O
livia to come over to your house? Right now? You could tell them they left something—”
“They’re not home, Ferris,” Regina broke in.
“They’re not?”
“Blackheart called me from the police station a while ago to tell me they were being brought in for questioning. I don’t like Olivia Summers, but I still can’t believe—”
“Good-bye, Regina.” Ferris slammed down the phone. So it had already started to happen. Would the police search their place while they were at the station? Or would they question them first? She’d have to count on it being the latter. Damn, why didn’t she know more about criminal law? If Olivia had the right to be present when her apartment was searched, she’d doubtless insist on it. Ferris didn’t fancy being caught red-handed by some of San Francisco’s finest.
She wasted precious minutes changing back into Blackheart’s burgling clothes. She found an old zippered sweatshirt hanging on the back of the bathroom door. The pocket was large enough to hold the bulky packet of emeralds. In the other she slipped Blackheart’s lockpicks and trusty American Express card. Pray God she remembered enough from last night to retrace his steps.
It was with a sinking sense of horror that she realized she’d have to traverse those rooftops once more. Blackheart could have made short work of the service door to the basement of Olivia’s building, but Ferris was still a rank amateur. It would take all her concentration and a fair amount of luck to get through the simple locks of the night before. She had no choice but to take the high road. And to hope that she made it in time.
Chapter Twenty-one
“YOU, AGAIN?” IT was a different cigarette dangling from the desk clerk’s lips, a different shade of fuchsia on those lips, and her unlikely blond hair was up in curlers. But those same hard eyes flitted over Ferris’s figure briefly, then went back to the magazine she was reading. Cosmopolitan, Ferris noticed. One hand with red chipped nails pushed the register at her. “Twenty bucks,” she said flatly.
She hadn’t signed her name Berdahofski in years. For a moment she hesitated, then wrote in bold, black letters. She pulled a twenty out of her wallet and dropped it on the desk. The woman just looked at her, and belatedly Ferris remembered. Another ten floated to settle on top of the twenty, and the woman took it, tossing a key back at her. “He meeting you up there?” she queried in a bored voice.
“Uh . . . er . . . yes,” she finally managed.
“That’ll be another five,” the blonde said flatly.
“Another five?”
“For the inconvenience. Not to mention the security problems,” she said with a straight face. Another five followed, and the woman nodded. “I gave you the same room, seeing as how you didn’t bother to use it last night. This time, sweetie, wait till after to have your fight. And next time bring me back the key,” she called after her, as Ferris scurried toward the elevator.
She didn’t even bother to open the hotel room door. Getting off on the ninth floor, she headed up the stairway to the roof, the emeralds weighing heavy in her pocket. She felt like she was playing Dungeons and Dragons. Her first obstacle loomed ahead—the locked roof door.
It seemed to take hours. Her hands were slippery with sweat, but she didn’t want to bother with the gloves just yet. She concentrated fiercely, poking with the little tools, sweat pouring off her forehead. She broke one, snapping the end off, and she cursed. Just one more try, she kept telling herself grimly as the stubborn lock held. One more, and then I’ll give up. One more try.
She almost missed it when it finally worked. The tiny click was almost too good to be true. Reaching up, she turned the greasy knob. It opened with the lightest of touches.
That gave her enough confidence to carry her across the first two roofs. It was better in the daylight, with the blue sky overhead. It gave her something to concentrate on, rather than the inky blackness of certain death below. The ladder between the second and the third building looked more rickety in the daylight, but she reminded herself that it had held both of them last night. It could hold just her slight, shaking weight with no trouble.
It took her three tries to get the grappling hook safely attached to the fourth roof. Each time she yanked it to test its purchase it would clang back at her. When it finally held, she almost wished it hadn’t. She had no choice but to go ahead, and the longer she hesitated the worse it would be. She pulled on her gloves, knowing that her sweat-slick hands could easily slide right down that thin nylon rope.
“Hail Mary, full of grace,” she muttered under her breath, and swung out between the two buildings.
It was over in a minute. She was lying flat on her stomach on the pebbled roof, the sun-heated asphalt hot beneath her face. The worst was yet to come, and she had to force herself up to face it. But not yet. She needed a brief silent moment to regroup her scattered bravery. Just to the count of sixty, and then she’d move on.
It had looked like the Grand Canyon last night when they’d made their final jump to Olivia’s building. This afternoon it was more like the Pacific Ocean. There was no way she was going to make it without Blackheart there to catch her. She was going to tumble down between the buildings, bouncing off the sides and ending in an ignominious, very dead heap on the sidewalk.
If there was any justice in the world, Olivia would be beneath her when she fell. And she’d taken too long as it was—she couldn’t stand there and stare at the great chasm waiting to swallow her up. This time she’d take a running leap, and if she didn’t make it . . .
Well, she would make it. She wasn’t going to die a tragic death and leave Blackheart to chase after bored socialites. He needed taking in hand, and she was the one to do it. She moved backward, slowly, carefully, until she was a good ten feet from the edge of the roof. And then, before she could think about it anymore, she ran and leaped.
“Ooooh, damn!” she cursed in a muffled shriek, as her knee hit the pebbled roof and she sprawled in a graceless belly flop that knocked the wind out of her. She lay there like a beached whale, struggling for breath, hugging the rooftop like a crazed creature.
Her breath came back in a sickening whoosh. Her knee felt smashed in a hundred places, her gloves tore and her palms were scraped by the rough roof, but she had made it. This time she did kiss the roof, her fingers caressing its rough surface. She’d made it.
Jumping down onto the Summerses’ terrace was a piece of cake compared to everything else. Her knee almost gave way as she landed, but she caught on to a wrought-iron chair that held her upright. No sign of life beyond the sliding glass window. No men in blue staring back out at her.
Reaching around in her back pocket, she panicked once again as she came up empty. She didn’t find the card until she checked her front pocket for the third time, and by then her nerves were screaming once more. She’d taken Blackheart’s American Express card for luck. Her hands were shaking again as she jammed the thin plastic between the two doors. It had looked so easy when Blackheart did it. One little push, and the door had slid open. Why couldn’t it be as easy for her?
She jammed again, and the card made an ominous cracking noise. Ferris was mumbling and moaning under her breath, prayers and curses tumbling forth. What had Blackheart told her last night? So many things, and right now they were all jumbled in her panicked brain. Caress it open, he’d said. Treat the lock like a lover. Tease and soothe it.
She pulled the card out, swearing at the splintered end. Reversing it, she gently slipped the undamaged end between the two doors, using the lightest possible touch. Like a lover, she thought with a rueful grin, Blackheart’s smiling eyes dancing in her mind. The door clicked open.
The apartment was still and silent, blessedly so. Ferris took a deep breath before stepping inside, her feet silent on the thick wool carpet. She had made it, in time. Reaching into the sweatshirt pocket, she drew out the plastic-wrapped emeralds and headed for the
bedroom.
The door was open, the video equipment and cameras and stacks of videos gone, she noticed with sudden surprise. A desk had been moved in place, with a typewriter and a pile of correspondence, everything bright and businesslike. All clean and nice and normal, she thought with a twisted smile. Olivia certainly knew they were coming.
The empty wastebasket was her next shock, and it stopped her for a moment. Of course the tissue box would be gone, along with the trash. And she couldn’t very well just dump the plastic bag in there without any covering. It took her a moment to realize it didn’t have to be where Olivia had originally left it. Anywhere reasonable would do the trick. The police would be politely thorough if . . . when . . . Blackheart prevailed on them to get a search warrant. Olivia would be unlikely to raise more than a token objection, being blissfully secure that the jewels were residing among her nemesis’s coffee beans. It would be interesting to see how she planned to turn the tables. Of course she wouldn’t get the chance.
Underneath Olivia’s silky lingerie would be the best bet. With her fastidious tastes, she wouldn’t like strange men pawing through her panties, and she’d dislike even more the thought of someone planting the loot there. Did she know her secret room had been breached last night? Maybe she hoped they’d come across the jewels before they found her lucrative sideline.
She would have given anything to be a fly on the wall when they found the jewels. But that was far too risky, just as standing around dithering was. With exquisite care Ferris slipped the bulky jewels beneath the pastel silk lingerie, careful not to disturb the neat piles. This time she had to leave no sign that she’d been there. It had been her own stupid fault that Olivia knew they’d broken in the night before. If she’d just remembered about the damned light none of this would have been necessary.
Her knee and shin were beginning to throb. The sooner she was out of there, the better. It was going to take some time getting down those twenty flights of stairs. And this time she was going to stop and rest if she needed to. Her leg was stiffening up, and there was no longer any need to push it. She’d make her way slowly, carefully down those narrow metal stairs, maybe get a taxi and head out toward Oakland, just in case anyone happened to be watching. In another hour or two she could end up back at Blackheart’s and receive the praise and love due her. With a weary sigh, she let the kitchen door shut quietly behind her and headed down the first flight of deserted stairs.