The mangy thing appeared instantly, shot Cord a look and an annoyed flick of his tail, then took off with Sophie. He heard the door slam. Then they were both gone.
Okay, he thought. Okaythat had really proved something.
What, he had no idea.
Except that he needed to sit down before he fell down. For days, thered been nothing on his mind but his brothers killer. Now, all he could think about was a far more enticing danger.
Damn, but that woman could kiss.
Chapter 4
Sophie switched off her recorder and stood up. Youve been wonderful, Mrs. Hoffman. It had been a productive Monday afternoon, but she could see her eighty-one-year-old interviewee was wilted now.
Youve brought my memories to life again, child, Mrs. Hoffman answered in German. She, too, stood up, with the help of a cane. No one ever listened to my side before.
They should have. Maybe it was a job, but Sophie still leaned over to kiss Mrs. Hoffmans cheek. Before gathering up her work and jacket, she carted the German porcelain cup to the miniature kitchen in the back. Mrs. Hoffman always served some kind of fancy tea, but Sophie didnt want the elderly woman cleaning up after her.
Her mind was still spinning from the stories Greta Hoffman had shared. Shed been just a girl when Hitler had invaded her Austria. She remembered a boisterously noisy city turning suddenly silent.
People who talked suddenly disappeared-or were just plain shot down on the street, as if they were rabid dogs, Mrs. Hoffman recounted. Men used to go to the beer gardens to talk politics-that stopped. Women used to chatter with neighbors at the grocers-that all stopped. After the war, when people kept saying, how could you have let this happen, how could you not have known? About the gas chambers. The Jews.
Her mind was still spinning from the stories Greta Hoffman had shared. Shed been just a girl when Hitler had invaded her Austria. She remembered a boisterously noisy city turning suddenly silent.
People who talked suddenly disappeared-or were just plain shot down on the street, as if they were rabid dogs, Mrs. Hoffman recounted. Men used to go to the beer gardens to talk politics-that stopped. Women used to chatter with neighbors at the grocers-that all stopped. After the war, when people kept saying, how could you have let this happen, how could you not have known? About the gas chambers. The Jews.
Sophie had heard this before, all through these hours of interviews, but Gretas eyes were lonely and sad, lost in her old memories.
What people didnt understand is that we were all afraid. To speak against Hitler meant death. Day by day, month by month, more and more people disappeared. We knew they were dead. In our hearts, we knew. But we were all frightened of dying, too. So we walked with our heads down and we hid in our houses. My fatherI still remembered his slapping my face. Id laughed at something. On the street. Laughed out loud, drawing attention to myself. My father had never hit me before
It was another half hour before Sophie could make it to the door and really mean her goodbye this time.
It was the whispers that were dangerous, Mrs. Hoffman echoed again. Any whisper of a transgression could bring on certain death. You didnt have to do anything wrong. You were judged by those rumors alone. You think whispers have no powerbut they do, child, they do.
Night had fallen hard and cold by the time Sophie climbed onto the metro. From there she walked the few blocks home, carrying the usual ten tons of equipment and satchels, on crackling leaves, through wisps of fog.
Shed thought of Cord all day-and all last night-yet now Mrs. Hoffmans words made her think of him in a different context. Gretas comments about whispers and rumors nailed the whole atmosphere around D.C. Some said the city thrived on the power of whispers.
Cords brother had sure seemed to thrive on whispers and intrigue.
Sophie crossed the road, heard a horn blare at her lack of attention, and then hustled the last half block toward home. She wished she knew whether Cord thrived on intrigue the way his brother had.
The kisses from the day before had haunted her sleep, her daydreamslike a whisper that only her heart could hear. There was no shutting it off.
She wasnt dead positive she wanted those heart whispers to shut down. Shed liked those kisses.
She liked Cord. He was sharp, easy to talk to, interesting to be with. He provoked a razzle-dazzle in her hormones that she hadnt felt in a long time. Yearning. Heat. All that good wickedness.
Somewhere in the apartment, she had an old photo from when she was a little girl, wearing a pink scarf of her moms like a boa, holding a hairbrush for a fake microphone, dramatically pelting out a song at the top of her lungs. Apparently, as a kid, shed been quite a rowdy, show-off ham. An extrovert to the nth degree. A singer, a dancer, a weaver of daisies.
But her foster parents had needed a quiet, well-behaved child, a good girl. So shed become one. When you lost everyone and everything that ever mattered to you, you didnt need to sing. You needed to survive.
Caution had become a religion for her. Shed positively never risked much with men. Yet, shed wanted to yesterday afternoon. For a few moments, caution had disappeared and that wild, rowdy girl-child had whispered through her heart again with Cord.
Stop it, Soph. She pushed open the door, dug out her mailbox key, aggravated that she was daydreaming again. Some wary instinct warned her that Cord was holding back something serious. Actually, it would have been weird if he didnt. They barely knew each other, no reason he should have shared private things with her. And his brothers death was complicated.
The point, though, was that she needed to rein herself in until she knew more about him.
Not that he was likely to invite her for any more kisses, anyway.
As she tromped up the stairs, she decided she needed to get her mind off Cord altogether. A plan came together-shed kick back, pop a glass of wine, settle with Caviar on the couch and call her sisters. She had her apartment key out, because sometimes even a scatterbrain such as herself could have a bright momentonly to abruptly discover that she wouldnt need it.
Her apartment door gaped open.
She could hear the cat meowing from a distance inside.
Confused, she took a single step inand felt her heart start slamming like a manic drum. Her living room was in shambles. Books and knickknacks had been tumbled off shelves. A broken lamp strewed shards on the carpet. Couch cushions looked as if theyd been ripped apart by sharks teeth.
She sucked in a breath, and let it out in one loud screech for Caviar.
When the authorities arrived this time, she was sitting on the top step in the hall, still wearing her coat, the scrawny cat cuddled on her lap. She considered it a miracle shed been able to punch in 911. Her fingers were still shaking. She was still shaking.
One trauma in a week was enough. As far as Sophie was concerned, two traumas were grounds for major hysteria. If she wanted to fold in a puddle and blubber for a good long time, she was entitled.
Two policemen showed up this time. The first, she remembered from before, because, humorously, he looked a little like a bleary-eyed bloodhound. Ed or George. Bassett, she thought. He took one look at her and sighed.
Shed sensed he hadnt liked her when they first met, and this time he looked even more annoyed. Youre developing an interesting pattern of attracting trouble, Ms. Campbell. Bad trouble. Now, why is that?
Her jaw almost dropped. It was as if he were accusing her of causing this. Detective, I just got home from work and found the door open. I havent a clue who would do this. Or why.
If you thought a burglar was inside your place, I find it interesting that you didnt run like hell instead of staying right here.
Again, Sophie couldnt grasp what he was getting at. I couldnt just take off. There was Caviar.
Yeah. Right. He let out another noisy, exasperated sigh, accompanied by another judgmental look. Eventually, his younger sidekick-a kid with fuzz on his chin and shiny shoes-hunched down beside her with paper and pen to take her statement, while Detective Meanie Bassett disappeared inside to examine the crime scene. She asked if she could get a glass of water, but the kid insisted that she wait, that she wasnt supposed to enter her apartment until the detective gave an all clear.
Apparently, she could contaminate things. God forbid her fingerprints could show up in her own apartment. The hall was chilly and gloomy. She was tired and stressed when a third man showed up.
He shook her hand, identified himself as Ian Ferrell. He was older than Bassett, leaner than wire, sharp faced and sharp eyed. Sophie had no idea why she sensed this Ferrell was more in charge than the detective, but the minute he got there, things changed.
He wanted her to go into the apartment-with him. It was totally okay if she took a drink and took a minute in the bathroom, but then he wanted to walk through every room slowly with her. He wanted her to identify anything that was missing, also anything that had been moved or looked out of place. Just study everything. Look past the damage. See if you can pinpoint specifically what the suspect was after.
Youre giving me the impression that you dont believe this was a run-of-the-mill robbery, she said anxiously.
It could be. But we want to examine all the possibilities. Ferrell seemed to be studying her more than the scene, particularly when she shuddered hard at the close-up of her living room.
Nothing she owned was particularly valuable, but everything had been handpicked and loved. She had nothing from her childhood but a few worn photos, certainly no belongings or keepsakes. It was as if the Campbell family had never existed. Sophie couldnt imagine a reason in the universe why anyone would have ripped up the rental sofa, or yanked the books from the shelves, or opened up a lamp-table drawer that had nothing but scissors and thread and nail files and hand cream. What possible reason could anyone have to do this?
Yet, the way Ferrell kept studying her made something click in her mind. You dont think this is a chance robbery, do you? More clicks followed that first one. Two crimes in the same building within a week is just too much coincidence? But, Mr. Ferrell, Jons death was ruled an accident. Why would you think there was a relationship?