Page 30 of Illusive
Would the officers arrive in time to keep them there for questioning?
“Behind me,” Raúl ordered, drawing his weapon as they approached the shadowed Arcade.
They moved in, Gideon trailing Raúl closely. It took too long for his eyes to adjust to the darkened interior. The arched columns provided ample hiding places, but at first glance, the two of them appeared to be the only ones in the space. Chase came in after them, his back to Gideon’s as he guarded the fountain-side entrance.
They were halfway through their search when Hernandez came in, panting heavily. “What the fuck did I tell you about waiting?”
“I see something,’’ Raúl said. “On the ground by that column.”
“Stay where you are,” the detective ordered, hurrying in front of them. She crouched and pulled her phone from her pocket. “We’ve got a cellphone and what looks like a Polaroid beneath it. Damn it. I don’t have gloves.”
Chase reached for his jacket pocket.
Catching the movement, Gideon dug out a balled-up wad of gloves from his borrowed jacket and pried two apart. He walked over and watched as Hernandez took photos from all angles before accepting the gloves from him. She didn’t pull them on and simply used them as a barrier between her fingers and the phone as she nudged it aside.
Gideon’s chaotic thoughts juddered to a halt. The photo was of a clearly traumatized Ireland in a wooden crate-like confinement. The eerie red eyes from the camera’s flash couldn’t hide her abject terror.
The phone, a flip design from decades past, began to ring. Hernandez hurriedly pulled on the gloves and pried the device open, hitting the speaker button to answer.
“You’re late,” the female voice said with bright liveliness. “You’ll have to do better next time.”
“How ‘bout a trade?” he countered tightly, as Hernandez held the phone near his mouth. His gaze stayed locked on the photograph that depicted a nightmare. “Me for Ireland. I’m the one you want to fuck with.”
“Are you, though? Is everything always about you?”
“What the hell do you want?”
The musical laughter lacked human warmth and echoed through the arched Arcade. “I’ll be in touch with further instructions soon.”
The phone went silent. Fists clenched, Gideon roared his rage in a deafening bellow.
Ronan eyed the surging crowd with cameras and phones at the ready outside the entrance to Ireland’s apartment building and steeled himself for a possible battle ahead. She’d blocked him on her phone but had failed to remove him from the masquerade guest list. He hoped she’d also failed to remove him from the approved visitors’ list at her building’s reception desk.
Gripping his duffel bag, he hopped out of his rideshare on the Central Park side of Fifth Avenue and crossed at the light. None of the press or random gawkers paid him any mind as he passed them and entered the building. It was just past seven thirty, and the city was still stretching awake on the first full day of the weekend.
“Can I help…? Oh, hey, Mr. McCaffrey,” a familiar bellman greeted him. Dressed in gray and white livery, the doorman was a big fellow somewhere in his mid-fifties. Tall and broad with unruly dark curls peeking out from beneath his cap.
“Good morning, Dwayne. I’m going to need the spare key to Ms. Vidal’s apartment.”
Dwayne’s face fell. “I’m real sorry about what’s happening. I’m praying for her.”
“She’ll be touched to hear that when she’s home. In the meantime, her cat needs looking after, so I’ll see to him.”
Realization widened the doorman’s eyes. “Blizzard.”
“Yeah.” Ronan had remembered Bliz less than an hour before, when he’d read a late-night text from Marcelle. She’d assured him Marie Laveau, his cat, was being well-pampered in his absence. Cats were self-sufficient creatures, but he couldn’t recall whether Blizzard was free-fed or served at specific intervals. And while a cat could drink out of a toilet for a while, Ronan was damn sure not okay with hischercoming home to a yowling, ravenous cat.
Although if the spirits were kind, Ireland would be home too soon for anything to have changed in her absence.
Dwayne tapped away at the keyboard, then frowned. “Hmm… There’s no authorization for you to get a key.”
“Mon Dieu, you can make an exception,” he argued, with a lazy half-smile.
“Listen. I appreciate what you’re trying to do, and I’m sure Ms. Vidal will, too. I’ll remind Mr. and Mrs. Cross. They’ll see to her cat.”
“As if they don’t have enough on their plate at the moment.”
The door behind Dwayne opened, and another familiar face appeared. The man had removed his bellman’s uniform and changed into a T-shirt and jeans, but Ronan recalled the graveyard-shift doorman from the times he’d come over late.
