Max took the stairs to her apartment two at a time, her spike heels wobbling with effort.
Cameron’s watch. She didn’t care what Riley Morgan, scurvy reporter, wanted from her or how he’d obtained his information, didn’t care who found Scarface, who heard those shots, or the million other questions she hadn’t asked the man.
All she worried about was Cameron’s watch.
Her left shoe slipped on the hardwood. She fell to her knees on the throw rug beside her bed, her breath sawing from the mad sprint. Buzzard screeched, arched his back, hissed, then vanished like a wraith through the five-inch window opening she left him.
On her hands and knees, Max stuck her head beneath the bed and pulled out the box of Cameron’s things. His shirts, socks, tapes, books, everything flew across the room, clattering to the floor as she rummaged. Where was it? A whimper rose in her throat. She cut it off ruthlessly.
A knock sounded on the door below. Thank God she’d locked it or that Riley person would probably invite himself in. She stared into the box and ignored the second louder knock.
The watch was gone. As were Cameron’s gold cuff links and his father’s ruby stick pin. Three items that led directly to Cameron.
And to her. Items to be left on the bodies of three killers. Scarface was the first. Bud had much more planned.
The bastard was framing her.
Cameron’s watch had both their names on it. The cuff links were engraved with his initials. And the stick pin? True, there were no identifiers, but Cameron had worn that pin daily. He’d been wearing it in the picture the newspapers used to advertise his death. Reporters weren’t stupid. Neither were cops. They’d put it together after the first two pieces were found on the dead men.
“He knows I don’t have an alibi,” she whispered to the room at large, to Cameron in particular. Her hands trembled as she gathered his clothing to her. Her knees creaked. She slipped her shoes from her feet, almost curled into a ball right there on the rag rug, then stopped herself. That’s what Bud wanted her to do, cower in the corner and fear for her life, her freedom.
Bud’s scent overlaid Cameron’s. The things in her arms stank of cigars and an aftershave Cameron had never worn. Bud’s aftershave, the scent cloying, sickening. He’d stolen that, too, Cameron’s fragrance from his own clothes. He’d pawed through the box, her special box of memories, scents, and sensations, robbing her of far more than the mementos he’d stolen.
“How did he get in?” She looked to the five-inch gap between window and sill. “He could have climbed the tree.” Someone might have seen him though. He wouldn’t risk it. Nor was he the tree-climbing type. “He could have picked my locks.” Witt always did, to show her how flimsy they were.
She waited a beat. “Why don’t you answer me?” Her voice was rough with a show of strength.
Cameron remained silent.
She let go of her husband’s personal effects and rose to her feet. The bottom drawer of her small dresser hadn’t been closed properly, something she would never do. Fanatic that she was about order, an open drawer niggled at her subconscious. Bud had searched everywhere. She knelt, took in the rumbled sweats, t-shirts, and turtlenecks where she remembered folding them with her usual military precision. Closing that drawer, she opened the top one containing her underwear. She could almost see his fingerprints on the soft cotton, lace, and satin. Her favorite pair, red with roses, had gone MIA. He now knew she liked thongs, the biggest violation of all. He’d stolen her fantasies with everything else.
“Where’s the gun?” A numbness began in the core of her body, spread like acid through her bones and veins, and ate her alive from the inside. The Glock was missing. “He’s killing them with your gun, Cameron.”
“He’ll leave it close by when he does the last one.” After his long silence, Cameron’s answer shocked her in the quiet room.
She gripped the edge of the dresser to steady herself, but resisted putting her hand over her eyes. Strong. She needed to remain strong. “And they’ll follow the trail back to me.”
“Maybe not.”
“Why?”
“Because in the end, we’re going to be smarter than him.”
“Somehow that doesn’t make me feel any better. What have you done, Cameron?”
“Later.”
“I want to know now.”
He gave her only silence. Bastard. He had no intention of telling her how he planned to thwart Uncle BJ until he was ready. “Don’t keep secrets from me, not at this point.”
“Call Witt.”
She wanted to scream with frustration at his damn games. Witt couldn’t help her if she looked guilty. She’d get him in worse trouble. Even if Cameron had fixed the gun problem, there were the other things Bud had stolen to plant on his victims. She chewed the skin from her lower lip until it bled. “Do you think he’s already killed the others, but they haven’t found their bodies yet?”