“I’m tired of finding dead bodies,” I whispered after a moment.
“It does get tiresome.”
I must’ve been going into shock because I giggled at that. Taking a deep breath, I vowed to keep it together. Enrico was dead, murdered, and I was standing three feet away from his body. “We’d better get out of here.”
“What a good idea.”
I realized I was still holding the Plutarch and slipped it into my purse. “I’m taking this with me.”
“Fine. Steal another book.” He grabbed my hand and I allowed him to pull me down the hall toward the front door. “We’ll call the police from the nearest restaurant.”
“The Left Hand.”
“Beg your pardon?”
“The Left Hand. It’s a vegetarian restaurant about two blocks away, on California Street.”
He stared at me. “Why am I not surprised you know every eating establishment in this city?”
I shrugged. “I like to eat.”
“I’ve noticed.”
I reached for the front door handle, but Derek pulled me away. “Wait.” He went into the front room and stared out through a crack in the curtains. From over his shoulder, I caught a glimpse of a funky old black sports car pulling up to park.
There was a small explosion as the car backfired and trembled to a halt. A woman climbed out from the driver’s seat and headed for the front door.
“It’s Minka,” I said, feeling a chill that had little to do with the dead body down the hall.
“This place is worse than Heathrow for crowds,” he muttered. “And let’s not touch anything else.” He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and used it to wipe the front doorknob and throw the bolt into place, then grabbed my hand and pulled me into the kitchen. “We’ll go out through the back and around the side.”
“Back door’s got a dead bolt. I already checked.”
“Bloody hell.” We looked at each other. I would panic in just a minute.
“We could break the window,” I said.
“If we must. Let’s look for a key first.”
I gulped again. “Maybe they were in his pocket.”
His eyes narrowed as he thought about it. “Or maybe he empties his pockets when he arrives home.” He jogged into the living room and I followed. He scanned the room, finally spying a small bowl on the short bookshelf near the foyer. Sure enough, there was a bowl holding a set of keys and a pile of coins, a cell phone and a wadded tissue, as though he’d stood right there and emptied his pockets.
“Brilliant,” I said.
“We men are a predictable lot.”
He grabbed my hand again and we raced through the kitchen to the back door, just as the front doorbell rang. I could hear Minka shouting Enrico’s name from the front step. She sounded like a fishwife-not that I’d ever heard a true fishwife yelling. It didn’t matter. I had no doubt Minka’s annoying bellows would qualify.
Derek tried the first key and in seconds we were out of the house.
“Enrico, I’ve got my key,” Minka hollered. “I’m coming in.”
“She’s got a mouth,” Derek said. “The entire neighborhood’s going to be alerted.”
We tiptoed around the side of the house just as Minka went through the front door. I could still hear her shouting out his name a few more times.
“Don’t run,” Derek warned as we reached the front sidewalk. “Don’t make eye contact with anyone. Walk as though you belong here. Then drive to the restaurant and park at least a block away. I’ll follow you.”
I didn’t argue. I wanted to be miles away when Minka found Enrico’s body. I walked briskly to my car, started the engine and took off. A few blocks later, I turned right on California Street, found a space and parked.
I could barely catch my breath.
What had I been thinking, walking into Enrico’s house? I had been trespassing on private property. It didn’t matter that I’d had an appointment with Enrico. I didn’t belong there. And all along, he’d been dead in the back room.
I rubbed my arms to fight the chills. Someone had been angry enough to kill him in cold blood. With a gun. Just like Abraham. Why? What had Enrico done? And more importantly, who had he so totally enraged that they’d taken a gun and shot him in the head?
It had to be the same person who had killed Abraham. It couldn’t be a coincidence.
The killer hadn’t ransacked Enrico’s home, so maybe they hadn’t been looking for anything but him. That could mean the Winslows were involved. Once again, I pictured little Meredith in that pretty orange jumpsuit.
But maybe Derek’s arrival had scared the killer off and he planned to return to search the place. Which meant that the person searching the house while Derek and I were hiding in the pantry could be the killer.
What was the real connection between Abraham, Enrico and the murderer? Books, to be sure. But which books? One of the Winslows’ collection? Something from the Covington? Or something to do with the old grudge between the two men?