He couldn’t get that thought out of his mind.
He knew that Matt had been working on several things when he died. Because of Leslie, he had written about restoration efforts in the downtown area. His other focus at the time had been the prostitutes who were disappearing.
Had Matt been targeted because he was such a good investigative reporter? Because he had come too close to the truth? And yet, was the disappearance of the down-and-out really such an important issue that someone would kill because of it?
Sure. The abductor and presumed murderer. But how would he have managed access to Hastings House? And most people wouldn’t know how to rig a gas explosion to look so convincingly like an accident.
Joe felt a strange draft. Enough to make him rub his arms to ward off the chill. “Matt,” he said aloud, “I just don’t like it. I swear, I will find out the truth.”
He was talking to the air, he told himself in disgust.
And yet, he felt more determined than ever. There was no logical reason for it, but he didn’t give a damn what the experts had said. Something about the accident scenario wasn’t right.
“You were too good a man,” he said softly. “Someone had to be after you.”
There was no whisper of approval. Nothing.
“Hey.”
He turned quickly. People didn’t come up on him by surprise often. He must have been very deep in thought.
Or too busy talking to himself.
“I had a feeling I might find you here,” she said.
He lifted a hand. “Sorry—talking to myself. I didn’t hear you coming.”
“I was watching your face. You don’t believe it was an accident.”
It was a statement, not a question.
“Maybe I have to find a reason,” he said.
“I know. I’ve thought the same thing. Anyway, shall we go?” she asked.
She was wearing perfume. An elusive, soft scent. Her hair was long and swinging free, shimmering in the light. She was a bit too thin, but even thin, she had a nice shape. Smiling at him from the doorway, she was a vision. He felt a stirring and quickly tamped it down. Matt’s girl. He had to be a friend, nothing more.
“What are you in the mood for?” he asked.
“Italian?”
“Sounds good to me. I know a great place in Little Italy, and my car is just around the corner. I was down here…looking around before I decided to stop by.”
Her smile faded for a moment. “You’re going to dig until you find the truth, aren’t you?”
“Actually,” he replied, “I’ve been hired to search for a missing girl right now.”
“Oh?”
“She disappeared down here.”
She frowned. “One of the prostitutes?”
“No. Come on. I’ll tell you about it over dinner.”
She smiled. “I don’t believe you. You’re going to dig.”
“Hey, you’re the one who digs for a living,” he reminded her.
“But…”
“I looked into the explosion. I grilled every friend, acquaintance and total stranger who was here or knew someone here. Well, except for you,” he added with a rueful grin. “There’s no way to prove anything. The only answer anyone came up with was the combination of the gas line and happenstance.”
She turned and started out, then hesitated and looked back, smiling. “I don’t believe you’re going to stop looking.”
“Okay, for the sake of argument, let’s say I’m not. But I’m Matt’s cousin, so I can’t help but think…well, I can’t stop. Can’t accept the obvious explanation. Because of him. That doesn’t mean I know anything. Now come on. They do a great francese at this place. Veal or chicken—take your pick.”
“Chicken. Can’t help it, I avoid veal.”
“Tell me you’re not a vegetarian.”
“Not unless chicken has become a vegetable.”
He laughed. He’d sure as hell walked right into that one. Strangely, it wasn’t at all awkward being with her. He liked her. He could see why Matt had loved her. But he had to remember that Matt had been engaged to her and tread carefully.
Joe. Good old Joe. The world’s best cousin, practically a brother. He’d tried so hard to touch him. He had to let Joe know that it was okay.
Except that it wasn’t okay. And he knew why, now that Joe had put it into words. It hadn’t been a freak accident. He’d been murdered.
Why? Who would have killed so many so callously, just to get to him?
Joe would figure it out. Good old Joe.
Good old flesh-and-blood Joe.
And Leslie.
Leslie, who had thought Joe was him. Did they really look that much alike? Or, rather, had they once resembled each other so much? Maybe. Those closest seldom saw it.
Joe…and Leslie.
They were just going to dinner. And Joe was a good guy. Not slimy. So…He had to let her go. Not that dinner meant that anything was going on, at least not right away.
Besides, maybe they needed time together to discover the truth that had eluded them all.
The living and the dead.