“Let’s meet, then,” he suggested. “And please don’t mention that you’re meeting me. I don’t want any of my competitors to get wind that I’m talking to you.”
“Don’t worry,” she said. “If anyone asks me,” she said with a laugh, “I’ll just tell them I’m off visiting an aunt.”
“Perfect,” her caller purred.
“Where should we meet?” she asked.
She didn’t bother to jot down the address he gave her. She knew exactly where it was.
“How will I recognize you?” she asked.
“Don’t worry. I’ll recognize you.”
New York City.
Talk about a mass of humanity.
People moved like ants. So many of them. So busy. All in such a hurry.
The mass of people crept and crawled, stopped and flowed. They congregated at street corners. They slid past one another. A light changed; a crossing sign flickered. And they moved in a giant mass, surging forward all at once, each individual following a personal agenda that led them to become a part of the massive back and forth.
Ants.
How many times had he walked in the city, in the country, on a sidewalk, through a house, across a yard, and seen ants? How easy it was—amusing, even—to step on a few and watch the confusion, the panic, of the others, as the instinct for survival took over and became the single thing that made them rush away.
Did one ant really even care when another one was stepped on by the harsh supreme being that walked above? Or did it only care about its own survival?
They were just ants. All of them, just ants.
And there she was.
One of the ants. Walking, stopping, moving again.
Would anyone really notice when she was stepped on by the supreme being above? Would they care?
Or would they just be afraid? Panicking. Scattering. Seeking, searching, running…
Desperate not to be stepped on themselves.
CHAPTER 7
Just as Gen had said, Bennet was in his sixties. Even so, he was as straight as a ramrod, with snow-white hair, with impeccable manners. And he wore a suit, complete with bow tie, to take care of the house.
Except, of course, he didn’t really do the housework. He directed.
And he clearly had a soft spot for Genevieve. That much was evident from the minute he let them into the house.
He had pale eyes, a faded green. Still, they lit up like stars when he saw Gen.
“Miss Genevieve, you’re looking well. Color in your cheeks, flesh on your bones…oh, not too much flesh,” he assured her as he held her hands and looked at her from arms’ length. He let out a sigh. “I’m ever so grateful things went…well, I’m quite grateful you’re still with us, my dear.”
“Thank you, Bennet,” she said softly.
“Not like Thorny,” he said.
Thorny, Joe noted. Interesting.
“And it may be my fault,” Bennet said sadly, shaking his head. Then he stopped, his lean, wrinkled face instantly suspicious, eyes narrowed.
“You brought a friend, I see. And I know who he is,” Bennet said.
Inwardly, Joe winced. It was a lot easier to do his job if no one knew what he was. Oh, well. Too late for that.
He extended a hand. “How do you do? I’m—”
“Lawrence Levine.” Bennet started to say more, but then he drew himself up very straight and said stiffly, “Forgive my rudeness, Miss Genevieve.”
So much for being full enough of himself to think the world knew who he was, Joe thought dryly.
“I’m not Larry Levine,” he told Bennet, his hand still out. “I’m Joe Connolly.”
“Oh.” Bennet returned the handshake. “Sorry.”
“Why did you think I was Larry?”
Bennet shook his head. “I don’t know. I’ve never met him, but Mr. Bigelow talked about him all the time, so I just thought…” He sighed softly. “God rest his pompous old soul.”
His words surprised Joe.
But Genevieve gave Bennet a light punch in the shoulder and said, “Come on, we all know you loved him.”
“Aye, that I did,” Bennet said, and suddenly the subtle undertone in the man’s accent became clear to Joe. Though he was doing his best to impersonate a very proper English butler, Bennet was actually Irish. Did that mean anything?
Point noted and…
Shelved.
“Have you come to see Mr. Jared?” Bennet asked. “If so, I’m sorry, but he isn’t here. He has his own place, you know. Although I suppose this is his place now, too. And I’m very much hoping he’ll be keeping the house. It’s a fine piece of property, it is.”
“Actually, we’ve come to see you, Mr. Bennet,” Joe said.
The old man looked at Joe again, studying him. “You’re too young to be that reporter. But I have seen your face. You were in the papers, right? All that business with Miss Genevieve, right? You’re that private detective.”
“Yes,” Joe said simply.
“Am I a murder suspect?”
“Of course not,” Genevieve said.
But Joe said, “Sorry, but yes. Everyone associated with Thorne Bigelow has to be a suspect until they can be cleared. I hope you understand that it’s nothing personal.”
“Aye, I do, and God forgive me, but I was right here when it happened.”