"Have you told the police about your search?"
"I met with Van-Dyne earlier today. I told him about Agnes Beckett, but he didn't seem very receptive to the idea that her death had anything to do with the attempted robbery at the Coffee Cup last night. He made me feel like I was being paranoid."
He pushed away from the table. "Where's your phone?"
"In the kitchen." She rose. "Who are you going to call?"
"I'm going to leave a message for Van-Dyne."
Addison followed him to the kitchen and listened intently as he left a message for the detective. He wheeled his chair back to the table. She refilled their cups.
"Was he hitting on you?" he asked.
The question jerked her head up in surprise. "Earlier today, when I went in to give my statement, but he was pretty subtle about it." She studied the faint lipstick mark she'd left on her cup. "You're pretty perceptive."
Laughter rumbled in his throat. "Van-Dyne's a son of a bitch. I've gone a couple of rounds with him in the last two years, since I started Talbot Investigations."
"So you started your company two years ago?" She distinctly remembered Randall telling her he'd been with Talbot Investigations for five years. Interesting.
He nodded. "Beats the hell out of staring at the walls."
"How long has Randall been with you?"
"About five months."
She filed the information away, deciding to confront Randall with it later. "What did he do before he started working with you?"
"He worked for the NTSB out of D.C."
"What did he do for the NTSB?"
His gaze sharpened, letting her know in no uncertain terms that she was prying. "Maybe you ought to ask him that."
"I will." She admired his loyalty despite the fact that she didn't like being lied to. Especially when she didn't know why. "What about Van-Dyne? Is he a good detective?"
"He's a decent enough cop. But he's overworked, underpaid, has too many cases and not enough time. He can be a prick to deal with."
"What about you?"
The eyebrows shot up. "Am I a prick?"
She laughed, realizing he'd purposefully taken her mind off the shooting. There was a quiet strength and solid character behind that tough-guy facade. To her surprise, she found herself liking him. "I was referring to your detective skills."
"Oh." He grinned. "I'm the brains behind the operation. Randall does most of the legwork." He looked down at his chair. "No pun intended."
She remembered the angry, reckless energy that seemed to surround Randall. Despite the wheelchair, Jack seemed more content. The contrasts between the two brothers intrigued her. "You seem happier than your brother."
"Probably because I've accepted my limitations."
She didn't miss the shadow of pain that flashed in his eyes. "How did it happen?" she asked, hoping she hadn't trespassed into an area that was too painful for him.
"Motorcycle accident. Rode too fast too many times. My luck finally ran out."
"I'm sorry."
"It was a tough hand, but I've dealt with it. I've come to terms, moved beyond it. Acceptance is the key."
"And what limitations hasn't your brother accepted?"
He dropped the cigarette into the last bit of coffee and watched it sizzle out. "Let's just say he's in the process of realizing what they are."
A knock on the door sent Addison out of her chair. Jack motioned her back, put a finger to his lips to silence her. She watched in amazement as he pulled a revolver from beneath his coat. God, did everybody carry a gun? Cocking it, he rolled his chair toward the front door, and gave her a nod.
"Who is it?" she asked.
"It's Randall. What the hell's going on?”
Relief flitted through her at the sound of his voice.
Jack opened the door.
Randall stood in the doorway, his dark eyes concerned and more than a little angry. He looked like an overprotective father about to confront his daughter's suspicious-looking date. "What the hell kind of a message was that you left on my voice mail?"
Jack looked at Addison and laughed. "He's talking about the message you left when you called from Bernstein's office."
She blinked, barely remembering the phone call she'd made after discovering Jim's body.
Not waiting for an answer, Randall stalked past them into the apartment. He wore faded jeans, hiking boots, and a parka. ''Is someone going to tell me what the hell is going on? What happened to Bernstein?"
The way he was acting made her wonder if he'd been worried about her, but she quickly shoved the notion aside. Men like Randall Talbot didn't worry about other people. They spent too much time worrying about themselves.
"Jim Bernstein was murdered," she said.
He stared at her with astonishment. "Your lawyer? When?"
"Earlier today," Jack said. "He took a slug in the chest."
His eyes shifted to Addison. "She found him."
Randall swung around to face her, his expression incredulous. "You found him? Dead? In his office?"
She nodded.