Clint’s brownstone was located on a quiet street on the outskirts of upper Georgetown. Randall had the cab drop him at the comer, then waited until the taillights were out of sight before ducking into the alley.
Ransacking Clint's house was a long shot, but it was the only place he could think of to begin. He desperately needed information, anything that might help him find Addison. Clint had mentioned Glover Park. He'd referred to the name Gavin. It was all Randall had to go on; it had to be enough.
He scrambled over a chain-link fence, trying in vain not to jar his ribs. The pain came hard and fast, wrapping around his chest like barbed wire. Head reeling, he went to his knees in the grass and gasped for breath. He prayed his body held out long enough for him to find Addison.
Cursing, he waited for his vision to clear and struggled to his feet. He looked at the house. No lights. The street beyond was quiet and dark. Satisfied, he lumbered toward the back door.
Relief flitted through him when he found the screen door unlocked. He let himself into the back porch and looked around for something with which to break the glass. Spotting a broom, he gripped it, drew back, and shattered the pane with a single stroke.
The sound of breaking glass seemed deafening in the quiet. Two houses down, a dog began to bark. Aware that he was about to cross the point of no return, Randall reached inside and unlocked the door.
The house was eerily still. The linoleum creaked under his feet as he made his way through the kitchen. The air smelled of dust and lemon oil, tinged with the faint redolence of the cheap cigars Clint had been so fond of.
"Damn you, Clint," he murmured, disbelieving his friend had betrayed him, hating it that Addison's fate dangled by little more than a thread because of it.
The image of her came at him out of nowhere. Her fragile eyes filled with horror as the guns were raised and leveled. Once again, the helplessness and outrage rose up inside him. He heard the blasts. He felt the tremendous force of the impact. He remembered the sight of her covered with Clint's blood. For a terrifying moment, he'd thought she'd been hit.
A drop of sweat slipped between his shoulder blades. He left the kitchen. His heart thrashed against his injured ribs like a wild animal trapped inside his chest. Control, he thought in a last-ditch effort to calm himself. Lose it now and it's over, Talbot. For you. For Addison.
Clenching his teeth against panic, Randall moved down the hall. He walked past the bathroom and strode directly to Clint's study. The smell of cigars was stronger here, mingling with the faint odors of whiskey and old paper. He risked turning on the banker's lamp.
Clint's desk was well used, but neat. A decanter of whiskey rested on the credenza behind it. Randall opened the top drawer, not surprised to find a nine-millimeter Beretta. He pulled it out, checked the clip, and stuffed it into the waistband of his jeans. Opening the next drawer, he rifled through a stack of past due bills, a few newspaper clippings, a Playboy magazine, and an old wallet stuffed with pictures.
Acutely aware of the passage of time, he yanked out the last drawer. He knew the police would show up eventually. Urgency pulled him in one direction while the need to be thorough pulled him in another. He tried not to think about Addison or the terror she must be feeling. He tried not to think about what Tate might want from her. He couldn't bear to think that she could. be hurting—or that she could already be dead.
He rifled through a drawer full of statements and bills. Beneath them was a legal pad. Randall pulled it out and spotted the address book. He dropped into the chair and paged through the book.
Most of the entries listed first names only, some with initials, some with no name at all. Under G, no Gavin. He cursed in frustration, slammed the book closed, and dropped his head into his hands. Somewhere in the house, a clock chimed. Time seemed to mock him.
He opened the address book again. Starting at the beginning, he went through it, page by page. Dr. Arnoff in Chicago. Brownie, obviously an alias or nickname. Dave at Foley's Bar. Martino. Desperation clawed at him. Closing the book, he glanced out the window. Beyond, the street was dark and quiet. Mist formed a yellow halo around the single street lamp.
"Come on, goddammit." Turning back to the desk, he scanned the writing pad. On the upper right comer, a scribbled name caught his attention.
Paul Gavin.
He opened the book. To his surprise, the name Paul appeared under P. Snatching up the receiver, he dialed the number.
"Yeah, it's Gav." Deep voice. Boston accent.
"I'm a friend of Clint's." Randall trusted his instincts and went in blind.
"Don't know any Clint, man."
"He said you'd meet with me."
A long silence ensued. "I don't know what the fuck you're talking about, man."
''This is about what happened at Franco's."
A quick intake of breath. Barely audible. And then silence.