I parked my Mini about four streets away and made my way
by foot to the Georgian mansion at number twelve,
Admiral's Walk. I slunk along the quiet streets, dressed
in full cat-burglar gear: black leggings, black jumper, my
long blond hair bound up in a tight French braid and
tucked under my clothing out of sight. My head was covered
by a close-fitting black balaclava that doubled as a mask
when pulled low. I carried a black nylon pack on my back,
filled with every conceivable tool required by the well-
dressed cat burglar. All dressed up and places to go.
After spraying black paint across the lens of every camera
I passed and checking the street in both directions, I
scaled the London plane tree that grew outside number ten.
I crawled along a sturdy limb until I had a good view of
the Moning house and the garden. The air smelled damp,
making me suspect a mist would roll in tonight and cover
the nearby heath. After I watched for the requisite ten
minutes followed by another five minutes for safety's
sake, it was still quiet. I wriggled along the limb and
dropped into the garden at number twelve. Crouching low, I
crept across the manicured lawn, past an archway draped
with old-fashioned scented roses, making sure I stuck to
the looming shadows cast by the stand of English oaks.
A low growl was all the warning I received. I froze.
Another growl made the hairs at the back of my neck stand
and salute. Hell! A freaking dog. My heart thundered as I
slowly turned.
The dog stood a few feet from me. Black. All teeth and
fangs. Damn and blast. The damned thing hadn't been here
the three times I'd checked out the premises. And if the
dog had a kennel, I hadn't seen it. With slow, careful
movements, I eased the pack from my back and fumbled with
the zip. My hand closed around the doctored cheeseburger,
and I let it fall to the ground at my feet. The dog
sniffed the burger. It woofed the treat down in two bites
before staring fixedly, perhaps debating if I were the
second course. It growled. Father had assured me the
sleeping pills would do the trick without hurting the dog.
I hoped he knew what he was talking about. No sooner had
the thought passed my mind then the dog swayed.
I bolted. The dog gave a feral growl and sprang. Fabric
ripped. My steps faltered. For an instant, I panicked, but
suddenly the dog let go. Without looking back, I sprinted
to the back of the house, my legs pumping like a hundred-
meter sprinter at the Olympic Games. I scampered up the
sturdy vine I'd chosen and only then looked back, my chest
burning for air. The dog lay still on the ground. I turned
to survey the rip in my leggings and shifted uneasily. My
backside smarted like the devil.
Smooth as silk.
Huh? Emily had read someone else's cards, not mine.
I scaled the wall in no time at all, stubbornly ignoring
the pain in my ass, and after pulling on a pair of gloves,
entered the building via the nursery room window. Lucky
for me the nursery was empty of all save the lingering
scent of lemon furniture polish. I crept down to the next
floor, but that's when luck deserted me again.
A footfall sounded.
I froze, my heart hammering with alarm. There was someone
at home. Laughter-both male and female. Had the husband
returned? Why were they there with the lights off? Duh!
Stupid question. It was obvious why the room was dark.
Abort my mission or risk it? As I hesitated on the
landing, I heard footsteps on the stairs. The front door
opened.
"Darling, tomorrow night?" the man asked.
"Yes. James isn't back until Friday," Perdita replied.
Kissing followed-loud enough to make me roll my eyes.
After what seemed like ages, the door shut again and soft
footsteps sounded on the stairs.
What the hell was I going to do now? I thought about
hitting her over the head, snatching the jewels and
running. I mean, she was fooling around; she deserved
everything that was coming. I considered the idea a bit
longer and rejected it as stupid. A girl had to have some
scruples. Physical violence was one of mine.
Before I'd made a decision, I heard the front door open
again. Jeez! The place was like Paddington Station at rush
hour. I hunkered down in my hiding place on the landing
and waited to see what developed.
Stealthy footsteps padded up the stairs toward the bedroom
where Perdita had entertained her lover. Surely not
another one?
"What do you want?" I heard Perdita demand.
I crept from my dark corner but couldn't see a damned
thing. What now? I wondered in frustration. Did I try to
get closer?
A scream. A gunshot. I heard the sound of a rapid retreat.
The front door slammed, then there was silence. No more
laughter. Not a single bloody sound. I hovered
indecisively. Dithered, really. When everything remained
silent, I cautiously crept toward Perdita's bedroom.
When I was a few feet from the doorway, a cuckoo burst
from its clock, nearly giving me a coronary. I leapt in
fright but managed to hold back on the accompanying
squeak. After my heart settled back in place, I slunk
closer to the bedroom.
A little moonlight seeped in from outside, but I didn't
need illumination to tell something was badly wrong. I
could smell it. An indescribable scent, layered with
expensive perfume and sex, that I didn't want to smell
again in a hurry.
"Hello?" I whispered. It was no surprise to me that I
sounded shit-scared. And not much of a surprise when no
one answered. I fumbled for the light switch, not because
I wanted to but because I had to know.
Blood.
Everywhere. It really stood out on the white satin sheets.
I swallowed when I observed the very dead woman sprawled
on the king-sized bed, and then gulped again when my
stomach threatened to revolt. It was Perdita Moning, all
right.
Strangled laughter sounded, and I was a bit surprised when
I realized the sound came from me. Slightly hysterical. A
little crazed. But hell, not every day a girl witnesses a
murder.
I stepped closer and stopped abruptly. If I was wise, I'd
be out of here. Although I'd heard the murderer leave,
they might return and realize I'd been in the house. The
thought stopped me short. I had a daughter who was in
enough danger as it was-a hell of a lot to live for. I
whirled about in a frenzy to leave the scene. Amber was
only five, and I wanted to see her reach adulthood.
The light caught the ruby necklace. I stopped, mesmerized
by the lustrous sparkle, and then shook myself. More red.
But I scooped it up anyway, along with a pair of matching
earrings and a rather nice diamond-and-sapphire choker. I
hardened my heart. Perdita Moning was dead. She wouldn't
need them any more.
About to leave, one more thing caught my notice. My heart
started to pound. I shivered from head to foot.
It was a photo of four children. Innocent fun preserved
from a happy, carefree day at the beach. I started to
wheeze. I tore at my jumper trying to loosen it around my
neck, but the gloves were useless. I ripped one off and
yanked at my buttons. Concentrate. Breathe.
When I had myself under control, I looked back at the
photo. My trembling hand reached out to brush one finger
across the face of the child in the photo. The child
wasn't my daughter, but she was a dead ringer. I swallowed
my shock.
A clue-at last.
You see, I didn't know the identity of my daughter's
father but, now I'd seen this photo, I intended to
discover the truth.
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