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Kit yawned. “I haven’t been this tired in a long time.”
Connor’s yawn followed a few beats later. “Don’t yawn.”
Kit got out of the car. “Sorry. Let’s get this done so we can sleep.”
“That’s a plan.” Connor jogged around the sedan, meeting her on the sidewalk. “Chadwick Redford sounds like a fake name.”
“It might be. I ran a background on him and found his social security number, work history, and driver’s license, but he doesn’t have a passport, which is a little unusual these days for a businessperson.” She breathed deeply, the brisk night air helping to wake her up. “Let’s do this.”
Connor knocked on the door a little louder than usual. “Hoping the neighbors hear,” he whispered. “Then they’ll ask us in so the neighbors don’t snoop.”
It was a good plan. Except no one answered.
Connor knocked again, louder this time. They could see a portion of the stairs through the small windows at the top of the door. For another minute the stairs were empty, and then a woman came downstairs. They saw her bare legs first, then the white of a towel.
“Oh dear,” Kit muttered.
The door opened and a woman in her midtwenties glared at them, clutching at the towel around her body while the towel on her head slid sideways to perch at a dangerous angle. “Yes?” the woman asked impatiently.
Kit gently edged Connor aside because he was still blinking owlishly. It wasn’t often they were greeted at a door by half-naked people. “We’re looking for Mr. Redford. Is he in?”
The woman blinked. “He doesn’t live here.”
Wonderful, Kit wanted to snarl, but kept her smile in place. “Can you tell us where we can find him?”
“No, because I don’t know him, but my boyfriend might.” She turned and yelled up the stairs in a surprisingly powerful voice. “Honey! Someone’s looking for a Mr. Redford.”
Connor winced, giving his head a little shake.
“What?” a male voice asked. A very familiar male voice.
“Motherfucker,” Kit muttered. It was Dominic fucking Stanza.
Stanza came into view, took one look at them, and started to run. Connor grabbed Stanza’s shirt, holding him in place.
The towel-clad woman shrieked, demanding to know what was going on.
“Care to tell her, Mr. Stanza?” Connor asked silkily.
Dominic swallowed hard. “Let me go. You have nothing on me.”
“We can start with trespassing,” Kit said. Then she noticed the suitcases stacked in the foyer. “Considering that you were running from the police, I think we can keep you behind bars for a little while.”
They probably couldn’t, but Stanza might not know that.
“We’re not trespassing,” Stanza said defiantly. “My friend owns this house and lets us live here.”
The woman in the towel blinked at him. “You said that you owned this house. That your parents gave it to you.”
“He lied, ma’am,” Kit said helpfully. “May we come in?”
“No,” Stanza snapped.
But the woman nodded. “I live here, too, and I say yes.”
“Thank you. Go get dressed, please. I’ll wait upstairs for you. Detective Robinson, please escort Mr. Stanza back into the house.”
“With pleasure,” Connor said darkly, and gave Stanza a small shove. “Move it.”
