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Footsteps shuffled toward the door. Seconds later it was flung open. An old man stood before them, wearing blue pajama bottoms and a battered, smoke-stained sweatshirt. His feet were bare, his toenails yellow and a good inch longer than his toes.
He leaned forward, peering at Gabriel with red-ringed, watery eyes. “So it is. Fancy that.” Then his gaze turned to Sam and recognition flickered through the rheumy eyes. He stiffened, his knuckles white as he clenched the door.
“You,” he breathed softly. “You’re dead. They said you were dead!”
SAM GLANCED BRIEFLY AT GABRIEL, then back to Allars. “I have to say, I don’t feel dead.”
The old man blinked, and then he smiled. “You don’t look it, either.” His red-rimmed gaze went back to Gabriel. “What game are you playing here, son?”
“Mark, this is my partner, Sam Ryan.”
Allars studied her for a moment. “No relation to Meg Moore, then?”
Hope leapt. Meg Moore was one of the four women listed on Sam’s birth certificate. “I might be. I’m not really sure.”
“Interesting. You look the spitting image of her.” He hesitated and leaned close. His breath was a lethal combination of whiskey and salami. “Except for the eyes. Meg had real pretty green eyes.”
Gabriel touched the old man’s arm, drawing his attention away, and Sam took a deep breath of fresh air.
“Mark, do you mind if we come in?” he asked. “We have a few things we need to discuss with you.”
“Sure thing, son. Just don’t mind the mess.” He stepped back and opened the do
or wide. “First door on your right.”
Sam limped in after Gabriel. The air in the old house was a combination of staleness, sweat and old person. Dust lay thick on the baseboards and telephone table, and in the hallway, spiders hung in ropes from the ceiling. The old man obviously spent most of his time in the living room, because the dust and webs were absent there. Instead, newspapers and betting slips were scattered all over the coffee table and small sofa. A TV dominated one corner, and a comfy old recliner sat several feet back from it, one arm lined with remotes.
Gabriel swept the newspapers lying across the sofa into a pile, then stacked them in one corner. Sam sat down in the cleared space. Gabriel sat next to her, his thigh brushing hers, sending little tingles of electricity up her spine. She ignored it, though part of her wanted to confront it—confront him—about the awareness and what could be happening between them. If he ever let it.
Damn it, what was so wrong with her that he didn’t want her as a partner and wouldn’t consider her as a potential lover?
Allars shuffled across to the recliner. “Now, what can I help you with, son?”
“Emma Pierce. You recognize that name?”
“Sure thing. She worked at Hopeworth, same as Meg and me.”
“What on?”
Allars smiled slightly. “Secrets Act, son. Even now, I can’t talk about it.”
“Can you remember who else you were working with at the time?” Sam asked quietly.
“It’s just the body that’s gotten old, girlie, not the mind.” He hesitated, rheumy eyes distant. “Let’s see—in my project there was Meg, Mike Shean, David Wright, Jeremy Park, Alice Armstrong, Rae Messner and Fay Reilly.”
Sam crossed her legs, not just to ease the ache in her calf, but to keep in check the sudden rush of excitement. Those names were all on the birth certificate. Finally, she’d found someone who might know something.
“And Emma?” Gabriel asked.
Allars shook his head. “No. She was several years younger than us. That was a completely different project.”
“Different how?” Gabriel’s voice held a touch of impatience. “And don’t quote me that ‘secrets’ rubbish. You haven’t worked at Hopeworth for a good twenty years, and the project’s probably obsolete by now.”
Allars’s smile was jovial, but there was something almost cunning in his eyes. “You’d be surprised.”
“Mark, four people have been murdered in the last week. The only connection we have between any of them is Emma Pierce and Hopeworth. We have to find out what Emma was involved in. It may provide our only real hope of finding the murderer.”
Allars’s gaze was assessing. “Why don’t you put in a request to Hopeworth itself?”
