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Watkins’s smile vanished as she cut Bree off. “Frances beingFrances, she was interested in who sold you the dress and she discovered it was Marjorie Mayhew, her cousin’s daughter, who works at our Fifth Avenue store. Is that who you bought the dress from?”
Bree’s stomach dropped, but she said, “Marjorie was a great help. But she never mentioned she was Frances’s cousin’s daughter.”
“And you never mentioned the name Evelyn Carlisle. Who are you working for? Why are you here, Bree Stone?”
“I honestly don’t know what you’re talking about. Bree Stone is a name I use when I don’t want people to know who I am.”
“We know exactly who you are,” Watkins shot back. “You are the former chief of detectives of the Washington, DC, Metro Police force and you now work for the Bluestone Group, which, ironically, has done some work for us in the past. So again, why are you here and who hired you?”
Bree saw the jig was up. “I was sent to soak up the world of Frances Duchaine, and I honestly have no idea who hired me. You could ask my boss, Elena Martin, but I don’t think she knows either.”
“Oh, I will ask Elena. Just before I inform her that Frances will no longer do business with her. And now, please leave, Ms. Stone, or I’ll have these men drag you out in your once-in-a-lifetime dress. Which doesn’t fit you well, by the way.”
Bree put her hands up and opened the door to the chattering and clattering of fifty wealthy people dining. She looked over her shoulder at Burt, who was following her, and then Watkins.
“Send my regards to Katherine and Victor, won’t you?” Bree said.
The face of Duchaine’s second in command lost all its color.
CHAPTER 31
Takoma Park, Maryland
LISA MOORE LOVED THEnight, loved the cloak of anonymity it gave her as she eased down a dark alley around eight thirty in the evening, trying to see over an ivy-covered chain-link fence into the small backyard of a gray-and-white two-story house not far from Maryland’s border with the District of Columbia.
The house itself was dark, but a small floodlight on the right rear corner allowed Thomas Tull’s chief researcher to make mental notes and take pictures of the tricycle by the back stairs and the swing set and the sandbox with two large Tonka trucks in it.
Moore walked past another few houses before opening the recording app on her phone. “It’s a place of hopefulness,” she said. “Of young, innocent children and parents who genuinely care. And maybe the threat to their lives will fade, no match for the love they nurture and share.”
Tull’s researcher turned off the app, thinking that sounded pretty good, poetic even. She exited the alley and turned left. Though she’d already seen the front of the house virtually, Moore wanted a real look at it, just for reference.
A bald, forty-something man in running gear jogged down the sidewalk toward her, holding the leash to a Jack Russell terrier that yapped with excitement.
“Happy little guy,” she said.
“Happy little girl,” the man said, puffing and smiling as he passed.
Tull’s researcher wore a plain ball cap that she’d kept low over her eyes, and her pants and windbreaker were intentionally dark and logo-less. The jogger with the terrier might remember the brief conversation, but he would never be able to identify her.
Never in a million years,Moore thought as she crossed the street and took another left on the sidewalk. The house of interest was roughly halfway down the block and across the street from a two-story brick house that had a For Sale sign out front. According to the listing Moore had found on Zillow, it was newly remodeled and empty. The empty house was one of the reasons Moore had chosen the home opposite it for more detailed scrutiny. When the street was quiet on both sides, she crossed the driveway and took a hard right at the For Sale sign.
She went up the stairs to the porch, which lay in shadows. Tull’s researcher went to the far left corner, where the shadows were darkest.
She straddled the porch rail. To break up her silhouette, she leaned back against the house next to a tall, thick lilac bush that was blooming to her immediate right.
As long as I stay still, quiet, and phone-free, I can be here for hours.
It was a pleasant, balmy night, and the lilacs smelled delightful,which combined to keep Moore still for a good twenty minutes, even when a young couple with a basset hound puppy passed by on the sidewalk.
Two minutes later, a late-model silver Toyota minivan pulled into the driveway across the street. Both rear doors slid back and a burly Asian-American man in a red tracksuit climbed out of the driver’s side. A petite blonde in charcoal-gray yoga pants and a yellow hoodie got out of the front passenger side.
The Pan family,Moore thought.George and Angela. What a love story there is to tell about those two, huh?
The Pans were reaching into the back seat of the minivan. With the interior lights on, Tull’s researcher could see they were fumbling with car seats. Angela came out with one of their sons first. His twin came out in George’s arms a few moments later. Both looked sound asleep.
A long day for three-year-old Derek and Miles,Moore thought.I wonder how the Pans tell the boys apart. I can’t tell who’s who from the pictures Angela posts on Instagram.
The Pan family entered their front door and soon there were lights on downstairs and up. Moore wondered whether she should shut down this observation post for the evening and pay a short visit to the secondary one before calling it a night. Then her phone buzzed in her pocket.
