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“Hmm,” she says finally. “Here’s a crazy thought. Could the break-in have something to do with the inheritance?”
The hairs on the back of my neck stand up as I try the idea on for size. God, maybe Mikoto is right. If Jane Whaley really intends to prove I extorted her husband, she’ll want to find out anything she possibly can about me, and what better way to do that than searching my home and studio. Would she really dare to cross that kind of line, though?
If the answer is yes, I’m up against someone more dangerous than I ever imagined.
23
Now
IBRING MY HANDS TO MY TEMPLES, PRESSING WITH MY FINGERTIPSas if that will help me think faster.
“How could I have been so dense?” I say to Mikoto as things start to fall into place. “That idea never even crossed my mind.”
“Why would it?” she says with a shrug. “If you’re having an issue with someone, you don’t automatically assume their next move is to break into your apartment.”
I take another long sip of wine, still trying to puzzle it out. “Okay, she has a motive, but I’ve met the woman, and it’s hard to imagine her dashing down from the suburbs and sneaking into our building in her Jimmy Choos.”
Mikoto lifts an eyebrow. “She could have hired someone to do her dirty work. A classmate of mine worked as a paralegal at this sketchy law firm and she told me they’d sometimes use private investigators who weren’t afraid to break the law, if it meant getting their hands on the right information.”
I consider her suggestion for a moment. “The wife in thissituation could certainly afford to hire someone like that... but it seems so extreme.”
“I don’t mean to sound all woo-woo,” Mikoto tells me, smiling wryly, “but there’s a law in the cosmos saying that when a lot of money moves from point A to point B, it’s bound to unsettle the natural order. Which can lead to extremes.”
I grimace. “If itwasher, she was probably hoping to find evidence I was in touch with her husband before he died, since she certainly wouldn’t have turned up anything like that on his phone or computer.”
“Right. And that would explain why the person went through your belongings but didn’t take anything.”
“Wait, though...” I say, suddenly seeing a hitch. “The break-in happened the same day I ran into her in Westchester. I think that’s part of why it hadn’t occurred to me that she could be involved. How would she have set things in motion so quickly?”
“Hmm,” Mikoto says. “Good question. But when you told me about the wife confronting you, you said she seemed to know you’d be in the building. So... maybe she’d already hired someone to go through your things, knowing you’d be away from your apartment that day.”
A chill runs down my spine. “Jeez, yeah, maybe. This is starting to sound like some series on Netflix that I don’t have the nerve to watch all the way to the end.”
“I know.... When you meet with the attorney, be sure to fill her in. Would you like me to top off your wine?”
I glance down at my glass and discover that I’ve completely drained it. I’ve surely overstayed my welcome.
“No, no, I should get going,” I say, folding the list and tucking it into the pocket of my jeans. “Thank you for everything. The wine, the names, all your advice and wisdom.”
“My pleasure. And keep me posted, will you?”
“Will do.”
I say good night to Mikoto and let myself into my apartment. After giving Tuna a distracted back scratch, I inspect each room even more closely than I have before. If the intruder was an unscrupulous private eye, he might be able to gain entry even with my new sturdier lock in place, but nothing appears disturbed. And why would he come back, anyway, if his first search showed that there was nothing here to connect me to the late Christopher Whaley?
Do I have Kane to thank for some of this? I wonder. If he tipped off Jane Whaley that I was the benefactor of the trust and that I’d be meeting with him on Monday, he could have also provided her with my address. Though a private eye could have found it easily enough, too.
Back in the kitchen, my mind spinning, I grab a sad-looking peach from the crisper drawer and collapse on the couch. Tuna hops onto my cushion, arches her back, and curls up next to me. It’s nice to know that she actually seems to like me now, but her presence offers little solace at the moment. Just a few days ago I seemed to be so close to what I wanted the most—the chance to live life as an artist, the chance to be amother—but now someone’s trying to yank those things from my grip, and perhaps smear me publicly in the process.
And though it’s been helpful to get to know Mikoto a little bit and take comfort in her unflappability, I’m embarrassed by how much I’ve imposed on her over the past few days, and the way I’ve been extracting information from her. Though she’s seemed willing to help, she must think I’m the neediest person alive. I’ve got to stop pestering her.
Which means I’m on my own.
I take a bite of the peach. It’s tasteless and mealy, and I imagine it was harvested hundreds, maybe thousands of miles away and transported here in refrigerated trucks and maybe even first by ship. If only I could be there right now, in the warm, sunny place where the peachwas grown, or anywhere warm and inviting for that matter, but I can’t afford a mini-vacation, not until this all gets sorted out.
With my free hand I stroke Tuna’s head, feeling the vibrations as she purrs. Though the urge to flee the city is strong, it would be tough—and expensive—to leave her in a kennel.
A thought occurs to me. What if I went to West Hartford, taking Tuna with me, and spent a few nights in my old room? Though it was turned into a home office/man cave for David a decade ago, it’s got a pull-out couch where I sleep when I’m there. But years have passed since I showed up at my mother’s house just to hang, and it hurts even to imagine the strained tone of her voice if I were to request an impromptu visit.
