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Afterwards, she puts the phone back on the table and looks at the note in her hand. I remain in my seat and wait for her to tell me what the conversation was about. If she wants to, that is.
She draws a deep breath, then looks at me. “Have you ever been to Rhode Island?”
“Once,” I answer. “Why?”
“When we were in the car on the way back here, I sent the pictures I took to a friend of mine to see what he could find out from them.”
He?
“One of the pictures I took was of a Post-it that said something about finding a house like Clearweather Cottage. Have you heard of it?”
“No.”
“It turns out it’s in Rhode Island and it was once owned by Sergio Bianchi.”
“Once?” I ask.
“There’s a different name on the property now, but that could be fake,” Allie says.
Likely. Or Sergio could have sold the property to someone else just so his name wouldn’t appear on it but he could still be living in it.
“So you’re headed there next?” I ask.
Allie nods. “Yeah.”
“And you told me this because you want me to follow you there? Meet you there?”
She told me she doesn’t want me working with her, and yet she just told me what she’s going to do next, which means she probably wants something from me.
“No,” Allie answers. She draws a breath. “We’ll go together.”
My eyebrows furrow. “Together?”
The word confuses me. Wasn’t she insistent on working alone?
She shrugs. “You’ll show up there anyway. I’d rather not have you sneak up on me again, thank you very much.”
A valid reason, I guess, but something tells me it’s not the real reason.
“Are you doing this because you’re grateful I helped you out of a predicament?” I ask her.
“Well, as much as I hate to admit it, if not for your help, I would never have been able to get this information,” Allie says. “I mean, you were the one who picked the lock of that drawer. Then you got me out of that office after it got locked.”
True.
“You could have called your friend and asked him to bust you out of there,” I say.
She snorts. “I doubt it. That was an old-school lock.”
Oh. So her friend is a tech guy.
“Plus it would have taken him forever to get there, and even if he had, he wouldn’t have been able to catch me like that.”
Good point.
“So you’re not asking me to work with you just because you feel bad that your brother punched me?” I ask Allie.
The twitch of her eyebrows and the surprise in her eyes tells me I’m at least a little bit right, but she doesn’t confirm it.
“Do you want to do this investigation with me or not?” she asks in an annoyed tone.
“I do,” I answer.
I still think a joint investigation is ideal. Plus I do think Allie needs someone watching her back and getting her out of trouble. What happened tonight confirms it.
“Good.” Allie nods. “And for the record, I didn’t ask you to work with me. I’m letting you work with me. I’m the lead investigator here.”
I give her a salute. “Got it.”
She’ll lead. I’ll follow. She’ll get into trouble. I’ll get her out of it. That’s fine as long as we bring the Bianchis down together.
“So when are we leaving?”
~
We arrive in Rhode Island on a day of bad weather. Thick clouds tinted grey block out the sun. A biting chill hangs in the air. The wind seems to be picking up, too. Leaves start to rip from their branches, scattering on the ground. I hold on to my cap, worried it might get blown away.
“Looks like a storm is coming,” I tell Allie.
She looks up at the sky, nods, and zips her jacket. “Then we better hurry.”
We pick up our rental car and drive straight to Clearweather Cottage. It’s nearly an hour from the airport, right at the edge of Newport. The further we go, the fewer houses and the more rocks and ocean we see.
A great hiding place, I suppose.
It’s a beautiful house, too. Two stories. White walls. Slate roof. French windows. Blue curtains. Wrap-around porch with carved railings and potted plants.
Not grand but picturesque. Definitely better than that first building Allie and I went to. Maybe this is where the Bianchis moved when they finally got some money. Where that money came from, I can only guess.
Allie walks up to the porch and knocks on the front door. When no one answers, she peers inside one of the front windows, then shrugs.
“Seems like nobody’s home.”
“But it looks like someone lives here. Maybe we should come back,” I say.
“Wait.”
She turns the doorknob and the front door opens.
I frown. I don’t like going in cold like this. What if the Bianchis are actually here? What if they’re hiding and they’re armed?
“You’re not going to just go in, are you? Don’t you people need a warrant for that?” I tease her.
