Deadly Fall (28 page)

Stop it.
Blaming herself wasn’t going to solve anything. Besides, the logical part of her argued, the blame could only be laid on the doorstep of the people who had attacked Jana. The same people who had attacked her and violated her privacy.

But logic wasn’t coming out on top today.

Augusta heaved a shaky sigh and loosened her hold on the paintbrush until blood rushed back into her knuckles, flooding them with color, and went back to the deft, bold strokes she was using to cover the canvas. In the less rational part of her brain, she could only atone for Jana by doing everything within her power to ensure the NYPD caught Drew’s killers.

And that brought her back to Adam.

As she painted, Augusta emptied her mind of everything but Adam. If he wasn’t directly involved in Drew’s murder—and she sincerely hoped that was the case—then he knew something he wasn’t sharing with the NYPD. Then again, what if it was all about Adam? All the victims so far were as close to Adam as they had been to Drew, closer in Jana’s case.

But what would Adam be mixed up in that would make people hurt those he loved?

And
why
?

The hand holding the paintbrush faltered. Augusta stared blindly at the smear of deep, rich mossy green she would have to remove or paint over.

Oh, God. She’d nearly forgotten. Adam had promised her he no longer indulged his vice, but how could she continue to believe a man who had successfully kept his love for a woman a secret for years on end without his best friend having an inkling?

A dull shaft of pain went through her. When Nick returned, she would recommend that he get a forensic accountant to sift through Adam’s finances.

Decision made, Augusta didn’t feel as if a weight had been lifted from her chest and shoulders. If anything, the weight pushed more heavily on her. She’d just decided to deliberately and knowingly betray her best friend. Doing what she did best, she took the guilt twisting her insides and channeled it to her hands, to the paintbrush and onto the canvas in front of her.

* * * * *

Nick gave a short wave goodbye to the officers in the patrol car as they drove past the townhouse for another circle of the area. Joe Doyle had reported the bugs were small, which meant short battery life and short range. Whoever was listening on the other end was most likely within a two block radius to pick up the signal.

Fifteen minutes later, he quietly let himself inside with the key Augusta had given him and reset the alarm.

Terry Kehoe had exceeded his expectations. Nick dropped the manila envelope that he had tucked under his arm on the kitchen table. It contained the pictures of the two mystery men and one mystery woman who were the last to see Andrew Langan before he was thrown over his terrace and to his death. With forty minutes of messing around on an impressive array of electronic equipment and a lot of mumbling, Terry proved himself worthy of the title of computer genius. He managed to take the grainy images from the video tapes and turn them into nice, clear pictures the NYPD would be able to feed to the criminal database and the media.

The light from the street was sufficient for Nick to make his way upstairs to Augusta’s bedroom. When he reached the open doorway, panic beat in his chest. Her bed was empty. He stopped short of drawing his gun. She probably fell asleep somewhere else in the townhouse. Her studio was the most reasonable assumption.

Heart pounding in his ears because reason wasn’t enough to neutralize his emotions when it came to Augusta, Nick took the stairs up to the fourth floor in less than thirty seconds. And went weak with relief for a moment. She was curled up on the daybed, cocooned in the tan blanket. She was sleeping peacefully, unlike the first time he had found her.

Nick quietly tread closer, intending to carry her downstairs to her bedroom. The daybed wasn’t spacious enough for the both of them. He came up against the daybed and ran the backs of his fingers along the curve of her cheek. It was impossibly soft and smooth. Arousal hardened his body. He wanted to kiss her awake and then sink into her warm depths, but he was surprised to find himself content to simply look at her. Then he bent down and scooped her up, blanket and all. She made a snuffling noise but didn’t awaken. He’d wanted her to take a look at the pictures he brought back with him, but, gazing down at her while he settled her on the bed, he decided it, like his needs, could wait until morning. She looked like she needed her sleep.

Nick stripped off his clothes, gently pulled the top sheets from underneath Augusta and got in beside her. He covered them with the sheets. She made a small sound of protest when he coaxed the tan blanket from her, but she settled down again when he pulled her back against his chest and draped his leg over both of hers. He pressed a kiss into her hair and fell asleep.

Unlike the last time she was on campus, Augusta did not take her time and enjoy the walk between her car and the building that housed her department. Dressed in blue jeans and a thick, black turtleneck sweater in concession to the below average temperature and fingers firmly gripping the strap of her leather designer purse, she made her way through the campus grounds. Her eyes were focused straight ahead, ignoring whispers and stares, some curious, some rude. Her expression did not invite idle chitchat, so no one tried to stop her.

When Augusta had woken up that morning, she’d been alone, but the large imprint beside her had still been warm. She’d been disappointed Nick hadn’t made love to her before taking off and wondered if he’d still been angry with her. When she’d finally made it downstairs, she saw the note and the manila envelope Nick had left behind. However, she didn’t recognize the three people in the black-and-white photos. She’d debated whether or not to call him and relate her latest revelation about Adam, but decided she needed to talk to him face to face. They had more to discuss than just Adam.

As she did outside, Augusta acted as if she didn’t notice the shock that seemed to ripple through the plump, blonde woman sitting behind the desk in the department’s reception area. She quickly moved her mouse and clicked something. Most likely closing a news article on the murder. Augusta had stopped following the news—print, television and web—after that first article in the
New York Times
. If she wanted lies and wild-ass speculation, she would read a novel. The press might’ve ceased to hound her, but the stories continued. Augusta glanced at the row of closed doors and hoped none of her colleagues would wander by.

Her polite smile was barely there. “Morning, Rita.”

“Dr. Langan…Augusta…” Rita blushed until she was roughly the color of a ripe tomato. “I—I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

“I…I—”

“I’m here to pick up my mail. That’s all.”

“Oh! I have it here,” Rita said, sounding pathetically grateful. She pushed her chair back, reached under her desk and lifted a small cardboard box filled with packages, papers and envelopes. “There was so much, I thought it would be better if I put it all in a box for you.”

“Thanks. Is my office still mine?”

An uneasy expression crossed Rita’s pretty face. “Uh, actually, someone’s using it now.”

Augusta froze. That was the real reason her mail was in a box underneath Rita’s desk. It was only an office, but it still felt like a betrayal. “I see.” She cleared her throat. “Do you mind if I sort through this here then?”

“No, no. Go right ahead. Do you want some privacy?”

A slight but genuine smile lifted the corners of Augusta’s mouth. Privacy in an area where all and sundry could walk through?

“No, please stay. This won’t take long. I’ll do it over there,” she said, indicating the seating arrangement in the tiny waiting area.

Augusta tossed her purse in the box, hefted it in her arms and moved to one of the chairs, dropping the box onto it. She stood while quickly sorting through its contents. There were mainly industry publications, letters in faculty envelopes and essays. She plucked out the essays and stacked them on the closest chair. There was only one envelope with a return address she didn’t recognize. Burford, Burford & Stevens in Boston, Massachusetts. It sounded like a law firm.

Augusta could feel each beat of her heart in her throat as she turned the thick, ivory-colored envelope in her hands over and over again. Unaware of everything other than the envelope before her eyes, she sat down heavily on the nearby chair, not caring that she sat on the stack of essays she’d weeded out. With fingers that trembled faintly, she ripped open the envelope and pulled out the precisely folded sheet. She unfolded the letter and a tiny envelope, about one inch by three inches, fell into her lap. Without looking, she reached down and found the tiny envelope even as she scanned the letter. It was brief but packed a hell of a wallop.

Burford, Burford & Stevens had been instructed to mail her the enclosed upon the death of Andrew James Langan.

She crushed the enclosed envelope in her fist. The envelope was padded, but she could feel the rough outline of the key within.

Rita’s tentative voice came from the short distance across the room. “Augusta? Is it bad news?”

Augusta gave herself a mental shake. “No, it’s not. I’ve been waiting for this letter. I thought it had gotten lost in the mail.”

Eager to be gone, Augusta stood, picked up the stack of essays and gave them to Rita. “Will you do me a favor and give these to my substitute? He’ll have to grade them. Tell him that if they’re late, it’s my fault for not coming in sooner.” She hesitated, then asked, “Who’s taken over my lectures?”

Rita looked pained, clearly not wanting to be the bearer of bad news. “Dr. Ted Thornton’s been hired on full-time.”

Her face felt stiff. Before her office was even cold, they had made plans to replace her permanently. Frank Hayes did like to plan ahead, after all.

It was difficult to keep the bitter expression off her face, but she managed. “Ted’s a good choice. He knows his stuff and he’s fair.”

“When do you think you’ll be coming back?”

“Never,” Augusta said, the answer surprisingly swift and easy. Whatever else happened, she knew she could never come back to this place. Nick was right. She should be doing her art, instead of just teaching the history of it. She might never sell a single painting, but it was what she was meant to do. And unlike most other artists, her biological father had left her a very healthy trust fund. While it wasn’t in the Langan clan’s league, when combined with the modest investment skills she’d picked up from years of living with a man with razor sharp business acumen, it ensured she need never sell a painting to pay the bills.

And there was no one left to whom she had to prove herself.

* * * * *

Augusta sat inside her sedan, fully aware of the patrol officers sitting in the parked blue-and-white several cars away. She unzipped her purse and retrieved the padded envelope. She ripped it open and tapped out the key onto the palm of her waiting hand. Her chest rose and fell quickly with her breaths as her pulse kicked into the next gear. It was smaller than a house key and had four numbers engraved on it. It didn’t take a genius to figure out it was for a safety deposit box. And Augusta even had a damned good idea in which bank the safety deposit box resided. She just hoped it held the answers she desperately needed.

As a safety measure, she slipped the key onto her key ring. Then she reached inside her purse and withdrew the letter from Burford, Burford & Stevens and her cell phone. As she punched in the numbers on the fancy raised letterhead into her cell phone.

Her stomach jittery, Augusta pressed SEND and brought the phone up to her ear. It started ringing. On the third ring, it was answered by a professional female voice.

“Burford, Burford & Stevens. How may I help you?”

Augusta scanned down to the bottom of the letter. “I need to speak with Mr. Christopher Stevens, please.”

“May I ask who’s speaking?”

“Augusta Langan.”

“Let me check if he’s available, Ms. Langan. Please hold.”

Poorly arranged elevator music played in her ear for several long seconds.

“Mr. Stevens is available. I’ll patch you through to his line. Have a nice day.”

A series of clicks sounded in her ear, then there was ringing again. It stopped mid-ring.

“Chris Stevens speaking,” a deep male voice answered, sounding distracted.

“Mr. Stevens, this is Augusta Langan.”

“Mrs. Langan.” The distraction vanished. “How are you?”

“I’m fine, thank you.”

“I was very sorry to hear about Drew.”

Something in his voice alerted her. “Did you know him personally?”

“Drew and I met at Harvard. We weren’t close, but we knew each other. We lost touch after graduation, though.”

“Oh.” She took a moment to digest that new bit of information.

“I’m calling because I received a letter from you.”

“Yes, of course. Is something wrong?”