Dead Even - Mariah Stewart [52]
She must really be zonked, he thought as he quietly ran down the stairs and went into the kitchen.
He surveyed the breakfast possibilities. He had bread and eggs. Maybe he’d surprise her with French toast. Cahill’s sweet tooth was known to act up in the morning from time to time. He was filling the coffeepot with water when he glanced out the window.
The little white Spyder was MIA. Hadn’t he left it right at the end of the drive?
Damn, he muttered on his way down the hall. When he got to the front door, he realized it was already unlocked. Stepping out onto the porch in his bare feet, he saw that the Spyder was indeed gone.
He sat on the top step, his arms resting on his knees, and watched a few big yellow leaves float down from the maple at the end of the drive. Another minute passed before he took the cell phone from his pocket and speed-dialed her number.
“I guess you’re not on the way back from the neighborhood store with groceries,” he said when she picked up.
“Hey, you’re awake.”
“Where are you?” He forced a light tone, not wanting to sound as peevish as he felt.
“I’m just pulling into my driveway.”
“Why?”
“Well, since I slept most of the way between New Jersey and Virginia, I was awake most of the night. Still awake at five, so I figured I might as well get up and get some work done. Unfortunately, I had nothing to work on there, and since I didn’t know how long you’d be sleeping, I just figured I’d come home. Besides, the whole idea of me sleeping there last night was to keep me from driving home in the middle of a very dark night, so I figured driving at dawn would be fine.”
“Oh, sure. It is fine. I was just wondering what happened to you, that’s all.”
“Well, that’s all that happened. I came home because I was wide awake.” She paused, then asked, “So what are you doing up so early?”
“I got up to make breakfast.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Nope.”
“What are you making?”
“French toast.”
“Yum. My favorite.”
“I know. I was making it for you.”
“Oh.” She fell silent, and so did he.
Finally, he said, “No big deal. Twice as much for me.”
“Next time, Fletcher.”
“Sure.” He wondered if there’d be a next time.
“Oh, before I forget, did you ever hear back from Evan?” she said, deftly changing the subject.
“Don’t know.” He got up and went inside. “I’ll have to check the messages on the answering machine.”
The phone sat on the edge of the old worn desk that had once stood in his grandfather’s study. It pleased Will to have it in his home now. He’d had to trade with his cousin Jen, who’d arrived at their gran’s house before he did on the day Gran was giving away her furniture, but it was worth giving up two or three other prized objects for the desk. It was the one piece he’d really coveted.
He hit the message button.
“Hey. It’s Carole. We just wanted to let you know that Junie had her baby last week. Baby boy, cute as can be. They named him Nathaniel. Give us a call when you get a chance. You have the number. . . .”
“That was my cousin,” Will explained as he hit the delete button.
“Cute name, Nathaniel.”
“Yeah.” He made a mental note to send something to cousin Junie for the baby.
“Will. Evan Crosby. Got your message late, I’m just back from the training program at Quantico, trying to catch up here. To answer your question, I did ask my old partner from the Lyndon PD to find out if there’s any record at the courthouse of the three amigos spending time together, but I haven’t heard from him. I will be back at my county job on Monday, so I’ll ask around and get back to you. By the way, I heard about Unger getting it. I can’t believe we were all so wrong about Lowell. Annie’s taking it hard, that she so misread him. Anyway, I’ll be talking to you.” There was a brief pause, then, “Oh. Were you and Miranda able to come up with any other likely victims? Just curious . . .”
“You heard all that?” Will asked.
“Yes,” Miranda said. “Poor Annie. I’m sure she does feel badly. I think I’ll give her a call. . . .”
“You going into the office?”
“Today? It’s Sunday,” she reminded him.
“That’s never stopped