Dead Even - Mariah Stewart [64]
He wandered around the room absently, thinking about how they might go about keeping Miranda safe without destroying her ego. He wandered into the hallway and paused at the small sideboard that sat near the front door. An envelope lay open, its contents spread across the top of the table. He leaned closer to take a look.
“What are you doing?” she asked from midway down the steps.
“Just looking at these photos,” he said. “I hope you don’t mind, they were laying here on the table and—”
“I do mind.”
Surprised at her tone, he looked up at her.
“They’re just baby pictures. You don’t want me to see how cute you and Portia were as babies? These are pictures of you and Portia, aren’t they?”
She nodded.
“You were beautiful babies. And your mother still looks a lot like she did back then, you know?” He peered closer at the top photo. “But who’s the guy carrying you on his shoulders? In this picture here . . .” He held it up.
Without glancing at it, she said, “That’s our father.”
“Really? I don’t remember him being that tall.” Will frowned. “I met him that time you were in the hospital, after you got knocked out at Kendra Smith’s house. I thought he was kind of short.”
“That was my stepfather.”
“Oh.” He looked up at her, saw how guarded her face had become. His eyes went back to the photograph, which he studied more carefully. “You know, if I didn’t know better, I’d think that this was—”
“Jack Marlow.” She named the man in the photo before Will could, her voice touched with frost. “Yes. He’s my father. Can we go now?”
“Jack Marlow? Mad Marlow, the legendary English rocker and guitar god, is your father ?”
“I understand these days he’s not quite as mad as he used to be, and perhaps somewhat less of a god, but yes,” she said with strained patience. “He’s my father.”
Will looked incredulous. “How could I have not known that?”
“It isn’t something I generally discuss. Are we going to have dinner now or not?”
Will dropped the photo back on the pile.
“Learn something new every day,” he muttered, and preceded her through the front door. “And set the alarm, damn it.”
“Maybe we should get takeout instead.” She activated the system. “Then we can come back and start going through those computer files, at least identify the cases we’re going to pull tomorrow morning.”
“I already did that.”
“Well, then, we can make a list of all the reports we want to review from each of the files.”
“Did that, too.” He grinned. “And before you ask, yes, I printed out copies of all the case logs, all the reports, and all the police records from each. I thought we’d divvy them up between us and see if any one person stands out.”
“You did all that this afternoon?”
He nodded.
“Damn, you really are good.” She started down the sidewalk and passed him, shaking her head. “Annoying, but good.”
“So,” he said as he caught up with her, “want to tell me how Jack Marlow, the guitar-smashing, drum-bashing rock idol, happens to be your father?”
“He slept with my mother.”
She fished her car keys out of the bag that hung from her shoulder. Putting a lock on the subject once and for all, she asked, “Italian or Chinese?”
CHAPTER
FOURTEEN
Burt pulled the pickup off the road and onto the wide shoulder and put the engine in neutral.
“Tell me again what you are going to do.”
“I’m going to walk down the side of the road here,” Lowell pointed behind them, “until I get to the woods. I’m going to walk straight into the woods, and when I get to the fields on the other side of the trees, I’m going to walk that way,” he pointed to his right, “until I see the house. The big yellow farmhouse.”
“And then?” Burt said, with the same tone of voice he’d use for conversing with a five-year-old.
“Then I’m going to find a tree that would give me a good view of