That was something to look forward to.
“That’s the kind of place he liked to go,” Mrs. DeMarco said.
Liked
. Past tense again.
“Does he have any friends there, people he meets on a regular basis?” Cat asked, ignoring Robertson’s baleful looks. She wasn’t going to stand there and do
nothing
, for heaven’s sake. She had sworn an oath to protect and serve, not to avoid offending the FBI. In fact, if anything, the FBI owed her big-time.
“No clue.” Hallie DeMarco glanced over at Robertson. Clearly she was unwilling or unable to respond in his presence.
“May I?” Cat asked the tech, who looked flustered as she took the matchbook and examined it. There was a string of seven numbers written in blue ink on the inside flap. Could be a phone number without an area code. She let Tess take a picture of it with her phone, then positioned the cover for another picture. Robertson practically snatched it out of her hand.
“We’ll take care of that,” he said, thrusting it back at the tech. Then he turned to go back into the bedroom. Gonzales followed. After a couple of seconds, Mrs. DeMarco went inside, too.
“No kidding this is an inside job,” Tess muttered.
Together the two detectives walked through Angelo DeMarco’s guitar museum. Nearly all the instruments were electric, except for a very few that were displayed in the cases the farthest away from the door. Then in the very last case sat a child-size guitar, which was painted shocking pink and decorated with periwinkle-blue flowers.
“I saw guitars like this for sale when I was in Cancun with Gabe,” Cat told Tess. “A street vendor had a souvenir cart filled with them, and maracas and castanets.”
“Cancun. Gabe. Stop. You’re making me shudder,” Tess said. “I know, right?
Gabe
.” Cat couldn’t believe she’d ever slept with Gabe either. Repeatedly. They’d taken that trip when Gabe had pretended be dead so they could flush out Sam Landon, the man who had created new beasts to take out the “Masters of the Universe,” the ultra-hush-hush organization of the rich and ruthless that had backed Muirfield.
In Cancun there had been massages and lovemaking and convincing herself that Vincent was nothing more than a memory. Just thinking about it made Cat grimace. Gabe was her bitterest enemy now, although he didn’t see himself that way. He believed he was her white knight. He had made her life a living hell so that he could
protect
her.
The same as my father
, she thought.
And now my father is missing.
Until that very moment, she hadn’t allowed herself a single second to dwell on that, and now, just as agony had ruptured Mrs. DeMarco’s mask, thoughts of him crashed through the wall she had erected so she could do her job. It infuriated her that she was being jerked around by Robertson and Gonzales instead of looking into her father’s disappearance.
“And… we’re back from Mexico,” Tess murmured pointedly.
“Sorry.” Cat opened the case and took out the pink guitar. “Why would he have this?” she asked. “Did it belong to someone famous? Shirley Temple?”
“Maybe it was Angelo’s first guitar?” Tess ventured. “Wouldn’t that be weird? I mean, I don’t care that it’s pink, but wouldn’t his so-very-sexist dad?”
Cat turned the guitar over to examine the back. Something fluttered out of the sound hole and Tess bent to retrieve it. It was a blurry Polaroid of a little redheaded girl. There was something about her that caught Cat’s attention, but she couldn’t figure out what it was.
“Does this ring a bell?” she asked Tess, and Tess considered. She took the photograph and held it closer.
“Maybe?” Tess said. “I’m not sure.” She pulled out her phone and snapped a picture of it. “I’m tempted to take it.”
“Then we’re breaking laws and we do that often enough,” Cat said. “I suppose we should show it to the agents.”
“Show what?” said a voice behind Cat, and she jerked,
“That’s the kind of place he liked to go,” Mrs. DeMarco said.
Liked
. Past tense again.
“Does he have any friends there, people he meets on a regular basis?” Cat asked, ignoring Robertson’s baleful looks. She wasn’t going to stand there and do
nothing
, for heaven’s sake. She had sworn an oath to protect and serve, not to avoid offending the FBI. In fact, if anything, the FBI owed her big-time.
“No clue.” Hallie DeMarco glanced over at Robertson. Clearly she was unwilling or unable to respond in his presence.
“May I?” Cat asked the tech, who looked flustered as she took the matchbook and examined it. There was a string of seven numbers written in blue ink on the inside flap. Could be a phone number without an area code. She let Tess take a picture of it with her phone, then positioned the cover for another picture. Robertson practically snatched it out of her hand.
“We’ll take care of that,” he said, thrusting it back at the tech. Then he turned to go back into the bedroom. Gonzales followed. After a couple of seconds, Mrs. DeMarco went inside, too.
“No kidding this is an inside job,” Tess muttered.
Together the two detectives walked through Angelo DeMarco’s guitar museum. Nearly all the instruments were electric, except for a very few that were displayed in the cases the farthest away from the door. Then in the very last case sat a child-size guitar, which was painted shocking pink and decorated with periwinkle-blue flowers.
“I saw guitars like this for sale when I was in Cancun with Gabe,” Cat told Tess. “A street vendor had a souvenir cart filled with them, and maracas and castanets.”
“Cancun. Gabe. Stop. You’re making me shudder,” Tess said. “I know, right?
Gabe
.” Cat couldn’t believe she’d ever slept with Gabe either. Repeatedly. They’d taken that trip when Gabe had pretended be dead so they could flush out Sam Landon, the man who had created new beasts to take out the “Masters of the Universe,” the ultra-hush-hush organization of the rich and ruthless that had backed Muirfield.
In Cancun there had been massages and lovemaking and convincing herself that Vincent was nothing more than a memory. Just thinking about it made Cat grimace. Gabe was her bitterest enemy now, although he didn’t see himself that way. He believed he was her white knight. He had made her life a living hell so that he could
protect
her.
The same as my father
, she thought.
And now my father is missing.
Until that very moment, she hadn’t allowed herself a single second to dwell on that, and now, just as agony had ruptured Mrs. DeMarco’s mask, thoughts of him crashed through the wall she had erected so she could do her job. It infuriated her that she was being jerked around by Robertson and Gonzales instead of looking into her father’s disappearance.
“And… we’re back from Mexico,” Tess murmured pointedly.
“Sorry.” Cat opened the case and took out the pink guitar. “Why would he have this?” she asked. “Did it belong to someone famous? Shirley Temple?”
“Maybe it was Angelo’s first guitar?” Tess ventured. “Wouldn’t that be weird? I mean, I don’t care that it’s pink, but wouldn’t his so-very-sexist dad?”
Cat turned the guitar over to examine the back. Something fluttered out of the sound hole and Tess bent to retrieve it. It was a blurry Polaroid of a little redheaded girl. There was something about her that caught Cat’s attention, but she couldn’t figure out what it was.
“Does this ring a bell?” she asked Tess, and Tess considered. She took the photograph and held it closer.
“Maybe?” Tess said. “I’m not sure.” She pulled out her phone and snapped a picture of it. “I’m tempted to take it.”
“Then we’re breaking laws and we do that often enough,” Cat said. “I suppose we should show it to the agents.”
“Show what?” said a voice behind Cat, and she jerked,
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