Page 96 of The Homewreckers
“Around. He lives at my grandfather’s fishing camp, out on theLittle Ogeechee River. He day-trades and spends his days worrying about his old enemies catching up to him.”
“Do you ever see him?”
“Almost never. But I went to see him after I lost most of my investment in the house on Tattnall Street, and no bank in town would make me a loan. I borrowed fifty thousand from him, so I’d have enough cash to fix up this house.” She took a deep breath. “Cass doesn’t know. You’re the only person I’ve told.”
“Why is it a secret? He’s your father, right?”
“Taking money from him, even a loan, feels… dirty.”
Mo was intensely aware of how close they were standing together. So close he could smell the scent of her perfume. Close enough to put his arm around her shoulder and offer some kind of belated comfort. He wanted to do that, but he would not.
Hattie was still staring out the open door of the RV. Glowing fireflies flitted through the darkened treetops. The world was perfectly still, with the exception of the thrumming of the cicadas. Was she holding her breath?
“I should go home,” she said finally. She gave a short, sharp whistle and Ribsy lifted his head from the bench where he’d been napping most of the day.
“Me too. You go on, I’ll walk through the house and lock up. I want to get an idea of where we need to start in the morning. Assuming the cops don’t shut us down.”
Hattie’s shoulders slumped. “I can’t think about that right now.”
“Go!” Mo said, pointing at the door. “Are you, uh, seeing Trae tonight?”
“No. Why?”
“I found his iPad when I was scrounging around craft services for food a little while ago. I just thought if you were seeing him…”
“I’m not. I’m going to go home and run a hot shower and wash off thisstink.”
Mo made a show of sniffing the air around her. “You don’t stink. You smell like rainbows and… joint compound.”
She smiled. “You know, Mo, you’re not nearly as big an asshole as I thought you were when we met.”
“Don’t try to soften me up with all those cute flowery southern phrases, Kavanaugh. Tell me what you really think.”
She patted his arm, then, on impulse, planted a quick peck on his cheek as she and Ribsy headed for her truck.
He cursed himself as he watched her go.
Mo’s nerves seemed to crackle with pent-up energy. He went home to his carriage house, showered, and rummaged around in the fridge for something more substantial than a roller dog, but his erratic shooting schedule meant that his choices were limited to a wilting brown bag of salad and a rock-hard two-day-old bagel.
Savannah was full of great restaurants, he knew, so maybe, despite the late hour, he’d go get himself a decent dinner. He spotted Trae’s iPad on the kitchen counter, and decided, on impulse, that he’d walk the six or seven blocks to The Whitaker, the pricey hotel where hisHomewreckersbudget was paying for his star to stay. He could hand off the tablet and grab a bite in the lobby restaurant.
He’d underestimated the heat and humidity of a summer night in Savannah. By the time he reached The Whitaker his hair was plastered to his head and his shirt was sticking to his back. He stood just inside the hyper-chilled lobby doors and looked around. He’d thought about calling Trae to tell him he was downstairs, but decided he’d really had enough of the pampered punk for one day.
Instead, he went to the reception desk and handed the iPad to the desk clerk, along with the request that it be delivered to Mr. Bartholomew.
Then, as a reward for his sweaty trek, he took himself to the lobby lounge, which was suitably dark and clubby-feeling, with leather booths and candlelit tables. He sat at the bar and ordered a New York strip, rare, with béarnaise sauce, pommes frites, and an eight-ounce pour of a Cabernet that the bartender promised was life-altering.
He was attacking the basket of warm bread when he heard a woman’s familiar laugh echoing in the high-ceilinged hotel lobby.
Mo swiveled his barstool slowly around and momentarily froze. The earthy laugh was familiar because it was coming from theHeadline Hollywoodreporter who’d interviewed him, hours earlier, at the Chatham Avenue house. She wasn’t alone. In fact, she was arm in arm with Trae Bartholomew.
He quickly spun his stool around before Trae could spot him spying. But he watched in the mirrored bar back as the two strolled to the elevator. When the elevator doors opened, they stepped inside, their bodies pressed closely together in an embrace so intimate Mo closed his eyes and took a slug of his Cab.
That pampered punk, he thought, would mess with Hattie’s mind. Maybe break her heart. And there wasn’t a damned thing he could do to stop it.
45The Ring of Truth
Makarowicz was at his desk in his tiny home office at nine the next morning. Jenny had furnished the room with a desk and chair, and a daybed, for when their daughter came to visit. A cat the color of marmalade lounged on the bed, looking bored.
