Shadowing Ivy Page 15

  She picked up the medium-length, dark blond wig with bangs. “I’m happy with my dark hair,” she said. “But so was Declan. Have you noticed that he seems to go for brunettes?”

  Griffin stared at her. “You’re absolutely right.”

  “In this, he won’t look twice at me,” she said, slapping the wig haphazardly on her head. She smiled. “But in that”—she pointed at the shoulder-length, mousy brown one—“he would be offering to refill my drink.”

  Griffin smiled. “Then blond for a night, it is. For both of us.” He reached in the duffel and pulled out furry blond stick-on eyebrows, then handed her less furry ones.

  “Let me go adjust this thing,” she said, pointing to her head. “And figure out how the heck to get these eyebrows on straight.”

  He nodded, his expression less strained than it had been when he’d gone. “Me, too.” He picked up a pair of glasses. “Don’t forget your specs. You know you can’t see a thing without your glasses, dear.”

  She laughed as she took her bounty and headed to the bathroom. It was good to hear him tease again.

  Ivy stood before the mirror above the sink, positioning the wig, easy enough considering her hair was short. She turned to the left and right, admiring the way she looked, actually. Not bad as a blonde. She looked like an entirely different person. The length and bangs and color strangely suited her, her pale complexion and her blue eyes. She never would have pegged herself for a blonde at heart.

  Ivy added the glasses and smiled at her reflection. She sort of looked like a newscaster with the horn-rims.

  For a good couple of hours she would be able to be this woman in the mirror, this blond reporter from the fictitious Manhattan Life and Times. She’d need a code name, of course, and would suggest a name she’d always liked: Anne. Or perhaps Lucy.

  And for those couple of hours, she would get to be this completely different person, Anne or Lucy, a woman invited to parties by her handsome coworker—she wondered what name Griffin would choose—and whose only problem was figuring out which wealthy New Yorker had the most lavish of wedding plans.

  She wouldn’t be, say, a cop who had no idea if she had any business being a cop anymore. A woman who couldn’t choose a fiancé to save her life. Literally. A woman who was staying with a homicide detective for her “own protection.” Who was sleeping with said homicide detective and having no idea what they were doing.

  A woman who just realized there was absolutely nothing in her suitcase that she could wear to a fancy party.

  She poked her head out of the bathroom. “Griffin, you don’t happen to have a cocktail dress in that duffel bag, do you? I’m afraid I’ll stand out if I’m in slacks and a sweater.”

  “Already thought of and taken care of,” he said, holding up a plastic dress bag on a hanger. “I estimated your size. We detectives are pretty good at that. And I got your shoe size from the pair in your room.”

  Did he actually go shopping for me? she wondered, eyeing the dress bag. A ratty old dress from the disguise bin at the precinct very likely didn’t come wrapped in unmarred plastic.

  He was blushing a bit, she realized, as he handed her the bag and the shoe box. Detective Griffin Fargo had gone shopping for her. Huh.

  He stood staring at her for a moment, and she realized it was because she looked like someone who should be reading him the six-o’clock news. “Is that you under there?” he asked.

  She smiled and nodded. “And thank you for going to the trouble of shopping for me,” she added with a bit of a stammer.

  He held her gaze, those dark eyes suddenly softer on her. Then in seconds, his usual unreadable expression was back.

  She headed back into her room and pulled the plastic off the hanger. The dress was beautiful. Just perfect. The classic little black dress, but not too little. Simple, elegant, and very Audrey Hepburn. The shoes were satin pumps, sexy, but she could still walk in them.

  She took off her clothes and slipped the dress on, then wiggled her feet into the shoes, which were surprisingly comfortable. Ivy rarely wore dresses like this; the parties she went to were pretty much limited to living room gatherings with those yummy pigs-in-a-blanket and platters of nachos. But it was nice to dress up, to feel so ... sexy. Ivy added a touch of makeup, just a little mascara and some sheer lipstick.

  One final fluff of her new bangs, and she was ready to check herself out in the full-length mirror attached to the closet. Whoa. She would not recognize herself in a room of two people. Would Declan, though? Would he see through the hair and glasses to Ivy underneath? He’d always made her feel as though he knew her so well.

  Right. That must have been all her doing, projecting, wishful thinking. How could he possibly have known her? He wouldn’t look twice at her in this outfit, despite how ... pretty she looked. Cornelia had told Griffin on the telephone that the party would be very crowded and they might not even get a chance to say hello. But she would be thrilled to do the interview later in the week.

  If it turned out that Declan was not the fiancé, Griffin thought it probable that he would be at a party like Cornelia’s, hunting for his next victim.

  So far, it seemed Declan had chosen younger women under the society radar, women like Jennifer Lexington, who were more involved with the artsy scene than “society parties.” But, as Griffin had pointed out, it was impossible to tell what Declan—backed into a corner—would do, whom he would prey on.

  There was a knock at the door. “Ready?” He froze and stared at her. “I’d say you are. You look—”

  “Like someone else?”

  He smiled. “Exactly.”

  “And you,” she said, stifling a giggle at his curly blond wig and square tortoise-shell glasses, “look something like an absentminded professor.”

  “That’s what I was going for,” he said, winking at her.

  Oh, how she needed that wink. That one-second-long gesture that told her they were a team again, conspiring against the bad, working together in the pursuit of justice. And flirting. Winking was always flirting. Except when it was just friendly.

  “Before we go,” he said, those dark eyes on hers, “I want to make sure you really want to go through with this. I can go alone, Ivy.”

  She shook her head, her silly musings gone in an instant. “I want him caught as much as you do.”

  He held her gaze, seemed to take measure of her, to decide right then and there if he could truly trust her, if she were on his side. Finally, he nodded. “Okay, then. Hopefully, we’ll get him tonight. But you have to promise me something, Ivy. You will not try to lure him into a trap and get him alone. Promise me you won’t do anything that will jeopardize your life.”

  “Griffin, I’m a cop, too.”

  One who dealt primarily with the theft of wedding dresses and expired inspection stickers, but Griffin didn’t need to know that. She’d been trained well and she had been in a few tough situations. “I won’t do anything stupid,” she assured him, and then and only then did he turn to go.

  This is my father’s world, Ivy thought, glancing around at the men and women at Cornelia Beckham’s party. The three-story town house on the Upper East Side was crowded with the beautifully dressed. She didn’t recognize anyone, but then again, she wouldn’t. Her sister, Olivia, would probably know some of the people; Olivia had been an editor at a fashion magazine and probably hobnobbed with some of the society types in this elegantly appointed living room.

  It was interesting to note that the conversations Ivy eavesdropped on weren’t all that different from the conversations she heard all the time. Talk of children, of vacation plans to warmer climates, of celebrities making headlines. She’d always thought she wouldn’t fit into this world, but perhaps all you needed was to look like you belonged. Certainly no one gave Ivy “What are you—a lowly police officer—doing here?” glances.

  Griffin thought they should keep a low profile, not be too chatty with anyone, and not introduce themselves as reporters from the phony magaz
ine. If Cornelia even bothered to approach them to ask who they were, Griffin would introduce himself and Ivy as the journalists doing the wedding story, but he figured Cornelia wouldn’t even bother. The town house was packed with people in several rooms and the lights were dim.

  Which made it difficult to spot Declan, if he were even at the party. Ivy reminded herself to look for a tall, well-built man with either blond, red, or very dark hair, since he’d most recently had a chestnut brown color. He would also likely be in glasses, too.

  Ivy glanced around, and each time her gaze settled on someone who could be Declan, her heart raced. Not with longing. But with fear, she realized. She was afraid. A man who was so slick, so without emotion or conscience that he could kill a woman—a woman he lived with—and then make love to another woman an hour later, was someone to fear.

  “Let’s take a walk around,” Griffin whispered. “Check out the other rooms. We can split up, but if you see him, you come find me.”

  Ivy whispered that she would, and Griffin headed for the well-traveled stairs. Ivy turned toward the conversations that were coming from down the hall. She found herself entering a library, the walls lined with bookshelves and beautiful works of art.

  “I just love the Renaissance period,” a female voice said nearby.

  Ivy surreptitiously glanced around a couple eating appetizers to see the voice belonged to a young woman she couldn’t place, but whom she had seen before. Mousy brown hair, hazel or green eyes, late twenties, perhaps early thirties, average height, average weight. In a simple black dress, sensible pumps. Where did Ivy know the woman from?

  It would come to her.

  The brunette stood admiring a painting. Where had Ivy seen her before?

  “I do, too,” answered a voice she knew all too well.

  She froze, then took a shallow breath to calm down. There was no mistaking the deep timbre of that voice.

  Even though the voice was accented. Irish. And a decent fake.

  Ivy waited a moment until her heart rate had slowed down enough so that color returned to her face. She turned slightly, slowly so as not to attract attention to herself, and stole a glance at whom the woman was talking to.

  If she hadn’t heard his voice, she very likely would not have recognized him. But now, all she saw was the profile she knew as well as her own face.

  Declan.

  She was dead sure of it.

  He was in disguise, in thick-framed glasses that hid a good portion of his face, and he’d colored his hair very dark, almost black. He also had a mustache and beard, close-cropped. But it was him. It was Declan. And he stood around seventy-five feet away, several small groups of people between them.

  She quickly turned around. Go find Griffin, she told herself. But when she turned back around, Declan was walking out the door. Damn it!

  The woman he’d been talking to, the one she still couldn’t place was now helping herself to a small plate of appetizers that a waiter was passing out.

  She would have to follow Declan. She couldn’t let him just walk away, disappear into the crowd, or worse—leave.

  She would just follow him, not too closely, act nonchalantly, as though she were simply walking down the hall. And then she’d rush upstairs to find Griffin.

  He was around a hundred feet ahead of her, and though the hallway was as dimly lit as the rest of the rooms, Ivy prayed over and over that he wouldn’t turn around. She kept her eyes downcast, on the dark legs of his suit. Her hope was that he’d head upstairs. Then she could race up to find Griffin.

  As her heels clicked on the polished marble floor, her heart hammered in her chest so loudly she was sure Declan would hear it. And smell her fear.

  And then before she could even blink, he turned around so fast and was on top of her, pushing her into a utility closet with such force that her head cracked against the plaster of the wall.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The pain was so intense that Ivy saw white spots before her eyes, then black, then white and black dots. As her vision cleared she tried to stand, but Declan kicked an empty metal bucket at her legs and she slid down again onto the floor.

  The smell of cleaning product emanating from the bucket, along with the pain on the side of her head, almost made her pass out. She tried to stand again.

  “Do you want me to break your fucking legs?” he snarled, aiming a gun at her. “I will if you even attempt to get up again.”

  Ivy stared at the small, silver handgun. She recognized the silencer.

  With the gun pointed at her chest, he leaned down and ripped the wig from her head. “Take off those stupid glasses,” he ordered.

  She did, and he laughed. “Did you really think I wouldn’t recognize you?” he said.

  “Why would you?” she asked, stalling for time as she got her bearings, looked around. The utility closet was maybe five feet by three feet and empty, save for the bucket. There wasn’t even a mop to attempt to use as a weapon.

  “Because I know your face, Ivy. Very well.”

  She was glad she didn’t know this face of his, with the black hair and the beard. Glad that he didn’t look like the man she’d known. Loved. Had been about to marry.

  “Did you kill Jennifer Lexington?” she asked, trying to keep the emotion, the fear out of her voice. Get him to confess, she reminded herself. Just keep your cool and get him to say the words.

  The smirk left his face. “No, I didn’t. Not that I expect you or my big brother to believe that.”

  “Where were you at the time of the murder?”

  He stared at her. “I was en route to Jennifer’s. I spent the night ... elsewhere. And when I came back to the apartment, I found Jennifer dead. I panicked and left.”

  “You panicked and left?” she repeated. “Are you forgetting the suicide note you forged?”

  Anger lit his eyes. “Yeah, I panicked. I knew I’d go down for the murder. So I thought I’d just go to your place, we’d get married, go on our honeymoon, and I’d convince you to live abroad.”

  “Despite my not having a penny to my name,” she said.

  “I had other reasons for marrying you, Ivy.”

  “Such as?”

  “Doesn’t matter anymore,” he said, his gaze running up and down her body. “Though you do look very hot in that dress. Not your typical style. I suppose my brother likes it, though.” He moved even closer, standing inches from where she lay.

  “If you didn’t kill Jennifer, who did?” she asked. And hoped she’d antagonize him enough not to touch her. But not enough to kill her, that was.

  “Hell if I know,” he said. “Jennifer was so annoying, anyone could have done it. She was coming into a fortune. Working on her mother to make sure she wasn’t cut out of the will. Her father’s due to drop dead any day.” He smiled. “Though I suppose that doesn’t interest me anymore.”

  “And Cornelia Beckham does?” she asked.

  He let out a harsh laugh. “I don’t do fatties.”

  “You’re repulsive,” she shot back without thinking. The man had a gun. Which he waved in her face at that comment.

  “You want to know what’s repulsive, darling?” He moved closer, the gun inches from her face. “Screwing brothers. That is repulsive. But trust me, Ivy, ole Griff is using you.”

  She ignored the bait, her eyes on the gun.

  He inched back, seemingly very satisfied with himself. “I’ve taken every woman Griffin has ever liked, let alone loved. And he’s just trying to pay me back by sleeping with you. As if I care now,” he added with a harsh laugh.

  Her brows rose. “Pay you back for what?”

  “Ask him about Samantha,” Declan responded without the slightest bit of expression.

  Samantha. Ivy tried to remember if Griffin had mentioned a Samantha. She didn’t think so.

  Don’t listen to Declan, she reminded herself. He’s a lunatic. Get back to the case. Get him talking about the morning of the murder.

  “Tell me something, De
clan. Why did you take the letter from my father? And the cash from my wallet?”

  “I wanted to make sure you’d marry me,” he said. “And I couldn’t be sure what that asshole father of yours wrote to you. The money I needed just in case.”

  “Just in case the cops managed to track you down?”

  “And they did. Big Brother thought he finally got me. But, as usual, I am too smart and too fast for him.”

  “I still don’t understand why you’d bother going through with the wedding if you thought there was a good chance I’d inherit nothing,” she said. “That makes no sense to me.”

  “You’re boring me, Ivy.”

  Oh, sorry, psycho! “Okay, then tell me this. If you really didn’t murder Jennifer, why not just turn yourself in? Prove you didn’t.”

  He laughed and waved the gun again. “You have that backwards, Officer Sedgwick. The police need to prove I did do it, not the other way around. And they’ll nail me for it, regardless of the truth. I look too good for it.”

  That much was true.

  She had no idea if he was telling the truth—if he killed Jennifer Lexington or not. She had no ability to read him, and he was a practiced liar. She needed to remember that with everything that came out of his mouth now.

  “Here’s what you’re gonna do, Ivy,” he said, now pointing the gun directly at her head. “You’re gonna tell your boyfriend to back off and forget I exist. Or the next time we meet, and there will be a next time, I will kill you. And I’ll kill him, too.”

  She took a deep breath. “You’d kill your own brother?”

  “Half brother,” he said. “And yeah, I would if I had to.”

  “I thought you said you weren’t a killer,” she threw out.

  “I haven’t had good enough reason to kill anyone,” he said. “But if provoked, I’ll put a bullet between your eyes faster than you could whimper ‘please don’t.’”

  “Why were you going to marry me?” she asked again. “Just tell me.”

  “Wouldn’t you like to know,” he tossed back. And then he leaned down and grabbed the neckline of her dress, yanking it so hard that it ripped, revealing her bra and stomach.