as I did him. At the top of the steps, he wheezed, “Remember, Miss Zoe. People aren’t who they seem. They can disguise themselves and fool you. Don’t trust anyone.”
I backed away. “Charlie, are you going to drink something hot now?”
“I’ll have some soup, miss.”
“If you’re not better by tomorrow, either you call your doctor or I will.”
He nodded and waved, then went inside. I watched his door close, then, assuring myself that he’d be better by morning, I slid back to my house, fumbled with my key, and finally made it safely inside. I stood at the door for a moment thawing out, savoring the glorious warmth of my cozy home. Then, still shivering, fingers and toes swollen and burning from the frost, I put up the kettle and turned on the TV. The StairMaster beckoned from the corner, offering to warm me with exercise while I watched the news; I threw my coat over it. The news was just starting. Rubbing my frozen hands together, I waited to hear the latest about the missing nannies, but the smiling anchorwoman talked about the ice storm. For the first time all week, something had preempted the story of the vanished women.
Taking out a teabag, worrying about Charlie, I looked out the kitchen window at the empty Pontiac. The lights came on in Charlie’s living room. Poor Charlie was sick, and he sounded raving mad. But at least he wouldn’t freeze to death. Not tonight.
SIXTEEN
THE WIND HAD DIED DOWN, BUT THE WALK TO THE RESTAURANT was lined with ice and shadows. Why was I walking alone at night? Why hadn’t I accepted the offer of a ride in a nice heated police car? I told myself that I was fine, that this was my turf, that I would not allow somebody to terrorize me so much that I wouldn’t walk a few short blocks. But the night seemed darker than usual. And Charlie had alarmed me. I stepped over glassy patches of ice, telling myself to stay calm. Between streetlights, I anticipated cold hands grabbing my shoulders and shadowy figures lurking just outside my gaze. I looked behind me, listened for the crunch of footsteps other than my own. By the time the lights of the restaurant came into view, despite the slippery sidewalk, I’d almost broken into a run.
A steep flight of stairs separated the street entrance from the dimly lit cavern that was Ristorante La Buca. I stood at the bottom of the steps, looking through the doorway to the restaurant, exhaling, collecting myself. Detective Stiles sat alone at the bar, sipping a drink. He was tall and lean, striking in a dark suit. A man waiting for someone.
Christmas lights blinked soft reds and greens along holly-draped walls; tiers of bottles glowed amber and silver, and pyramids of glasses stood like an altar to an alcoholic god.
Something—the chilled air? my gaze?—drew his attention. He swiveled toward me on his stool, rose, and stepped forward to greet me; one arm took my hand, the other circled around to my coat collar. He smiled a lopsided greeting, emanating warmth and a musky scent. Aftershave, or maybe tired cologne. A man at the end of a day.
“Have you been waiting long?” My question hung awkwardly unanswered as he guided me inside and handed my coat to the hostess.
“Not long,” he finally said, “But I was worried about you. In fact, I called to see if you’d changed your mind about a ride, but you’d already left. I guess you made it here okay.”
“It wasn’t easy. Walking took longer than I expected, with all the ice.”
He turned to assess me, still wearing his half smile. Oh dear. Maybe I should have worn the gray sweater instead. Or the cowlneck. Maybe the black was too dramatic, especially with the thigh-high slit in my skirt. The bones in my cheeks itched. “You look lovely, Ms. Hayes.”
I looked lovely? “Thank you,” I blushed. My face felt as red as the Christmas lights. The maitre d’ appeared with Stiles’s half-finished Manhattan. “Your table is ready, sir.”
He led the way. As we walked through the restaurant, Detective Stiles held my arm. My elbow tingled. I told it to settle down. This was a police detective, not a prom date. We were here to work. The maitre d’ seated me and handed us menus.
“One of these for the lady, please.”
“Yes, sir.”
I looked up, surprised. What made him think that I’d have a cocktail? Let alone what he was drinking,