Possession (Fallen Angels #5)(111)
Author: J.R. Ward

When he hung up, he shook his head. “The police want to talk to me some more.”

Boy, this day kept getting better for him, didn’t it. “That’s awful.”

“Yeah, it is. Listen, I’ve got to go, but can we—”

“Absolutely. Just give me a call whenever you’re free.” The last thing she wanted to do was make him feel like he was an afterthought. “I’m going to be working at home tonight, finishing up the book.”

“Okay. Thanks.”

He got out as if he were distracted, but come on. The police were on his phone about a murder. How could he not be thinking about something other than his dating status?

G.B. walked off in a hurry, crossing the road and getting into an older-model BMW. As he tore off, he didn’t glance at her as he passed by, but she sure as hell got a good look at him—and that chill went up her neck again.

The expression on his face was positively volcanic. He was furious, his profile shockingly ugly.

Shaking her head, Cait got out, walked up to the cathedral’s grand entrance and pulled open the heavy doors. Inside the foyer, Sissy’s art was still on display, and as Cait went over to start packing things up, the sound of her heels on the marble floor echoed loudly.

Funny, the space hadn’t seemed so large with all the people in it. Empty now, the narthex appeared as big as a football stadium.

She’d left the portfolios in the coatroom, and it took her no time at all to load up the artwork carefully and leave it out in the open. Reaching into her bag, she went for her sketchbook, intending to rip free a page and write a quick note—

Damn it, she’d lost the thing, remember?

How was she going to—

“I’ll let her parents know where it is.”

Wheeling around, she found that janitor standing right in front of the double doors that opened to the pews and the altar.

“Oh, thank you. I don’t want Sissy’s things to get lost.”

“Don’t worry. I won’t let anything happen to them.” He nodded to the easels. “May I help you carry these out?”

“I can do it. But thanks.”

The old man helped her anyway, allowing her to make only one trip.

As she closed her SUV’s hatch, she turned to the man and felt the oddest urge to hug him. But that wouldn’t have been appropriate.

“May I give you a piece of advice?” he said, smiling in a way that made his eyes nearly disappear under their burden of wrinkles.

“Please.”

“Talk it out.”

“I’m sorry?”

“You need to talk it out. If you do that, everything will be all right—eventually. If you don’t, you’re going to miss the life you want.”

Poor old guy. Clearly dementia was setting in.

Not wanting to upset him, she patted his arm. “Okay, I promise. I’ll do that.”

Getting into her car, she gave him a last wave and took off, heading for home. She’d gone about three blocks when she figured out where her sketch pad was.

“Son of a gun,” she muttered.

And she might as well go back and get it.

Rerouting didn’t require a huge time suck, and she kept to the surface roads as she went toward downtown. Closing in on the thick of the city, she was relieved to find that the traffic was light; then again, it wasn’t quite the tail end of the workday yet, rush hour still about an hour off.

Her parking space, the one nearly across from the Palace, was open again, and she parked smoothly and locked up. Waiting for a break in the flow of cars, she jogged across and hoped that her luck with janitors continued.

Nope. She was able to get into the public foyer, but the lobby was locked and empty. Going over to will-call, she peered in. Nobody was in the office—

The staff-only door opened wide and she turned. A police officer was coming out, and he paused to look behind himself like he was waiting for a colleague.

“Excuse me,” she said to the guy. “May I go down to the office? I think I left something here the day before yesterday and I want to see if anyone picked it up.”

“Do you know where you’re going?”

“Just through this hall.”

“Okay, g’head.”

She walked fast down the corridor, passing by some other cops, probably the ones the uni at the door was waiting for. As she went along, it was ironic that she was yet again looking for a lost-and-found box. Maybe she’d have more luck than when she’d been on the search for her gold earring.

Coming around the corner, she straightened her skirt as she approached the glass office. She was not looking forward to going rounds with that receptionist again, but who else was she going to ask?

It turned out that the reception space was empty, but as she tried the glass door, she was able to pull things open. “Hello?”

The desk was orderly, the computer screen displaying a slowly rotating Palace logo, the phone ringing quietly.

“Hello…?”

There were clearly more offices in the back, a rear hallway going off in two directions, but she didn’t want to intrude—

Her foot hit something unexpected, her balance instantly going haywire as she tripped forward. Catching herself on the corner of the desk, she looked down. A cardboard box filled with personal effects was on the floor: Aluminum travel mug. Plant. Picture of—

Frowning, Cait knelt down. Without touching anything, she got close enough to see the image of two young women standing side by side on a beach, their arms around each other’s shoulders. The one on the right was…

An odd foreboding brought her head up and around to the empty chair behind the desk.

“Can I help you?”

Cait jumped up. A man had come in, an exhausted, half-bald, used-to-be-good-looking man in wrinkled clothes.

“I—ah, I’m sorry to bother you. I was looking for the receptionist?”

He recoiled like she’d slapped him. “You didn’t hear?”

Before she asked … before he answered her … she knew who had been killed. “No, no, I haven’t…”

“Jenny’s dead.” He marched past her. “So unless you’re applying for the position, I can’t do anything for you.”

And that was that. He disappeared down the inner hall, a door slamming shut a moment later.

Cait didn’t stick around. Trying to find her sketchbook was such a low priority compared to what was going on here.

At least it was a relatively new one. The only thing in it … had been those sketches of G.B.