Sunset Beach(128)

“For an IT guy,” she said, looking directly at Brice, “he was surprisingly careless. There was a yellow index card, taped to the inside cover of his MacBook, with all his passwords on it. I think my ten-year-old son could hack that thing. Hell, my seventy-five-year-old mom could hack it, and she still uses AOL.”

She paused momentarily. “And one more thing. When we were searching Fentress’s apartment, we found his passport and some travel documents indicating he was planning on moving to the Cayman Islands. Were you aware of that, Mr. Campbell?”

“News to me,” Brice said, grim-faced.

“He’d even set up a bank account there. Looks like he was anticipating a big payday.”



* * *



Jonah insisted on driving her home. It was almost ten o’clock, and the sun was already blazing hot when he pulled into the driveway. “Do you want to come in?” she asked, feeling suddenly shy.

“I do. But I think you could probably use some rest,” he said.

“I really, really do need to sleep. Like, for days, but I’d settle for a good four or five hours,” she said, leaning over to kiss him lightly.

“Call me, please? As soon as you wake up. In fact, FaceTime me.”

“Okay, but why?”

“So I can hear you, and see what you look like, when you first wake up.”

She looked at him dubiously.

“Oh please. That’s a line from an old chick flick, isn’t it?”

“Possibly. But it’s still one hundred percent true.”

Jonah said, “I’m serious, Drue. Call me.”

She kissed him again. “You know, for a fratty Mcfrat boy, you’re kind of cute. And sweet.”

He rested his forehead against hers. “And you are a total badass. I think maybe I’m developing a thing for badass chicks.”

She chuckled as she opened the door and looked back at him over her shoulder. “We’ll see about that.”





61


The next time she looked at the clock on her nightstand it said six o’clock, but it was still dark outside her bedroom. Drue sat up and grabbed her phone and looked at the calendar.

Six o’clock. Monday morning. Somehow, she’d managed to sleep for eighteen hours straight. Remembering the last conversation she had with Jonah, she scrolled through her contacts, found his name and before she lost her nerve, tapped the icon for FaceTime.

The phone made that weird boop-boop-boop-boop noise, and then Jonah’s face—and water-beaded bare chest—filled the screen of her phone.

“Good morning,” she said, yawning.

“And to you. Did you forget to call me last night?”

“You won’t believe it. I went to bed and just now woke up. I slept like the dead. How about you?”

“I’m ashamed to admit that after I left your place, I went to the gym, worked out, did laundry, and went home and watched television until I fell asleep at eight.”

“I love that you’re such a girly man,” Drue said, laughing. “Tell me you watched HGTV and I’ll be yours forever.”

“Close. It was Masterpiece Theater, but you’ve got to swear not to tell a soul.”

“I’ll take it to my grave,” she said, crossing her heart.

He leaned closer in to the screen. “Say, what’s that you’re wearing? Is that, like, what? A camisole? I like it!”

“We are not doing this,” Drue said. “It’s way too early in the morning. I’ll see you at the office.”

“Wear that to work,” he urged.

“I’m hanging up now.”



* * *



Drue walked through the reception area and Geoff stood up, grabbed her and hugged her. “Ohmygod!” he said breathlessly. “I just heard about Ben. I can’t believe he actually tried to kill you. I mean, I’m stunned. To my core.”

“How did you hear already?” she asked, extricating herself from his clutches.

“Brice sent out a firm-wide memo first thing this morning,” he said and grimaced. “And since Mr. Fentress is no longer with the firm, Wendy emailed and says I’m on the Justice Line, at least until we hire somebody new.”

She patted his arm. “You’ll be great.”

The bullpen seemed oddly quiet. Ben’s desktop was as clean as he’d left it at quitting time Friday, which seemed like years ago, although his computer was gone and the desk drawers were open and empty. She looked over at Jonah, who was on the phone, and nodded at him.

Her heart sank when she saw the yellow note stuck to her computer monitor.

SEE ME. It was Brice’s handwriting.

She found her father seated at his desk, a plastic cape around his neck, with paper towels tucked in a protective ring around the collar of his blue dress shirt. Marianne the paralegal was applying pancake makeup to his face. She turned and nodded at Drue, then went back to her handiwork.

Drue’s eyes widened, and Brice gave her a broad wink. He was clearly having the time of his life.

“Dad? What’s all this?”

“Just a little proactive public relations,” her father said. He looked up at Marianne, who was brandishing a tube of Chanel mascara.

“Did you confirm with Rae Hernandez at Treasure Island?” he asked. “The producer from the CBS affiliate told me it’s a no-go without the detective who cracked the case.”