Tori Carrington - Just Eight Months Old...

“Oh God,” she muttered, the impact of her thoughts hitting home.

She hurried down the hall, thrusting aside the unwelcome insight and trying to focus on the case.

Who were the two men they’d run into and what exactly had they been looking for? She’d have to take a look at the data Schindler had given her. See what Persky and Furgeson were accused of stealing and whether or not the police recovered it. She didn’t think the information would help her find either of them, but it might give her an idea how deep a hole they had dug for themselves.

She turned on the overhead light and sifted through a bureau in the master bedroom. The bottom drawers held nothing of use, unless you were a six foot two, two hundred and fifty pound man. Hannah rummaged through socks, T-shirts and long johns. She pulled a pair of the latter out. If this was any indication of how big the man was, she and Chad had their work cut out for them.

She closed the drawer in exchange for one of the top ones.

“Gambling chips.”

Hannah stared at the array of blue and red discs. Closer inspection told her they were from Atlantic City. Not unusual for a New Yorker, except Persky seemed to be a regular visitor. Faded matchbooks were also scattered among the drawer’s contents. Hannah picked them up one by one, only to toss them back. There were a few from different casinos, but the majority were from one in particular. She picked up the older-looking of the matchbooks. She was searching for any sign of a phone number, a name, anything that would give her an idea where Eric might be. Granted, she could be jogging down the wrong avenue, but it was worth a try. Clichés were clichés because they happened so often.

She was getting nowhere quick when she opened one with faded blue ink on the inside cover.

Hannah leaned against the bureau, holding the book up to the light.

“Find something?” Chad stepped through the doorway.

Hannah glanced at him. “You’re not done down there already?”

“Gone through every drawer, every cupboard, and looked under every seat cushion.” He displayed envelope-size pieces of paper. “The only articles worth anything were in his desk. Our friend likes to keep old bills for comparison.”

Hannah looked up from where she stared at the matchbook, catching the thoughtful, unguarded expression on Chad’s rugged face. A sense of the familiar wound through her. For a moment she was reminded how well she and he had worked together brainstorming ideas for Seekers. She absently rubbed at the stain on her vest and tugged her gaze from his.

“Are there any phone bills?” she asked.

Chad sifted through the pile in his hands. “Visa, MasterCard, gas company…here we go.” He held a bill out to her. “A love note from old Ma Bell, herself.”

Accepting the itemized bill, Hannah continued to manipulate the matchbook. “Can you make this out?”

Chad looked over her shoulder. Every muscle in her body tingled in alert. With barely a hesitation, he said, “It’s a girl named Rita Minelli’s phone number.”

Hannah dropped her hand to her side. “I’ve been trying to read this thing for five minutes and you take one look and tell me exactly what it says?”

Chad grinned at her. “I’ve copied a few numbers on matchbooks in my time.” He took the number from her.

Hannah didn’t need the reminder of how uncommitted his lifestyle was. “Very funny.”

He examined the matchbook. “There’s no area code.” He flipped it over and stared at the cover. “Atlantic City.” Chad tossed the matchbook on top of the bureau, pulling the next drawer open. It yielded a handful of photographs. He silently thumbed through the photos. There was one of Eric Persky standing with Lisa Furgeson and another colleague inside what Hannah guessed to be PlayCo’s factory.

The next picture was of the house they were in. Placing that one under the others, Chad stared down at another.

“Do you think that’s the woman in the match-book?” Hannah asked.

The photo was of Persky and a woman. A pretty brunette in her early- to mid-thirties.

“If it is, the number isn’t local.” Chad pointed to the smock the woman wore. “I know that outfit. It’s one cocktail waitresses wear.”

“It’s almost too simple.”

Chad slipped the photo of the woman and the one of Eric and his colleagues into his front pocket. “What makes you say that? Chances are the woman in the picture was a one-nighter. Or they broke up months ago and she hasn’t seen him since.”

“My instincts tell me the name on this matchbook and the woman in the picture are one in the same. If we find her, maybe we’ll find Persky,” Hannah said. “Crooks are rarely as clever as they make them out in movies.”

“And if we find Persky, hopefully he’ll lead us to Furgeson.”

“That’s right. If Persky is with some woman in Atlantic City, then chances Lisa Furgeson is with him are slim.”

Chad eyed the cracked concrete sidewalk that separated him and the car from a four-story walk-up in Brooklyn Heights. After leaving Persky’s, he’d suggested they hit PlayCo next to see what the company’s personnel records held on the two bail-jumpers. But Hannah had driven them here instead, saying she had something to do first. Chad tapped the face of his watch for the third time, remembering the call she’d made at the police station. Could she be in there explaining things to the man who had replaced him?

A possessiveness he hadn’t known he was capable of burned through him. Certainly he hadn’t expected Hannah to wait around for him…. Or had he? Is that the real reason he didn’t hesitate when Blackstone gave him the perfect excuse to come back? He stared at the back-lighted screen door. If subconsciously he had entertained ideas of rekindling his relationship with Hannah, he suspected they were about to be squashed.

“Come on, Hannah,” he muttered, resisting the urge to lean on the horn.

He had half a mind to barge in there and drag her out caveman-style. The impulse stunned him. He shifted on the leather bucket seat. He and Hannah had happened a long time ago. She had every right to go on with her life…didn’t she? But no matter how logically his mind argued the point, his gut told him he wanted her, boyfriend or no boyfriend.

He reached for his duffel bag in the back. His hand bumped hard plastic and he twisted to stare at a large, gaily colored object fastened to the back seat. He didn’t know how he’d missed it before. Maybe because he’d been focused on other things when he’d first put his duffel on the floor. Perhaps because he’d sat in the passenger’s seat up until then, narrowing his line of vision when he got in and out of the car.

What was Hannah doing with a child’s car seat fastened in the back? Just how far had this new relationship of hers progressed? He hadn’t noticed a wedding ring. Then again, he knew better than anyone that appearances were deceiving. She’d been driving a sputtering old rust bucket when they met up outside of Blackstone’s. He knew she didn’t have any siblings, so a young niece or a nephew was out. Even if she’d had one, he doubted she’d keep a seat in her car—

Door springs squeaked, interrupting his rapid-fire suppositions. Breaking his gaze away from the object that posed so many questions, he turned his head to find Hannah coming out of the house—and his head filled with even more. He stared at the bundle she held in her arms. His throat tightened painfully, his breath froze in his lungs, and every curse he sought scrambled beyond his grasp. Hannah awkwardly opened the passenger door and released the seat so she could push it forward.

Chad sat staring at her from where he’d moved behind the steering wheel.