I’m Watching You (Richmond Novels #1)

Chapter Sixteen

Tuesday, July 8, 2:00 P.M.

These days it was the little things that reminded Nicole of how much she’d lost during her marriage and was only now regaining in increments. Walking through the park. Ordering an ice cream cone. Having money that she’d earned in her pocket.

She still felt shaky about life in general, but she was discovering how much she’d forgotten how good it felt to make decisions and to be independent.

She strolled down the Carytown district sidewalk. This was her favorite section of town. She loved the early nineteenth-century row houses that were painted bright colors and housed ethnic restaurants and curio shops as eclectic as their patrons.

Nicole moved past the smoothie store, the chocolate shop and into her favorite French bakery. She purchased a croissant and a café au lait and savored both before wandering back outside. Down here, she could almost pretend her life was normal.

Her gaze drifted to a familiar FOR RENT sign posted above a Pilates studio that was sandwiched between a jewelry store and a restaurant. Again, she imagined reopening her photography business.

Giving rein to impulse, she climbed the narrow steps of the building to the second floor. She followed a RENTERS INQUIRE HERE sign to a half-open green door. She knocked.

‘Come in!’

Nicole pushed open the door and found a tall woman dressed in a loose-fitting pants-and-shirt ensemble. She had long black hair and dark brown eyes that reminded Nicole of a cat.

‘Can I help you?’ the woman said.

‘I saw your FOR RENT sign.’

The woman smiled and extended her hand. ‘That’s wonderful. My name is Fiona Moore. I own the building.’

‘Nicole Piper.’ She shook Fiona’s hand, grateful she hadn’t stumbled with her new name.

‘Would you like to see the space?’

Her throat felt dry. It really was madness to entertain owning a business. ‘Yes.’

The woman grabbed keys from the desk drawer. ‘Follow me.’

Nervous, Nicole tightened her fingers around the strap of her bag. ‘Great.’

Fiona moved with the grace of a dancer as she walked down the hallway. She unlocked a door, pushed it open, and flipped on the lights. ‘So what kind of business do you have?’

‘I’d like to open a photography studio.’ Soft scents of lavender and fresh paint swirled as she stepped into the all-white room distinguished by high ceilings, chair molding, hardwood floors, and a bay window that overlooked Cary Street. The space was small but the southern exposure lighting was exquisite. Immediately, she imagined furnishing the room with simple pieces that she could use as props for her portraits. The place had so many possibilities.

‘The space is only about three hundred square feet,’ Fiona said. ‘But there is a kitchenette with a large sink that could be converted into a darkroom. That is, if you need a darkroom. So much photography is digital.’

Nicole strolled into the center of the room. She pictured cameras on tripods, lights, and backdrops. ‘I can take digital, but I prefer film. There’s a richness that comes through when I develop the photos individually.’

Fiona smiled. ‘You’re an artist.’

At one time art was all she was about. Now it was a luxury she couldn’t afford. These last two months she’d learned to be brutally practical and ruthless. ‘How much is the rent?’

‘Seven hundred plus utilities.’

Nicole tried not to wince. Once she could have afforded the price. ‘I’m just getting started and poverty is a fact of life right now.’

Fiona wasn’t put off by her honesty. ‘Do you have a portfolio?’

Nicole moved out of the room. No sense dreaming about what wasn’t to be now. ‘I’ve a collection of recent work I’ve done since I came to Richmond. All portrait work.’

‘I’m looking for a photographer to take pictures of me and the studio. Big marketing push for the studio in the fall. I’d love to see your work.’

Excitement rose inside her. ‘Sure.’

‘I can’t pay much.’ Smiling, Fiona locked the door behind them. ‘You’re not the only one on a tight budget.’

Nicole mentally leafed through her pictures. Already she’d taken several dozen portraits. What she had to show didn’t measure up to the caliber of her old stuff, but it was still good. ‘Might take me a couple of days. I could come by next Monday.’

Fiona brightened. ‘Ten?’

She thought about her work schedule. ‘I can make that.’

Fiona held out her hand. ‘See you on Monday at ten, Nicole Piper.’

A wide grin tugged at Nicole’s lips. ‘Great.’

The thought of freelance work filled her with hope for the future. She didn’t have the money to open a business now, but she’d taken the first step toward it.

Nicole hurried down the stairs but was so distracted she nearly bumped into a man. He had dark hair slicked back off his face and Rayban sunglasses.

For just a split second, she thought the stranger was her husband, Richard.

Heat from the sidewalk shot upward, and sweat began to trickle down her bare legs. ‘Excuse me.’ Her voice cracked.

The man nodded. ‘No problem.’ He kept walking.

She stared after him. He wasn’t Richard. Richard was 3,000 miles away. Yet, her heart hammered in her chest. She started walking, but her gait wasn’t as confident. The ease she’d felt just seconds ago had vanished.

She’d not seen Richard in nearly three months, but that didn’t mean she was safe. She knew her husband. He was out there looking for her, and if she wasn’t very, very careful he’d find her. She glanced back at the FOR RENT sign. What had she been thinking? A business was just too risky.

She opened the cell phone Lindsay had given her and turned it on. She usually kept the phone off because Richard had used her old cell to keep tabs on her.

Her hands trembling, she dialed the number of the woman who’d helped her escape Richard: Claire Carmichael. As the phone rang, she wasn’t sure what Claire could tell her. Maybe that Richard was still in San Francisco … that he’d forgotten about her.

Claire’s voice mail picked up. When the beep sounded, Nicole panicked and couldn’t speak. Lindsay had warned her about any contact with people from her old life. She closed the phone.

Let sleeping dogs lie.

Better to be safe.

For the millionth time, she wished Richard was dead.

San Francisco, 11:15 A.M. PST

Richard Braxton had chosen his home because of the stunning view of San Francisco Bay. The original house on the lot had been old, filled with ‘charm,’ according to the historical society, but it hadn’t suited his vision of the home he deserved. So he’d had the house razed. There’d been an outcry, protests, lawsuits even, but he’d maneuvered through it all.

The showpiece house he’d created, with its steel and sleek modern lines, didn’t suit the narrow-minded tastes of his neighbors, who preferred brick and boxwoods. But that didn’t concern him. Richard Braxton did what he wanted, when he wanted.

Richard understood his greatest skill was his ability to see the potential; to know when a house, a market, or a woman was worth his attention.

Potential had been the reason he’d been drawn to the lot and it had been the reason he’d been attracted to Christina, his wife. Christina was a beauty, a stunner, and he had known from the moment he’d first seen her in that rundown photography studio that he could make her into something special.

Training her had not been easy. She had a fierce and spirited nature, and it had taken so many lessons to mold her into the vision he’d had for her. In the last few months they’d been together, he’d begun to believe that he had nearly succeeded. She no longer argued with him. She dressed perfectly in the tasteful Chanels and de la Rentas. She’d learned to be punctual, to keep her makeup perfect, and had tamed that thick mane of black hair.

Perfection had been in his grasp.

And then she’d vanished. That fool chauffer had let her slip away.

How long had she been planning to run from him?

The thought tormented him daily. He replayed every moment they’d shared those last couple of months. He thought about the books she’d read, the movies she’d seen, and the people she’d spoken to, looking for clues. He’d been insanely busy with work during that time and had been distracted. But he’d thought she’d been transformed and there was nothing to worry about.

For her to run, there had to be someone else. She had to have taken a lover.

A soft knock on his study door had him turning to find Vincent Malone standing at the threshold. Vincent wasn’t a tall man, but his wiry body was compacted muscle. His Italian double-breasted suit complemented his frame, and his ice blond hair, pulled back in a ponytail, accentuated vivid green eyes. He was Richard’s right-hand man. He knew all his dirty secrets. For the last two weeks, he’d done nothing but search for Christina.

‘Anything come of that lead Jimmy gave us?’ Richard said.

Vincent closed the study door behind him. ‘I’ve had men canvassing the area and showing her picture around. No one has seen her.’

Richard moved to his large mahogany desk that he’d had specially made in Spain. ‘So that’s it? She just vanished?’

Vincent smiled. Like Richard, he savored a good hunt. ‘Everyone leaves a trail, Mr Braxton. The trick is being able to find it.’

‘Has there been activity on a credit card or cell phone?’

‘No. There’s been no activity on her cards, phones, or Social Security number. And I’ve had computer experts check every chip in her computer. Nothing. I’ve still got men looking in every airport, bus and train station, and car rental place. But there’s been no sign of her.’

Anger was nearly driving him insane. Killing Jimmy had made him feel good for a while. But his well-being hadn’t lasted long. ‘So we’ve got shit.’

‘Not exactly.’

Richard flexed his fingers. ‘So you’ve found something?’

‘Claire Carmichael.’

His patience wore thin. ‘I don’t know her.’

‘She owns the New Age bookstore about five blocks from the restaurant where Jimmy lost Christina.’

‘Why do I care about her?’

‘She’s part of this network of people who help abused women disappear. She speaks regularly at community centers in your area.’

Months of pent-up rage burned in Richard. ‘Abused women. Christina wasn’t abused. I gave her everything. I love her.’

Vincent nodded his head in deference. ‘I didn’t mean to suggest she was.’

Richard drew in a deep breath. ‘So you think this Carmichael woman helped Christina?’

‘Yes. Your wife’s driver remembered taking her to a Bay Area church several weeks in a row. I checked. It was a support group run by Claire Carmichael. I want to talk to her.’

Richard shook his head. ‘The bitch interfered with my marriage. Give me her address.’

Vincent looked doubtful. ‘Wouldn’t you rather I take care of it? Better to let me do the dirty work.’

‘I like the dirty work.’

*

Richard downshifted the gears of his BMW and pulled into a parking spot in front of the New Age bookstore located near San Francisco Bay. The store was housed in an old row house that had survived the big earthquake a hundred years ago. Tall with a sharp roof, square bay windows, and lots of gingerbread trim, the building was considered a treasure, but by his way of thinking it was an old pile of junk.

He’d never have given the place a second glance if not for Claire Carmichael.

He shut off the car engine and got out. Inside the store, he spotted Claire. She was about thirty, olive skin, not tall. She wore a frumpy, flowing dress that hid her curves, and she had pulled back curly hair into a high ponytail that highlighted sharp cheekbones and bright eyes. Not his type, but loosen the hair and ditch the dress and she might be worth a spin.

Richard grew hard.

He imagined her eyes lighting with desire as he shoved inside her. And then he pictured the passion shifting to fear as he wrapped his hands around her neck and squeezed the life out of her. She’d fight to breathe. She’d kick, try to scream. But in the end, the life would fade from her body.

It was almost closing time and it didn’t take long before the store emptied of customers.

Richard had all night to chat with Little Miss New Age about Christina.

When she disappeared behind a curtain into the back room of the store, he went inside, careful to keep the bells on the door from jingling. Softly he shut the door, locked it, and flipped the OPEN sign to CLOSED.

Richard moved behind the counter and unplugged the phone.

‘Hello, is someone out there?’ Claire called.

He reached into his pocket and let his fingers slide over the cold steel of his knife.

Claire heard the creak of footsteps in the store. The hair on the back of her neck rose. She’d had trouble with shoplifters in the last few months and didn’t like to leave the store unattended.

She took off her glasses and laid them on the ledger on her desk. She stood and crossed to the curtain separating the back room from the retail portion of the store. She pushed through the curtain. ‘Can I help you?’

The man standing by the display of healing crystals wasn’t what she’d expected. He was hardly a teen thug looking to grab up what he could. And he wasn’t remotely like her regular patrons.

He was smartly dressed in a stylish suit that looked handmade. His white open-neck shirt was made of crisp linen. His nails were buffed and his short black hair was brushed off his face. Strong jaw. Tanned skin. Nice to look at.

The man raised his head and met her gaze. His eyes were so dark that the pupils all but disappeared. She’d never glimpsed the face of Evil but now she sensed she was looking right at it.

The man tossed her a quick smile. ‘I hope you can help me.’

A lump formed in the pit of her stomach. ‘What do you want?’ Her tone had grown hard, losing all hint of welcome.

He set down the expensive crystal he’d been cradling. ‘My wife. Christina Braxton.’

Claire remembered the woman vividly. The bruises on her arms and neck testified to the trauma she’d suffered at the hands of her husband. Claire had sensed the fear and the goodness in Christina. It had been an easy choice to give her cash and the keys to the secondhand car. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

Richard nodded almost as if he were pleased by her answer. He pulled the switchblade from his pocket and he flicked the blade open. ‘I was hoping you wouldn’t talk too quickly.’

Panic exploded inside Claire. She snatched up the phone and discovered the line was dead. She bolted to the back of the shop to the back alley exit.

Richard moved quicker than a cat. He reached her just as she made it to the door. He grabbed a handful of her hair and jerked her head back. He drew the knife blade along her cheek, slicing flesh as he went. Pain burned her face as warm blood oozed down her cheek.

‘Where is my wife?’ he whispered against her ear.

‘I don’t know.’

Claire wasn’t going to tell him where Christina was hiding. And she knew the cost of her silence was going to be her life.