Finger Prints Read online

  The jangle of the phone beside her gave Carly a jolt. Accidentally stabbing herself, she swore softly and whipped the injured finger to her mouth. Then she looked at her watch. She had no more idea who would be calling her at this hour than she’d earlier known who was at the door.

  She took a deep breath before reaching for the phone. “Hello?” she asked, sounding miraculously, deceptively calm.

  “It’s me, Carly.”

  “Sam?” She exhaled. “You frightened me!” In truth, she’d frightened herself. It happened every time she let her thoughts run along the line they had.

  “Nothing to be frightened of. That’s why I’m calling.”

  “You’re not home already, are you?” She knew that he lived on the North Shore, a good forty minutes’ drive from her place.

  “I’m in town.”

  “In town? Poor Ellen! In town?”

  “At the office. I wanted to make another call or two about your neighbor.”

  Carly sat straighter. Strange how she’d been thinking of him too. “You were worried?”

  “Not worried,” Sam lied, knowing it was for the best. “Curious. From what I’ve been told though, he’s clear.”

  “What were you told?”

  “That the guy’s straight as an arrow. Graduated Harvard Law and has been practising here ever since. He’s in his own firm—Miller and Cornell—with three other partners and some six or seven associates. He started out handling most anything that could take him into court, but he’s been able to grow more selective. Does a lot of white-collar-crime work. Won’t touch the mob with a ten-foot pole. And he’s doing very well. Not much cause to suspect he’s resort to shady dealings in smoking out Robyn Hart.”

  A wave of relief swept over her, leaving her feeling strangely light-headed. “No, I don’t suppose so. Well, then, if he comes up asking to use the phone again, I should let him in?”

  “Would you let another of your neighbors in?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then I don’t see any problem. The guys here will do a more thorough check, and I’ll let you know if I come up with anything. But the references were good from three sources just now. I doubt there’ll be anything more.”

  “I can relax,” she stated, having already begun.

  “Yes.” He chose not to enlighten her on the man’s personal situation. As it was, he’d said enough on the matter of Carly’s social life earlier that night.

  “Thanks, Sam.”

  “No sweat, Carly. I’ll be in touch at the first of the week. You’ll remember to call me if there’s any problem between now and then?”

  “Sure. Take care.”

  She hung up the phone with a smile on her face, feeling buoyant despite the hour. There was, then, nothing to worry about. She’d needlessly gotten herself in a stew.

  Setting her needlepoint aside, she ran a hot bath, which she proceeded to lace with a double dose of scented oil. Her clothes fell quickly to the floor. She piled her hair atop her head. Then she stepped in, sank down and stretched out in the luxurious liquid heat, breathing a long, lingering sigh of delight as she laid her head back and closed her eyes.

  Security. Relaxation. What precious things they were. She’d been her own worst enemy today. She owed herself a treat tomorrow. A movie? She could take in a matinee. Or she could drive down to the waterfront and take a cruise around the harbor. Would it be too cold? The museum. That was it! If she did everything she had to by noon, she would take her life in her hands and go to the museum.

  Four

  sATURDAY MORNING DAWNED CLEAR AND SEASONABLY warm, the kind of rich autumn day when anyone old enough to remember pined for the smell of burning leaves. Ryan Cornell remembered. He’d been raised in the verdant Berkshires and knew well the joy of the leaf pile on the lawn, the delight of running and jumping and vanishing in its midst, then sitting back to breathe in that incomparable smell when the pile had been raked to the curb and lit.

  At times like these, he missed that simple life, so pure, so straightforward, so filled with love. Sighing, he opened the window farther and leaned out, inhaling the fresh air; its scent was a poignant reminder of all he’d lost. Before long would come winter, with its snow and slush and mess. How he hated that time, coming in tired and cold at the end of the day to a dark and empty house. It was just as well Tom was back. It had been a year, about time he got a place of his own. Perhaps he’d enjoy city life. More action, more diversion, less time to brood on all he couldn’t change.

  A movement beneath him caught his eye, the bob of a thick auburn ponytail as a slender figure in a sweat shirt, shorts and running shoes moved down the front walk to the street then looked to either side before breaking into an easy jog and crossing to the river path.

  Ryan whipped his head in, remembering to duck only after he’d hit the window with a thud. Blindly rubbing the injured spot, he ran to the bedroom and began to rummage madly through an open suitcase. Several knit shirts were tossed aside, as was a hapless pair of jeans. Fishing out his running shorts at last, he tugged them on, hopping precariously first on one foot then the other, then grabbed for his sneakers and laced them in record time. The sweat shirt he’d discarded the night before hung on the doorknob. He swept it up as he ran past and was halfway down the stairs before he’d managed to wriggle into it.

  By the time he hit the fresh air he was well warmed up. Breaking into a run, he bolted down the walk, dodged his way across Memorial Drive, and lit into the river path with an enthusiasm he hadn’t felt in months. He looked ahead, scanning the path in vain. He glanced down at his watch, only to remember that it was back on the bedside table. At a guess, she had no more than two or three minutes on him.

  He quickened his pace, grateful that he’d managed to stay in good shape. But then, running had kept him sane. It was his outlet. Aggression, frustration, helplessness—he regularly battered them into the ground only to find, with each new day, a rerun. Perhaps today would be different.

  His eyes studied the path ahead as it gently rounded the river. To either side the Saturday-morning traffic had begun to pick up. Where was she? Had she possibly turned off and headed toward Harvard Square? But why would someone in her right mind do that, when the river run was straight and clear and, with its own path, far less hazardous than the side streets?

  Then he saw her, a small figure ahead on the bridge crossing to the other side of the Charles. He ran faster, wondering whether he would collapse when he finally caught her, but pushing himself nonetheless. Her pace was steady. She seemed to be enjoying the day as much as he would have had he not been engaged in this absurd chase. He didn’t know what had gotten into him. He’d stopped chasing women years ago. This one was his neighbor. That could be good news, or bad. C. J. Quinn, said her mailbox. Carly, said one of their neighbors, who had come up the front path the evening before as Ryan had stood staring after her.

  “Uh, excuse me?” he’d called out as the older gentleman passed, a briefcase in his hand, the evening edition under his arm. “Could you tell me…uh, I wondered…the woman who just ran inside…does she live here?” The outburst had been impulsive, devoid of pride or pretense.

  The gentleman stopped on the single stone step before the door. He looked once at the fast-disappearing figure within, then back at Ryan. “Is there a special reason you ask?” he countered tactfully.

  It was enough of a positive response for Ryan—in fact, he admired the man’s protectiveness. Casting an explanatory glance toward the carton by the door, he approached. “I’m just moving in myself. She, uh, she seemed frightened by something. I just wondered if she’ll be all right.”

  “Just moving in? The Amidons’s place?”

  “That’s right.”

  A firm hand was extended his way. “I’m Ted Arbuckle. My wife and I live in 103.”

  He met the clasp. “Ryan Cornell. And…?” He cocked his head toward the lobby.

  “Carly Quinn. She’s in 304. Nice girl. Quiet.”

&nbs
p; “Will she be all right? I mean, is there someone up there waiting for her?”

  “For Carly?” He shook his head. “Nope. She’s alone. But she’ll be all right. Seems pretty self-sufficient.”

  Self-sufficient, perhaps. Spry, without a doubt. He admired her stride as he slowly closed in. She ran lightly, with an athletic kind of grace. Not quite deer-like, since she was more petite than long legged, but then there had been sheer terror on her face last night, as though she were indeed facing the hunter with the bow.

  Carly heard the rhythmic slap of his step as he approached and shot a wide-eyed glance over her shoulder. He felt a moment’s remorse that he’d been the one to frighten her again. Then he moved forward, passed her, glanced back and slowed.

  “Hi,” he offered, relieved to be able to match her saner pace.

  She stared at him for a minute, as though trying to control some inner urge to race onto Storrow Drive, arms waving wildly, to stop the nearest driver and seek help. He hadn’t quite decided whether she was afraid of him, or of men in general when, with the faintest tilt of her head, she slowly smiled.

  His day was made. “You do well,” he said, dropping his gaze momentarily to the slender legs that hadn’t broken pace.

  Her smile lingered to soften her gibe. “For a woman?”

  “Now, now, I didn’t say that,” he chided with the gentleness she seemed to inspire. “There’s many a man who would have been sitting back there on the edge of the bridge trying to catch his breath after having come half the distance you have.” He paused, then took the plunge. “I’ve been trying to catch you for a mile.”

  Her smile faded slowly as wariness returned. “You have? Do you run often?”

  “Every day. But never here before. And never with someone else. Two firsts,” he declared on a triumphant note.

  She couldn’t resist looking up at him again. His grin, a generous slash of white through his beard, was so hopelessly boyish that, quite against her will, her wariness seemed to lessen. Tearing her eyes away, she sought the path once more.

  “You must run often yourself,” he speculated.

  “When I can.” It was evasive enough, she mused, yet not far from the truth. She’d been running since Matthew’s death, when she’d wanted nothing more than to exhaust herself into oblivion. It had worked at first, until she’d built up her strength and discovered the sheer exhilaration of the sport. Now she ran as often as possible. Since fall had come, though, the opportunity had grown progressively more elusive. She didn’t dare run in the dark, thus precluding most school days. Which left the weekends.

  Ryan was silent for a time, wondering how much he dared push. Arbuckle had said she was quiet. Ryan might use the words private, or aloof, even distrustful, or skittish, from the looks of the tightly clenched fists that moved back and forth with her steady stride. Somehow he didn’t want to think she was simply disinterested. “You always run by the river?” he asked.

  Carly looked up and around. The sky was a pale shade of blue, even paler where the sun skipped over the skyline of Boston, seeming to jump from building to building as her own perspective changed. “It’s open here. And peaceful. I leave the cars to battle one another.”

  Ryan smiled his satisfaction. “I was counting on that. For a while I thought you’d turned off on a side street.” At her look of puzzlement, then alarm, he quickly explained. “I saw you leave the building just as I was getting dressed.” A slight fabrication, he reasoned, but harmless. “When I got outside, you’d disappeared. I thought that if I could catch up with you, you’d show me the best place to run.”

  “You found it yourself then, even before you saw me again. Your instinct was good.”

  He wouldn’t tell her about the more lascivious instinct that had set him running double time. His thighs and calves would be telling enough later. For now, he simply wanted to get her talking.

  “Do you ever race?” he asked.

  “Running?” She crinkled up her nose and he felt a corresponding tickle inside him. “No. I’m not that good. I just do it for fun. You know, exercise, fresh air, ‘sweeping out the cobwebs’ kind of thing.”

  “How far do you go?”

  She cocked her head toward the buildings rising ahead. “Boston University. I’m almost there.”

  “What is it…four miles round trip?”

  Her ponytail slapped her neck with each stride, mirroring the gentle bob of her breasts. “I think so.”

  He focused on the ponytail. “You can do more, you know.”

  “Oh?” A smile played at the corners of her mouth.

  “Sure. You’re barely winded. Why not try for another mile?”

  “There’s still the return trip to make.”

  “You can do it. Come on.”

  She looked up at him. His good-natured smile egged her on. “What if my legs give out on me three-quarters of the way back?”

  “I’ll carry you.”

  “You’re that strong?”

  “You’re that light.”

  When she would have asked him how he knew, she blushed and looked down. Not much was hidden by her running shorts, certainly not the slim, bare lengths of her legs. And she was indeed far shorter then he was. Oh, yes, he could easily carry her. Without the slightest effort, he could toss her over his shoulder and cart her to a van waiting somewhere ahead. Her blush washed out and disappeared.

  Ryan instantly sensed the change. “Are you all right?” he asked, with the same soft concern in which he’d intoned those very words the day before.

  Struggling against the silent demons that seemed to have struck again, Carly reminded herself of Sam’s phone call. Ryan was honest. Safe. “Straight as an arrow,” were Sam’s precise words. It was time she stood up to her insidious suspicions.

  “I’m fine,” she murmured, forcing a smile.

  “Suddenly tired?” he teased lightly. “Givin’ up the race so soon? Tell you what. If you can keep up with me all the way back, I’ll spring for breakfast.”

  “Don’t eat breakfast.” She returned his banter more easily, steadied by the cadence of her pace.

  “Then lunch.”

  “Can’t. Too much to do.” If she hoped to get to the museum, she’d have to hustle through other chores as it was.

  “You’ve got to eat sometime.”

  “I’ll grab something on the run.”

  “That’s not healthy.”

  She shrugged and dashed him a sheepish smile that made his insides tingle. “I’ll live.” Then she tossed her head back. “This is it for me.” She made a wide circle around the lamp post she’d earmarked as her turning point, but was caught by the wrist and gently stopped.

  “Dinner at Locke-Ober’s?” His eyes gleamed. “How does that strike you?”

  “Very extravagantly.”

  “It’s yours for another mile in and then the return.”

  They stood facing each other, breathing deeply from the first leg of the run. “Why?” she asked softly, tipping her head up to eye him skeptically. “Why would you want to run with me? I’m sure you normally go much faster.”

  He shot her a mischievous grin. “Only when I’m trying to catch someone.” Then the grin faded and he grew startlingly earnest. “I’d like the company,” he said simply.

  The cars whizzed by them on Storrow Drive, much as life did to two people marking time. Carly felt it then, a kind of kinship with Ryan. In his eyes was a warmth, a sincerity, a loneliness she would never have detected had she not been so thoroughly familiar with it herself.

  “Locke-Ober’s?” she asked with a hesitant smile.

  “Ever been there?”

  She shook her head.

  “Lobster Savannah…shrimp mornay….”

  Her smile grew coy. “I’m listening.”

  “Caviar. Hearts of palm. Chateaubriand.”

  “Uh-huh?”

  “A ’79 Châteauneuf-du-Pape Blanc.”

  “Blanc?” She whistled. “You don’t fool around.”r />
  “Nope.”

  She hesitated for a final minute, then cautioned, “I couldn’t make it tonight.”

  “That’s okay.” He smiled, feeling suddenly victorious. “We could make it next week, the week after, any time that’s good for you.” Strange, he half wanted to put it off. The anticipation would be thoroughly enjoyable. It had been too long since he’d had something to look forward to. And, after all, there was no cause to rush. He wanted her to be comfortable, confident. Perhaps it was better to wait.

  Carly’s decision had nothing to do with caviar, lobster, or wine. It was based simply on that strange flicker of kinship she felt for Ryan Cornell. “You’re on,” she said quietly. Then, cocking her head toward Boston, she raised her brows questioningly. When he gave a smug nod, she broke into stride. He was right beside her. It was a surprisingly reassuring thought.

  For the most part they ran in silence. Carly’s thoughts were on the pleasure of the day and how secure she felt just then. Ryan’s thoughts were on Carly and the world of questions he wanted to ask. But she seemed reticent even now to say too much. He couldn’t help but wonder what made her so.

  The extra mile he had suggested brought them in view of the first of the Saturday sailboats. “Look. Pretty, isn’t it?”

  She nodded and gave a smile that dimpled her cheeks becomingly. “You mean to say I’ve been missing this all along?”

  “You bet. Actually, it’s kind of late in the season. There won’t be too many boats out. Most of them are already drydocked.” They ran on for a bit, enjoying the view, before he ventured to speak again. “You ought to see it at the height of the season. On a clear day, especially at sunset, it’s a beautiful sight.”

  “You’ve seen it at sunset?”

  “My office overlooks the river.”

  She directed her bobbing gaze toward the downtown skyline. “Which one is yours?”

  “You can’t see it from this angle. We’re too low. It’s on the other side of the State House.” He took a breath between strides. “If you’d care to run a little farther—”