Too Many Brothers. Roz Fox Denny
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and historic buildings are grandfathered in the city’s fire plan. They’re considered safe if they provide fire escapes, a monthly check of extinguishers on every floor, and if the building undergoes a yearly wiring inspection. This one does.”
“Which one is Dane?”
“My oldest brother. He’s a fire captain. And a know-it-all,” she said, making a face.
“Look. I’d love to stay and chat, but I need to either go find my boss or get a message to him ASAP.”
“There’s a phone booth a block down the street on the southeast corner.”
“Right! I saunter out partially dressed—like a clown. Guaranteed our surveillance team will see me and gun me down. And say I did, by some miracle, give them the slip. I’d have every beat cop in the area pouncing on me for indecent exposure. Without any ID on me—well, you fill in the blanks.”
“You didn’t let me finish. I can go make the call for you. Those guys have no way of knowing what I look like dressed normally.”
Logan pondered that. “It’s too risky,” he finally said. “They’re not stupid. As well, you’re outnumbered. One of them could easily follow the first man or woman leaving the building who fit our general descriptions. No, I’ll just have to hang out here until after dark.”
“And then what?”
“I’ll make a run for it. I know this part of town pretty well. Down a few alleys, over a few back fences, and I’ve shaken them.”
“Hardly,” she said with a sniff. “That costume you’re wearing is made of glow-in-the-dark material. The spots that run down your right side are phosphorescent, as are the white stripes running down the left.”
“That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard of. When would you play a clown in the dark?”
Daphne treated him to a scowl. “Not all kids’ birthday parties are at two o’clock in the afternoon. Parents who work nine to five sometimes have after-dinner dos.”
“Oh. I never thought of that. I should have, I suppose. My mom let me have a few campouts in the backyard with pals on my birthdays. But then, I was probably in fifth or sixth grade and would’ve died before I let her book a clown.”
“I’m sure,” she drawled, raising an eyebrow. “What interests fifth- and sixth-grade boys are fifth- and sixth-grade girls.”
“Wrong,” he threw back. “My buddies and I went for older women. My mom would kill me if she knew Danny Welch and I smuggled two eighth-grade girls in for one of our campouts.” He shook his head and chuckled at the memory.
Daphne noticed how laughing altered the harsh, hollow planes of Logan Grant’s lived-in face. She’d thought he was good-looking before, but mainly because of his body and his incredible blue eyes. Her dad’s family had those Delft-blue eyes. Some of the Malones were even blessed with beautiful Irish-green eyes. Two of her brothers, in fact—Perry and Kieran. Dane and Becky’s were a pretty hazel that changed shades with their moods.
As a kid Daphne used to check in the mirror every morning after saying a novena the night before, praying for her odd gold eyes to magically change color. It so happened that her mom, who was as Greek as someone named Calandra Dimitrious could be, had olive skin, black hair and dark eyes—genes she might have passed straight to her firstborn daughter. But no. If Daphne hadn’t resembled her mother’s baby pictures, she’d be sure the hospital had switched her at birth. Her eyes were the color of old brass.
Logan continued to prowl the kitchen. By now his over-long hair was practically standing on end.
“I could go down the hall and use Mrs. O’Bannon’s phone to call your boss. Her son Shawn insists his mother have a phone, even though she’s deaf as a post. I know she wouldn’t mind my using it. Shawn’s forever calling me to see if she’s okay. He phones her, and she doesn’t hear the ring.”
“Why didn’t you say so sooner?” Logan started to pull up the damp clown suit as he headed for the door. “Introduce me as a friend or coworker. I’ll phone Simon.”
“No. You don’t understand.” Daphne bit her lip. “Shawn O’Bannon and Dane work together. And his mom, for all that she’s half-deaf, is an incurable gossip. That means I’d have to explain to my whole family how I met you, and…well, I’d rather not.”
Logan let the costume fall to his hips again, clearly torn between pushing the issue based on his authority as a special agent and complying with Daphne’s wishes. “All right,” he said reluctantly. “But I’ll write down exactly what I need you to tell Simon. It’s important you relay the codes exactly as I give them. And keep the call short, Daphne, in case our pals have already tapped the main phone line. Otherwise, Bil—let’s just say it could prove dangerous for both of us if you stay on long enough to attract a trace.”
Daphne was sure he’d almost revealed the name of an important person in the organization the FBI hoped to infiltrate. Bill something. Obviously Logan didn’t trust her, despite everything they’d been through together. And after he said she’d handled herself well, too.
She found that slightly depressing. Her brothers always did that—closed her out, talking over her head as if she didn’t have brains enough to know some things were classified information.
Logan apparently had no idea that he’d insulted her. He snatched the paper and pencil she’d rummaged for and found in her desk. He bent over the small secretary with its one wobbly leg, writing in a clear, legible hand. All in capital letters. Facts of that nature interested Daphne. She thought the way someone wrote revealed a lot about his or her personality and she’d read several books about it. For instance, if she remembered correctly, people—usually men—who wrote everything in caps did so to throw up a wall. They’d either been badly hurt or felt betrayed by someone close to them.
She averted her eyes, not wanting to spy. But when she’d completed his call, Daphne intended to look up the specifics in her handwriting dictionary, to make sure she was correct in her analysis.
“All these numbers mean what?” she asked, glancing at the paper he’d thrust into her hand. The bold strokes were mostly gibberish to her. “Does it tell your colleagues you need them to come and pick you up here?”
“The less you reveal at your neighbor’s, Daphne, the better. For one, her phone line isn’t secure. I haven’t seen anyone leave the car, so I don’t think they’ve put a tap on the main phone box. But with those guys, you never know the extent of their resources. They have more devious tricks up their sleeves than the most accomplished of your master clowns. For now, just relay this information to Simon. Let him tell you what I need to do next.”
“Oh. Well, fine. Don’t worry, though, if I don’t rush back. Make yourself at home—help yourself to a beer.” Too late, Daphne remembered the state of her fridge. She sucked in her cheeks and crossed her eyes. “Mrs. O’Bannon can talk a visitor’s leg off. She doesn’t get a captive audience often, so she makes the most of it when she does. Believe me, I know of what I speak. I grocery shop for her. Bless her soul, she lost Mr. O’Bannon early last year. If it wasn’t for her dog, Muffy, keeping her from being so lonely, I don’t know what the poor woman would do. Her sons have intense jobs and large families of their own. And Mrs. O. flatly refuses to go live with any of them, even though all the boys have tried to talk her into moving in with them.” She took a deep breath.
“Has anyone said you do a fair job of talking someone’s leg off yourself?” Logan noted dryly, doing his best to shove Daphne out the door. “I’m locking up after you leave. Don’t mention me to any neighbor you meet along the way, either. Tap softly three times when you return. I’m serious about this. If anyone hears you banging on the door, they’ll come out to investigate. The fewer people who know you’re entertaining a strange man in your apartment, the better. I get the feeling it’s not the norm for you. And it’d only take one well-placed question for our pals out there to pinpoint my location.”
Daphne