The White Carnation by Susanne Matthews Page A

coffee mug and shoved it in the microwave to heat. As soon as the microwave chimed, he pulled out the cup, slapped on the lid, and headed out to his car.
    The late-model Chevy was parked in the designated spot where he’d left it when he’d gotten in after two. Saturday morning traffic in Boston was usually light, but this morning, for some reason, the cars were bumper to bumper. As he crawled along Tremont Avenue on his way to the Longfellow Bridge, he recalled his conversation with Tom last night. He couldn’t remember his partner ever being so negative about a theory, especially one that made sense when they had nothing else to go on. Come to think of it, Tom had been acting strange ever since they’d gotten the Harvester case.
    The time displayed on the dashboard said almost ten thirty—he was an hour and a half late. He’d forgotten to check the records for Faye’s new landline number. He’d tried her cell before leaving the apartment, but like last night, she hadn’t answered.
You told her to turn the damn thing off,
his conscience prodded, and he shook his head.
The one time she listens to me …
    After what seemed like hours instead of the thirty minutes it was, Rob pulled into the parking space he’d used the previous night. He quickly exited his vehicle and almost ran up the stairs to the second floor. She was going to be pissed, that damn Irish temper of hers no doubt raging out of control by now, making a bad situation even worse.
Of all the times to screw up...
    Rob lifted his hand to knock, but at the first brush of his knuckles, the door popped open as if it had been improperly closed. The latch assembly on the door knob had a habit of sticking unless you made sure you twisted the knob completely back into alignment. He was supposed to have replaced the knob—hell, the new one was still in his toolbox. Obviously, she hadn’t changed it either. Anger replaced his guilt. Couldn’t she listen just once?
    “Faye, I told you to keep the damn …” he said loudly, pushed open the door, and stopped dead in his tracks, stunned by the chaos and the litter of papers on the floor. Instinctively, he reached for the gun in his ankle holster. This place looked way too much like the Green apartment to be a coincidence. All of last night’s farfetched ideas, those he’d shared with Tom and the ones he was still considering, seemed more plausible than ever. Dread engulfed him.
    Faye! Where’s Faye?
    Rob’s heart pounded so hard he thought it would burst through his chest, but the blood in his veins had turned to ice, and it couldn’t do its job. His breathing slowed, his lungs unable to suck in the air he needed to survive. “Faye! Faye, where are you? Answer me, damn you!”
    His senses on high alert, fear foremost in his heart, he moved farther into the loft and along the hallway. He looked into her office. Like what he’d seen so far, the room had been trashed. Her collection of antique porcelain dolls, their heads shattered, lay in the debris on the floor along with the red mug he’d seen last night. Her computer was there, too. The tech guys down at the station might be able to recover something, but he doubted it. The apartment was cool, but sweat beaded on his forehead and trickled down his back.
    “Faye!” he called again, slowing as he approached her bedroom door, afraid of what he’d find in there. Would she be lying on the floor, broken like the dolls she’d loved? Would her throat be slashed like Lucy Green’s, her eyes open and accusing in death? He all but stopped breathing when he saw her. “Oh God, Faye!”
    She was in bed, the blankets tucked up under her chin, seemingly asleep, but she was a light sleeper and he’d been bellowing at the top of his voice. Even if she’d had a migraine—and considering what she’d found yesterday, it was possible—there was no way she’d overdose on something. She hated taking drugs of any kind. It went hand in hand with her hatred of hospitals.