Chapter 10
For Jessica, the day crawled. The confinement alone would have been torture to her. She hated seeing the sun pour through the windows while she remained trapped inside. Even the beach was off limits, so she was prevented from learning if she could walk there again without looking over her shoulder.
Thinking of her shop only brought on a dull, nagging headache. The one thing she'd conceived and built by herself had been taken out of her hands. Perhaps she would never feel the same pride in it, the same dedication to making it the best she was capable of. Worse, her own weariness was taking her to the point where she no longer cared.
Jessica detested being ill. Her usual defense against a physical weakness was to ignore it and go on. It was something she couldn't—or wouldn't—change. Now, however, she had no outlet. The quiet library and monotonous tasks Slade gave her were grating on already taut nerves. Finally she tossed her pen across the table and sprang up.
"I can't stand this anymore!" She gestured widely to encompass the library at large. "Slade, if I write one more word, I'll go crazy. Isn't there something we can do? Anything? This waiting is unbearable."
Slade leaned back in his chair, listening calmly to her complaints. He'd watched her fidget throughout the morning, fighting off boredom, tension, and exhaustion. The only surprise he felt was that she'd managed to go so long without exploding. Sitting still, he mused, was not Jess Winslow's forte. He pushed aside a pile of books.
"Gin," he stated mildly.
Jessica plunged her hands into the pockets of her trousers. "Damn it, Slade, I don't want a drink. I need to do something."
"Rummy," he finished as he rose.
"Rummy?" For a moment she looked puzzled, then gave a gusty sigh. "Cards? I'm ready to beat my head against the wall and you want to play cards?"
"Yeah. Got any?"
"I suppose." Jessica dragged a hand through her hair, holding it back from her face a moment before she dropped her arm to her side. "Is that the best you can come up with?"
"No." Slade came to her to run his thumb along the shadows under her eyes. "But I think we've given Betsy enough shocks for today."
With a half length, Jessica gave in. "All right then, cards." She went to a table and pulled open a drawer. "What stakes?" she asked as she rummaged around in the drawer.
"Your capital's a bit bigger than mine," Slade said dryly. "Half a penny a point."
"Okay, big spender." Jessica located a pack of cards, then flourished them. "Prepare to lose."
And he did—resoundingly. At Slade's suggestion, they had settled in the parlor. His thoughts had been that the sofa and a quiet fire would relax her, and a steady, boring game might put her to sleep. He'd already concluded that asleep was the only way Jessica could handle the waiting without losing her mind.
He hadn't expected her to know a great deal about the game, any more than he had expected to be trounced.
"Gin," Jessica announced again.
He looked down in disgust at the cards she spread. "I've never seen anyone with that kind of luck."
"Skill," she corrected, picking up the cards to shuffle them.
His opinion was a brief four-letter word. "I've worked vice," he told her while she dealt. "I know a hustle when I see one."
"Vice?" Jessica poked her tongue in her cheek. "I'm sure that was very interesting."
"It had its moments," he muttered, scowling at the cards she'd dealt him.
"What department are you with now?"
"Homicide."
"Oh." She swallowed, but managed to keep her voice light. "I suppose that has its moments too."
He gave her a grunt that might have been agreement as he discarded. Jessica plucked it up and slipped it into her own hand. When Slade narrowed his eyes, she only smiled.
"You must have met a lot of people in your work." She contemplated her hand, then tossed out a card.
"That's why your characters have such depth."
Briefly he thought of the street people; dealers and prostitutes, petty thieves and victims. Still, she was right in her way. By the time he'd hit thirty, Slade had thought he'd seen all there was to see. He was constantly finding out there was more.
"Yeah, I meet a lot of people." He discarded again, and again Jessica plucked it up. "Busted a few professional card sharks."
Jessica sent him an innocent look. "Really?"
"One was a great-looking redhead," he improvised. "Ran a portable game in some of the best hotels in New York. Soft southern accent, white hands, and a marked deck." Experimentally, he held a card to the light before he discarded it. "She went up for three years."
"Is that so?" Jessica shook her head as she reached for the card. "Gin."
"Come on, Jess, there's no way—"
Apologetically, she spread her cards. "There seems to be."
After a quick scan of her cards, he swore. "Okay, that's it." Slade tossed in his hand. "Figure up my losses. I'm finished."
"Well, let's see." Jessica chewed on the end of a pencil as she scanned the notepad dotted with numbers from previous hands. "You got caught with a bundle that time, didn't you?" Not bothering to wait for his reply, she scribbled on the pad. "The way I figure it, you owe me eight dollars and fifty seven and a half cents." Setting down the pad, she smiled at him. "Let's just make it eight dollars and fifty-seven, even."
"You're all heart, Jess."
"Just pay up." She held out a hand, palm up. "Unless you want to go for double or nothing."
"Not a chance." Slade reached into his pocket and drew out his wallet. He tossed a ten onto the table.
"I haven't got any change. You owe me a buck forty-three."
With a smirk, Jessica rose to retrieve her purse from the hall closet. "One dollar," she said, rummaging through her billfold as she came back into the parlor. "And… twenty-five, thirty, fortythree."
She dropped the change into his hand, then grinned. "We're even."
"Not by a long shot." Slade grabbed her and gave her a long, thorough kiss. "If you're going to fleece me," he murmured, gathering her hair in one hand, "the least you can do is make it worth my while."
"Seems reasonable," she agreed as she offered her lips again.
God, how he wanted her. Not just for a moment or a day or a year, he thought as he lost himself in the taste of her. For always. Forever. All those terms he never allowed himself to think. There was a wall between them—the thin glass wall of status he forgot when she was in his arms. He had no business feeling what he felt or asking what he wanted to ask. But she was warm and soft, and her lips moved willingly under his.
"Jess—"
"Don't talk." She wrapped her arms tighter around him. "Just kiss me again." Her mouth clung to his, smothering the words that begged to be said. And the longer the kiss went on, the thinner the wall between them became. Slade thought he could feel it crack, then shatter without a sound.
"Jess," he murmured again as he buried his face in her hair. "I want—"
She jolted and Slade swore when the doorbell rang.
"I'll get it," she said.
"No, let Betsy." He held her another minute, feeling the hammer of her heart against his chest.
More than willing, Jessica nodded. When Slade released her, she sank into a chair. "It's silly," she began, then Michael walked into the parlor.
"Jessica." Ignoring Slade, Michael went to her to take her hand. "You're so pale—you should be in bed."
She smiled, but couldn't prevent her fingers from tightening on his. "You know I'd go crazy if I stayed in bed. I told you not to worry, Michael."
"How could I help it?" He lifted her hand to brush his fingers over the knuckles. "Especially with David muttering all afternoon about you not knowing how to take care of yourself."
"That was—" She broke off, casting a quick look at Slade. "That was just a small disagreement we had.
I'm fine, really."
"You don't look fine, you look exhausted." Frowning, Michael followed the direction of her gaze until he too looked at Slade. Understanding was followed by anger, resentment, then weary acceptance.
"She should be in bed," he told Slade curtly, "not entertaining guests."
Slade shrugged as he eased himself into a chair. "It's not my place to tell Jess how to run her life."
"And what exactly is your place?"
"Michael, please." Jessica cut off Slade's answer and rose hastily. "I'll be going up soon, I am tired."
With a silent plea, she turned to Slade. "I've kept you from your work too long. You haven't written all day."
"No problem." He pulled out a cigarette. "I'll make it up this evening."
Michael stood between them, obviously not wanting to leave—and knowing there was no point in staying. "I'll go now," he said at length, "if you promise to go up to bed."
"Yes, I will. Michael…" She put her arms around him, feeling the familiar trim build, smelling the light, sea-breeze scent of his after-shave. "You and David mean so much to me. I wish I could tell you."
"David and I," he said quietly and brushed a hand down her hair. "Yes, I know." He cast Slade a last look before he drew her away. "Good night, Jessica."
"Good night, Michael."
Slade waited until he heard the front door close. "What kind of disagreement did you have with David?"
"It was nothing to do with this—it was personal."
"Nothing's personal right now."
"This was." Turning, she fixed him with weary eyes, but he saw the stubborn crease between her brows. "I have a right to some privacy, Slade."
"I told you not to see either of them alone," he reminded her.
"Book me," she snapped.
"Don't tempt me." He met her angry eyes directly. "And don't do it again."
"Yes, Sergeant." On a disgusted sigh, Jessica dragged a hand through her hair. "I'm sorry."
"Don't apologize," he told her briefly. "Just do what you're told."
"I think I will go up. I'm tired," she added, not looking at Slade.
"Good." He didn't get up, nor did he take his eyes off her. "Get some sleep."
"Yes, yes, I will. Good night, Slade."
He listened to her go up the steps, then tossed his cigarette into the fire and swore.
Upstairs, Jessica filled the tub. That was what she needed, she told herself—an aspirin for the headache, a hot tub for the tension. Then she would sleep. She had to sleep—her body was crying for it. For the first time in her life Jessica felt the near weightlessness of true exhaustion. She waited until the bathroom was steamy, then lowered herself into the tub.
She knew she hadn't deceived Slade. Jessica wasn't fool enough to believe that he'd taken her excuse of being tired at face value. He was just as cognizant of what was going on inside her head as she was.
The visit from Michael had been the last straw in a day filled with unspoken fears and rippling tension.
Nothing had happened, she thought in frustration as she let the water lap over her. How much longer would she have to wait? Another day? A week? Two weeks? On a long, quiet sigh she shut her eyes.
Jessica understood her own personality too well. She would be lucky to get through the night much less another week of waiting and wondering.
Take an hour at a time, she advised herself. It was seven o'clock. She'd concentrate on getting through until eight.
At twenty past eight Slade went systematically through the first floor, checking locks. He'd waited, throughout an unbearably long day, for the phone call that would tell him his assignment was over.
Silently he cursed Interpol, the FBI, and Dodson. As far as he was concerned, they were all equally to blame. Jessica wouldn't be able to take much more—that had been made abundantly clear during Michael's visit.
Another thing had been made abundantly clear. Slade had found himself entirely too close to stepping over the last boundary. If the doorbell hadn't rung, he would have said things best left unsaid, asked things he had no right to ask of a vulnerable woman.
She might have said yes. Would have said yes, he corrected as he stepped past a snoring Ulysses. And would have regretted it, he reflected, when the situation changed and her life was back to normal.
What if he had asked her, then they'd been married before she'd had time to readjust? A good way to mess up two lives, Slade, he told himself. It was better to make the break now, draw back until they were just cop and assignment again.
At least she was upstairs resting, not beside him, tempting him to cross the line again. When she wasn't there where he could see her, touch her, it was easier to keep things in perspective.
The servants were settled in their wing. He could hear the low murmur of a television and the settling of boards. After he'd finished checking the locks, he'd go upstairs and write. Slade rubbed a hand over the back of his neck where the tension concentrated. Then he'd sleep in his own bed, alone.
As he walked toward the kitchen door, Slade saw the knob slowly turn. Muscles tensed, he stepped back into the shadows and waited.
Eight-thirty. Jessica glanced at the clock again as she roamed her bedroom. Neither the bath nor the aspirin had relaxed her enough to bring sleep any closer. If Slade would come up, she thought, then shook her head. She was becoming too dependent, and that wasn't like her. Still, she felt that her nerves would calm somewhat if she could just hear the sound of his typewriter.
An hour at a time, she reminded herself, glancing at the clock yet again. Well, she'd made it from seven to eight, but she wasn't going to make it until nine. Giving up, Jessica started back downstairs.
If he's annoyed, she mused, she'd just have to make the best of it. Being confined in the house was bad enough without restricting herself to her rooms. She'd almost be willing to fill out some more of those silly cards—anything to keep her hands busy until…
Her thoughts broke off as she came to the foot of the stairs. For the second time the parlor doors were closed. A tremor ran up her back, urging her to turn around, go to her room, and pretend she'd never left it. She'd taken the first step in retreat before she stopped herself.
Hadn't she told Slade not to tell her to run? This was her home, Jessica reminded herself as she stepped forward. Whatever happened in it was hers to deal with. Taking a deep breath, she opened the parlor doors and flicked on the light switch.
Slade waited as the rear door opened quietly. At first there was only a shadow, but the build was familiar. Relaxing, he stepped forward into the moonlight. Startled, David whirled around and swore.
"You scared the hell out of me," David complained as he let the door swing shut behind him. "What're you doing standing around in the dark?"
"Just checking the locks," Slade said easily.
"Moving right in," David muttered. After turning on the lights, he went over to the stove. "Want some coffee?" he asked grudgingly.
"Thanks." Slade straddled a chair and waited for David to come out with whatever was on his mind.
The last report Slade had received from Brewster had put David in the clear. His name and face and fingerprints had been run through the most sophisticated computers. His every movement had been under surveillance for over a month.
David Ryce was exactly what he seemed—a young, faintly defiant man who had a knack for figures and an affection for antiques. He was also having what he thought was a discreet affair with a pre-med student. Slade recalled Brewster's almost paternal amusement with David's infatuation.
Though he'd felt an initial twinge of guilt at keeping the knowledge of David's clean slate from Jessica, Slade had decided she had enough trouble keeping herself under control. Better that she suspected both men than for her to be certain that Michael Adams was up to his neck in the smuggling operation.
"Michael." Jessica stared, facing the truth and not wanting to believe it.
"Jessica." He stood with pieces of the desk in his hand, frantically searching for some viable excuse for his presence and his actions. "I didn't want to disturb you. I'd hoped you'd be asleep."
"Yes, I'm sure you did." With a quiet, resigned sigh, she shut the parlor doors at her back.
"There was a problem with this piece," Michael began. "I wanted to—"
"Please don't." Jessica crossed the room, poured two fingers of brandy, and drank it down. "I know about the smuggling, Michael," she told him in a flat voice. "I know you've been using the shop."
"Smuggling? Really, Jessica—"
"I said don't!" She whirled sharply, pushed by anger and despair. "I know, Michael. And so do the police."
"Oh God." As his color drained, he looked around wildly. Was there anyplace left to run?
"I want to know why." Her voice was low and steady. "You owe me that."
"I was trapped." He let the pieces of the desk fall to the floor, then groped for a cigarette. "Jessica, I was trapped. He promised you wouldn't be involved—that you'd never have to know. You have to believe that I'd never have gotten you mixed up in this if there'd been any choice."
"Choice," she murmured, thinking of Slade. "We all have our choices, Michael. What was yours?"
"In Europe a couple of years ago, I…" He took a greedy drag of his cigarette. "I lost some money… a lot
of money. More than I had to lose, and to the wrong person." He sent her a swift, pleading look. "He had me worked over—you might remember when I took those extra two weeks in Rome." He drew in and expelled smoke quickly. "They were pros… It was days before I could walk. When he gave me an alternative to crippling me permanently, I took it."
Dragging a hand through his hair, Michael walked over to the bar. He poured bourbon neat, splattering drops, then downed it in one swallow. "He knew who I was, of course, my family, my connection with your shop—your unimpeachable reputation." The liquor gave him temporary strength. His voice steadied. "It worked beautifully for him. It wasn't for the money, Jessica, I just wanted to stay alive. And then… I was in too deep."
She felt something soften inside her and quickly pushed it aside. No pity, she ordered herself. He wouldn't drag pity from her now. "Who is he, Michael?"
"No." Shaking his head, he turned to face her. "I won't tell you that. If he found out you had his name, you'd never be safe."
"Safe?" She laughed shortly. "If you were concerned for my safety, you might have told me not to walk on the beach when someone was going to shoot at me."
"Sh-shoot… good God, Jessica, I didn't think he'd… He threatened, but I never believed he'd actually try to hurt you. I would have done something." His hand trembled, spilling ash onto the carpet. With a jerky movement of his arm, Michael tossed the cigarette into the fire. "I begged him not to involve you, swore I'd do anything he wanted if he'd leave you out of it. I love you, Jessica."
"Don't talk about loving to me." With more control than she was feeling, Jessica bent over to pick up one of the pieces he had dropped. It was part of the inner molding. "What's in the desk, Michael?"
"Diamonds," he said and swallowed. "A quarter of a million. If I don't take them to him tonight—"
"Where?" she interrupted.
"To the shop, ten o'clock."
"Let me see them."
She watched him separate one of the partitions of a cubbyhole from the space where a drawer had been. Lifting a thin piece of wood, he revealed a false bottom. He drew out a small padded bag. "It's the last time," he began, clutching the bag in his palm. "I've already told him I'm through. As soon as I deliver these, I'm going to leave the country."
"It is the last time," Jessica agreed, then held out her hand. "But you're not delivering anything. I'm taking the diamonds, Michael. They're going back where they came from, and you're going to the police."
"You might as well hold a gun to my head!" He swiped an unsteady hand over his mouth. "He'll kill me, Jessica. If he finds out I went to the police, I wouldn't even be safe in a cell. He'll kill me, and if he knows what you've done, he'll kill you too."
"Don't be a fool." Eyes glittering, she grabbed the bag from his hand. "He'll kill you anyway, and me.
Is he stupid enough not to know the police are closing in?" she demanded. "Is he stupid enough to leave you alive as a liability? Think!" she ordered impatiently. "Your only chance is with the police, Michael."
Her words touched off a fear he'd buried. Deep inside his mind, Michael had always known his involvement in the operation could only end one way. That fear, much more than money, had kept him loyal. "Not the police." Again, his eyes darted around the room. "I have to get away. Don't you see, Jessica, someplace where he won't find me! Let me have the diamonds, I can use them."
"No." Her hand tightened on the bag. "You used me, no more."
"For God's sake, Jessica, do you want to see me dead?" His breathing was raw and jerky as the words tumbled out. "I don't have time to raise the money I'll need. If I leave now, I'll have a start."
She stared at him. A thin film of sweat covered his face, beading over lips that trembled. His eyes were glazed with terror. He'd used her, she thought, but that didn't kill the feelings she had for him. If he was determined to run, she'd give him what he wanted. Jessica crossed to a painting of a French landscape and swung it out on hidden hinges, revealing a wall safe. Quickly she twirled the tumblers and opened it.
"Take this." She offered Michael a stack of bills. "It's not worth what the diamonds are, but cash should be safer in any case. It won't take you far enough, Michael," she said quietly as he reached for the money. "But you have to make your own decision."
"There's only one I can make." He slipped the bills inside his jacket, then finally met her eyes. "I'm sorry, Jessica."
Nodding, she turned away. She heard his footsteps as he crossed to the doors. "Michael, was David involved in this?"
"No, David did nothing but take what he thought were routine orders." He saw everything he'd ever wanted, everything he'd ever cared about, slipping through his hands. "Jessica—"
"Just go, Michael. When you run, you have to run fast."
She listened for the click of the doors before she opened the padded bag. A cold, sparkling stream of diamonds fell into her palm. "So this is what my life's worth," she murmured. Carefully, she replaced them, then stared at the remains of the Queen Anne desk. "All for a whim," she whispered. If she hadn't had that impulse to bring the desk home then…
With a fierce shake of her head, Jessica broke off the thought. There were no if's. She needed to see Slade, but she needed a moment to herself first. On a sigh, she sank into a chair, letting the bag of diamonds fall into her lap.
"I guess Jessica told you about this morning." As the coffee heated on the stove, David reached for cups.
Slade lifted a brow. What was this, he wondered. "Shouldn't she have?" he countered.
"Look, I don't have anything against you—I don't even know you." David turned, tossing back the hair that fell over his brow. "But Jessie's important to me. When I saw her come out of your room this morning, I didn't like it." He measured the man across the room and knew he was outmatched. "I still don't like it."
Slade watched the eyes behind the lenses. So this was her private disagreement. Jessica had the loyalty she expected here, he mused. "I'd say you don't have to like it," Slade said slowly, "but Jess wouldn't feel that way."
Uncomfortable under the direct stare, David shifted a bit. "I don't want her to get hurt."
"Neither do I."
David frowned. Something about the way Slade said it made him believe it. "She's a soft touch."
Temper leaped into the gray eyes so quickly, David nearly backed away. When Slade spoke, the words were soft and deadly controlled. "I'm not interested in her money."
"Okay. Sorry." Relaxing a bit, David shrugged. "It's just that she's gotten stung before. She trusts everybody. She's really smart, you know—for a scatterbrain who forgets what she's doing because she's doing twenty things at once. But with people, Jessica wears blinders." The coffee began to boil over behind him. David spun around and turned off the burner. "Look, forget I said anything. She told me this morning it was none of my business, and it isn't. Except that… well, I love her, you know," he mumbled. "How's she feeling?"
"She'll be better soon."
"Boy, I hope so," he said fervently as he brought the coffee to the table. "I wouldn't want her to hear me say it, but I could use her at the shop. Between getting the new stock checked in and Michael's moodiness…" David grimaced and dumped milk into his coffee.
"Michael?" Slade prompted casually.
"Yeah, well, I guess everybody's entitled to a few temper tantrums. Michael just never seems to have a temper at all." He flashed Slade a grin. "Jessica would call it breeding."
"Maybe he has something on his mind."
David moved his shoulders absently before he drank. "Still, I haven't seen him this unraveled since the mix-up on the Chippendale cabinet last year."
"Oh?" Some wells, Slade mused, took no priming at all.
"It was my fault," David went on, "but I didn't know he'd bought it for a specific customer. We do that sometimes, but he always lets Jessie or me know. It was a beauty," David remembered. "Dark kingwood, great marquetry decoration. Mrs. Leeman bought it the minute it was uncarted. She was standing in the shop when the shipment came in, took one look, and wrote out a check. Michael got back from Europe the day we were packing it for delivery and had a fit. He said it had already been sold, that he'd had a cash advance." David took a quick sip of his coffee, discovered it was bitter, and drank again resignedly.
"The paperwork had been mislaid, I guess," he went on. "That was odd because Jessie's a fiend for keeping the invoices in order. Mrs. Leeman wasn't too pleased about the mix -up either," he recalled with a grin. "Jessie sold her a side table at cost to soothe her feathers."
"Who bought it?" Slade demanded.
"What, the cabinet?" David adjusted his glasses. "Lord, I don't know. I don't think Michael ever told me, and with the mood he was in, I didn't like to ask."
"You have the receipt?"
"Yeah, sure." Puzzled, David focused on him again. "At the shop. Why?"
"I have to go out." Slade rose swiftly and headed for the rear stairs. "Don't go anywhere until I get back."
"What are you—" David broke off as Slade disappeared upstairs. Maybe he was a nut after all, David mused as he frowned at Slade's empty chair. You're having a casual conversation with a guy and all of a sudden he's…
"Make sure Jess stays put," Slade ordered as he came down again. His jacket was already zipped over his revolver.
"Stays put?"
"Don't let anyone in the house." Slade paused long enough to aim hard, direct eyes at David. "No one comes in, got it?"
Something in the eyes had David nodding without question.
Slade grabbed a napkin and scrawled a number on it. "If I'm not back in an hour, call this number.
Tell the man who answers the story about the cabinet. He'll understand."
"The cabinet?" David stared dumbly at the napkin Slade thrust into his hand. "I don't understand."
"You don't have to, just do it." The back door slammed behind him.
"Yeah, sure," David grumbled. "Why should I understand anything?" A loony tune, he decided as he stuffed the napkin into his pocket. Maybe writers were supposed to be loony tunes. Jessica sure knew how to pick them. With a glance at his watch, he decided to check on her. Maybe the writer was a little loose upstairs, maybe not, but he'd managed to unsettle him. When David was halfway down the hall, the parlor doors opened.
"David!" Jessica closed the distance between them at a run, then launched herself into his arms.
"Hey, what gives!" He managed to struggle out of her hold and take her by the shoulders. "Is there a different strain of flu running around that affects the brain?"
"I love you, David." Close to tears, Jessica framed his face with her hands.
He flushed and shifted his weight. "Yeah, I love you too. Look, I'm sorry about this morning—"
"We'll talk about that later. There's a lot I have to tell you, but I need to see Slade first."
"He went out."
"Out?" Her fingers dug into David's thin arms. "Where?"
"I don't know." Intently, he studied her face. "Jessie, you're really sick. Let me take you upstairs."
"No, David, it's important." Her voice changed from frantic to stern—the one he always responded to.
"You must have some idea where he went."
"I don't," he returned a bit indignantly. "We were sitting there talking one minute, and he was up and heading out the next."
"About what?" Impatient, Jessica gave him a quick shake. "What were you talking about?"
"Just this and that. I mentioned that Michael'd been moody—like he'd been when we'd had that mix -
up on the Chippendale cabinet last year."
"The Chippendale…" Jessica pressed her hands to her cheeks. "Oh God, yes, of course!"
"Slade gave me some business about not letting anyone in the house and calling some number if he didn't get back in an hour. Hey, where are you going?"
Jessica had swung her purse from the newel post and was rummaging through it. "He's gone to the shop. To the shop and it's nearly ten! Where are my keys! Call—call the shop, see if he answers." In a quick move, she dumped the contents of her purse on the floor. "Call!" she repeated when David gaped at her.
"Okay, take it easy."
While Jessica made a frantic search through the items on the floor, David dialed the phone. "I can't find them. I can't—they're in my coat!" she remembered and dashed for the hall closet.
"He doesn't answer," David told her. "Probably hasn't had time to get there yet if that's where he was going in the first place. Which doesn't make any sense because it's closed and… Jessie, where are you going? He said you weren't to go out. Damn it, you forgot your coat. Will you wait a minute!"
But she was already racing down the front steps toward her car.