Zander dialed Jennifer Delacruz, the FBI agent he’d spoken with on the phone after meeting with Emerson. He explained that he may have discovered the location of the painting. She informed him that she was currently on assignment in Georgia. However,she and her partner would shoot to arrive in Washington in four days’ time to follow up on his lead.
After they disconnected, Zander eyed Frank’s keys, resting in the Jeep’s cupholder.
He had an address. And he had keys.
For more than eight weeks, he’d been searching for information. Now that he’d finally obtained it, he was almost desperate to act on it.
He wouldn’t act on it, though.
It was smartest to wait until Agent Delacruz arrived and let her take over the case.
He returned to the Inn at Bradfordwood and sat at the desk in his room. However, he didn’t even open his laptop. After staring out the window for countless minutes, he scoured through Frank’s phone. He checked its browsing history—none. He checked its phone contacts—none. No recent calls to or from the phone.
The drive to Olympia would only take forty minutes. He needed to be free by two, when Britt got off work, because they were going out on the Bradford family sailboat with her mom and dad this afternoon.
He had plenty of time to drive to Olympia, try Frank’s keys on #618 at The Residences, and return to Merryweather without tipping off Britt.
No.
He’d wait for the FBI.
That afternoon, he did his level best to behave as if his mind was fully present. Britt’s parents bought it, but Britt did not.
“What’s wrong?” she asked in the car on the way back to the Hackberry Lane Cottages. “Something’s bothering you. You’re distracted.”
“Sorry. It’s just that I can’t stop thinking about the painting.”
The next day, his nerves stretched tighter and tighter. Questions about the mysterious interior of #618 consumed his thoughts.
Again that night, Britt asked him what was wrong. Again, he blamed his preoccupation on the painting.
He tried to eat breakfast at the inn the next morning and couldn’t manage it.
What if the apartment in Olympia stood empty? Even if Frank had been storing the painting at The Residences, it’s possible that Emerson’s reappearance in his life had changed everything. Maybe Frank had moved the painting. Or maybe he’d sold it? Or perhaps, in the days since Zander and Britt had met with Emerson, Emerson had located the painting and removed it from #618.
What if the FBI agents flew to Washington based on the strength of his tip and found nothing? No painting? No evidence?
The prospect of wasting their time and money settled over him like a dark fog. If he drove to Olympia and checked the apartment, he’d be far better informed. He’d know whether his information merited a visit by the FBI.
Through the inn’s front windows, Zander caught sight of Clint’s truck approaching. No doubt, Clint would let Zander swap cars with him for the day.
If someone was tailing Zander, they’d be waiting and watching for his Jeep. If they were following his movements remotely through a tracking device, that device would be connected to the Jeep. He could drive Clint’s truck to Olympia undetected—
No. He shouldn’t go.
He was going to have to go. He couldn’t stand to sit on the address of Frank’s apartment at The Residences for another minute.
He rose from the dining room table, his face settling into resolute lines, and went in search of Clint.
Britt entered The Giftery carrying a large cardboard box containing the shop’s most recent chocolate order.
“Britt!” Carolyn hurried to hold open the door leading to the shop’s storage space.
Britt passed by her, set the box on the work table within, and hugged Carolyn. “Good to see you.”
“Good to see you, too.”
They returned to the retail area, where a husband and wife were studying the folk art display and a twenty-something woman was perusing bath products.
