He reached for the phone and called Carter Frederick. No answer. Again. Did that mean the guy was in trouble? Or was he avoiding making a report because of another screwup?
Wellington slammed a fist onto the palm of his opposite hand. He didn’t like being jerked around, and he didn’t like operating by remote control in Portland.
When he’d been running the Howell Institute, he’d had more trustworthy operatives. Retirement had forced him into using less reliable guys, and now he was paying the price. If he didn’t get results this way, would he have to go to New Orleans himself and do it righ.? But was that worth the risk?
As Rachel peered around Jake, she saw what had made him curse. The man who had been on the floor was gone, leaving a small pool of blood where his head had been.
“He was cuffed to a heating pipe,” she said.
Jake swore again. “I guess he had a spare key.”
“Will he go to the police?”
Jake barked out a laugh. “He came here to harm you. And he probably killed Evelyn Morgan. I hardly think he’s going to call the cops.”
“He could make up some story.”
“You think?”
“Okay. No.” She looked at the blood on the floor. “But he needs medical treatment.”
“Like I told you, head wounds bleed a lot, so it may be superficial. But if he goes to a doctor, he’ll make up a story about what happened.”
She kept staring at the blood. “I have to clean up.”
He made a rough sound. “I’ll send a cleaning crew over. Just lock up after us and put up the ‘closed’ sign.”
He moved to the side of the door and looked out.
“You don’t see him?”
“No. And now we’re really getting out of here.”
He stepped outside, waited a moment and motioned for her to follow.
“Where are we going?”
“A place I own.”
“Your house?”
“No. If he could find you, he could find me.”
“Does he even know who you are?”
“We have to assume he does, even if it’s not true. Which means we’re going to a different location.”
“A hideout?”
He laughed. “It’s a set of converted rowhouses where I store antiques that aren’t going right to my shop. But the top floor was already outfitted as a loft. I go there sometimes when I need a change of scenery.”
He led her rapidly away from the shop, and she hurried tokeep up. To her relief, he slowed his pace when they turned the corner. There were only a few people on this street, and she glanced at them as they passed. Nobody seemed to be paying attention to her and Jake Harper.
Still, he took a circuitous route through the French Quarter, ducking down alleys and stopping to listen and look behind them every so often. He had an excellent knowledge of the area, and as far as she could tell, no one was following them.
They ended up in an alley a few blocks away, where he stopped at a three-story building that was as wide as three townhouses. All the shades were tightly drawn. He unlocked the door and stepped inside where he turned on a dim overhead light. As she followed him, she saw that the first floor interior was one big open space. As he’d said, it was filled with antiques. Victorian sofas, chests of drawers, marble statues and even a horse watering trough.
He crossed the room, heading for a stairway at the back. They climbed to a second level that was much like the first. The third floor was a living space with a kitchen on one side, a living area, and a bedroom in the back. He’d said it was an occasional residence. Anybody else would have been glad to call the place home.
