Ford liked the sound of anything that could save time. “Such as?”

“You get a partner. Someone who could knock on a front door for some plausible reason and ask the guy if he’s Peter Sutter. Meanwhile, you are stationed somewhere nearby where you can snap a photo. If you can, I’d recommend a female partner for this kind of thing.” Vaughn pointed with his coffee cup. “A tall, built guy like you comes around asking questions, and people get their guards up. But both men and women are inherently less suspicious when it’s a woman looking for information.” He thought about that. “Maybe Brooke could help you out.”

“I don’t want to get Brooke involved in this.” Because Brooke, naturally, would want to know why they were tracking down eleven Peter Sutters, and Ford had specifically promised Nicole he wouldn’t share that information with his friends.

“Maybe one of your female co-workers, another reporter?”

The problem, Ford knew, was that any reporter he dragged into this would undoubtedly ask a lot of questions, and this was a personal matter. But . . . there was one woman who already knew all about the situation with Nicole. A woman who, as it so happened, had vehemently insisted that she be kept fully informed about the search for the missing Peter Sutter.

Ford looked at Vaughn. “I think I know just who to ask.”

* * *

AFTER LEAVING THE coffee shop, he walked to the corner of the three-way intersection of Milwaukee, Damen, and North avenues, and waited for the light to change. A Blue Line train came roaring toward the elevated platform on the opposite side of the street.

His eyes drifted up, drawn in the direction of the noise, and he saw a handful of people waiting for the train. Then he noticed—well, hello—that one of those people happened to be the very woman he’d just been thinking about.

Victoria.

Dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, she took a step back as the train entered the station and slowed to a stop. The doors opened, and she remained where she was on the platform, seemingly hesitating, until the train chimed.

Doors closing, said the automated voice.

As if propelled into action by the words, she sprinted onto the train, just beating the doors.

Ford watched as the train pulled away, having no clue what that was all about.

Another curious development in the mystery that was Victoria Slade.

Fourteen

FLUSH FROM THE high of her success, Victoria walked into her loft feeling like a victorious woman, indeed.

She had ridden the Blue Line a whole three stops and back, without incident. Granted, the train cars hadn’t been crowded, which was the very reason she’d chosen to ride on a Sunday morning. But it was progress, nevertheless.

In a celebratory mood, she pumped Alicia Keys through the loft’s speakers. This girl is on fire. She kicked off her shoes and headed into the kitchen, singing along with the lyrics. We got our feet on the ground, and we’re burning it down. She was no singer, far from it, but who cared? She had done something about her tiny panic issue. She could report back to Dr. Metzel, and for once he’d be able to scribble down an A+ in that little notepad of his.

The song finished when she was halfway through the banana she was slicing for a smoothie. Almost immediately, there was a knock at her front door.

She wiped her hands and crossed the room, checking the peephole.

Ford.

Great. She opened the door, wondering how long he’d been standing there.

“It is a catchy song,” he said, the corners of his mouth twitching.

Yep. Long enough.

With a sigh, she put her hand on the door. “Do you think it would possible for me to get just a bit of privacy once in a while?”

“That’s loft living for you. The sound proofing is terrible in this place.”

So she’d noticed.

He took a step toward her, his blue eyes warm with amusement. “I have a proposition for you.”

“What kind of a proposition?”

“Invite me in and I’ll tell you.”

Hmm. Not sure what this was all about, she kept one eye trained on him as she stepped back to let him inside her place. He followed her toward the kitchen.

“By the way, I like what you did with the space.” He looked around at her furniture. “Is the condo you bought also a loft?”

She went to the blender to finish making her smoothie. “No, it’s a more typical two-bedroom layout. Probably about the same square feet as this place, though.”

Ford helped himself to a seat at the counter. “Where at?”

“The Trump Tower.”

“That’s hardly a ‘typical’ two-bedroom.”

She smiled in acknowledgment. “Maybe not.” She turned on the blender and mixed the strawberries, banana, and orange juice together. “So. About this proposition of yours,” she prompted him as she poured the smoothie into a glass.

“I wanted to see if you’re free for dinner tonight.”

She blinked, not having expected that, and felt a strange flutter in her stomach. “You want to have dinner with me?”

“Yes. At Public House.”

It took her a second. “That’s the bar where Nicole met Peter Sutter.”

He nodded. “I talked to an FBI agent today about the situation. Based on some things he and I discussed, I think it would be helpful if you check out the bar with me.”

“Me?” She laughed. “What am I now? Your sidekick in this?”

“Not a sidekick. I need a front man. See, I thought about it: what if, when I go to the bar and ask around, Peter Sutter is a regular? Maybe the bartender will know him, and he’ll want to know why I’m asking. I can come up with some excuse, but it would be less suspicious to have a woman doing the asking.” He waited as she considered this. “Think of it as an adventure. An adventure that would help your client, the struggling single mom who’s really hoping to catch a break with this.”

“Now that’s just playing dirty.”

He grinned and stood up from the counter. “I’ll pick you up at six. Wear something cute—like you’d wear on a first date.”

Her eyes met his archly. “I didn’t say yes.”

He peered down at her, his voice a little huskier than usual. “You didn’t say no, either.”

* * *

A FEW HOURS later, Ford knocked on Victoria’s door. When she answered, he was rendered momentarily speechless.