The next morning, before Lacey was even up, the doorbell rang. She padded down the hall and answered the door, embarrassed when she saw that it was Paul. Sunlight sparkled off the blue lake behind him and a warm spring breeze swept inside with him.
A wide grin lit his clean-shaven, suntanned face as he stepped inside. His voice was as bright as the day. “Good morning, Sleepyhead.”
A warm flush crept up her face as she realized she was still in her robe. She closed the door. “Good morning. You shaved.”
“We agreed last night I should.”
“Oh, yes. So we did. I...I'll get dressed.”
“I'll start the coffee. You look delicious this morning, Lacey,” he said cheerfully. He leaned forward and kissed her lips lightly. As she stared at him in surprise, he let his gaze run appreciatively from her head down to her bare feet. “You have nice red-polished toenails. Why do you polish your toenails, but not your fingernails?”
Indeed, why did she? It was too early in the morning to think about that. “Vanity,” she said crossly. “Have you eaten?”
“Not yet. Do you want to eat here, or should we get something on the road?”
“Whatever you want to do is fine with me.” She retreated to her bedroom, and closed the door. Looking at herself in the mirror, she gasped. Her hair was a tousled mess, but he'd said she looked delicious. And he'd kissed her. What a man. Smiling, she stepped into the shower.
When Lacey came back down the hall, she smelled coffee perking. Paul had fixed bacon and scrambled some eggs, too. Her stomach growled its approval.
“I fixed some breakfast. I heard your shower running, so I figured it'd be a few minutes before you'd be down.”
“Mmm, smells yummy,” she told him, wondering how soon she'd run out of food at this rate. The man could cook better than she, but had a huge appetite.
“Thanks. We need to stop at the grocery store on the way home tonight. You're running a bit low on some stuff.”
“Tell me about it,” she muttered under her breath.
“Huh?”
“Sure, Paul,” she replied, relaxing the worried frown off her brow. Her Visa card had better still have some credit left on it.
“I'll buy,” he said cheerfully, seeming to read her thoughts. “Mom always said I had a hollow leg and ate enough for three people.”
“That's okay with me.” She sent him a grin and slid some bread into the toaster and poured their coffee as he piled food on their plates.
“I can't get used to the idea that I had a twin,” Paul said. “It was always only the three of us, Mom, Dad and me. It sure would have been great if they could have adopted both of us.”
“I'm sure it would have.”
“Did you have brothers and sisters?”
“One older brother, Ned, but we weren't close. He lives in California now and I rarely see him.”
“Are your parents still living?”
Lacey shook her head. “My Dad died years ago. My mother remarried when I was in high school. I was a rebellious teen and didn't like Carl much. That's when I came here to live with Uncle Henry. She and Carl live in his retirement home in Florida now.”
“So you are pretty much alone here, too.”
“Well, I do have a step-brother here in town, though we don't get along very well. He's Carl's son, Jerry. He and his wife, Elaine own a service station. They have a little boy, Jimmy, who's a doll. I stop in to see Elaine and Jimmy now and then.”
Yikes, why was she telling Paul all her family history? She never talked about her relatives, even to her friends. They all avoided the subject. What was the matter with her, revealing personal information to this guy?
“I've been thinking,” Paul said. He sat down and buttered his toast, then spread it with strawberry jam.
What was he up to now? She eyed him warily as she took the chair opposite him. “Yeah?”
“I want to make sure John has a proper burial. I mean, he is my family, after all. Do you think I could manage that anonymously?”
“Well,” Lacey said, thinking as she sipped her coffee. She was getting in deeper and deeper. Ben was going to find out and accuse her of hiding out a wanted man if she wasn't careful.
“Well, what?”
“How do you plan to do that?”
“I was hoping you could do it for me? You know, using the confidentiality of a client?”
“Me?” That's what she was afraid he'd meant. She met his eyes. He gave her such a sincere, pleading look that she sighed and nodded. “Maybe someone has already claimed his body,” she said hopefully. “He might be married, or have brothers and sisters, you know?”
He nodded, soberly. “Yeah. I wonder if he does. We'll have to find out, won't we?”
“That's what we'll be doing today.”
“But I'm the one who's supposed to be dead, remember? I don't have anyone to claim 'my' body. So I'll have to claim myself.” He grinned, as though he thought that was funny.
She supposed it was funny, in a way. He hadn't even known his brother, so she couldn't expect him to be overcome with grief.
“It will cost thousands of dollars for a casket and burial,” she protested. “You'd need to buy a burial plot, too. And how could I pay for it all anonymously except with cash?”
His jaw set and his face took on a stubborn look. “I'm sure he's my brother. I can't afford not to do it. He can have the plot reserved for me and already paid for. No one will think that strange, since they think it's me they're burying. The plot's next to my adopted parents.”
She let out a sigh. She could see how he felt. She'd probably feel the same way if she were in his shoes. “All right, Paul.”
He reached across the table and covered her hand with his. “Thanks, Lacey. I appreciate this.”
As their gazes locked, she swallowed and tried to ignore the warm sizzle of awareness that raced through her at his touch. She must not get emotionally involved with this man, no matter how much she sympathized with him. She straightened and tried a smile. “You're welcome. I think.”
When they'd finished eating, Paul said, “I'll clear up while you call Harry at the funeral home.
“All right.”
Paul watched her go to the phone, then determinedly turned his back and picked up the dishes. He didn't want to think about burying a brother he'd never known.
He wondered what it would have been like if they'd grown up together. It would have been great to have someone his own age to share things with instead of always being alone with two older people.
Not that the Menns hadn't been great parents. But they'd waited until they were in their early forties to adopt him, hoping against hope for children of their own.
Ever since he'd found out he was adopted, he'd wondered who his real parents were and why they hadn't kept him. Over and over he'd told himself they must have had good reasons to give him up, but he'd felt unwanted and unworthy just the same.
Angrily, he pushed those thoughts away. He'd promised himself not to think about that. The past was past, closed and done with.
He closed the dishwasher with a sharp slap and turned it on, then wiped off the table as Lacey returned.
“What did you find out?”
She bit her lip and met his gaze. “Someone already claimed the body.”
He stared at her. “Wha...at? But who?”
“Harry claimed he didn't know. An anonymous do-gooder, he thinks. There's no funeral scheduled, but there will be a graveside service at ten o'clock Friday morning.”
“Where?”
“Riverview Cemetery north of town.”
He hung the dishcloth over the sink divider and sat down heavily, mixed emotions churning his stomach. “I can't imagine who would care enough to bury me.”
“Maybe you have relatives you don't know?”
“If they were relatives, why would they do it anonymously?”
“That's true.”
“We'll go to the service. Maybe I'll recognize someone there. If anyone comes.”
Lacey cautioned, “The donor might not come. Besides, it's more dangerous now that you shaved off your disguise. The sheriff might be there, or he might send someone to check out who comes to this service.”
Frustration made him snap at her. “I know that. But I want to know who cared enough to pay for my funeral.” He cleared his throat and attempted a softer tone. It wasn't her fault he was supposed to be dead and couldn't look into this himself. “Maybe you can find out who owns the burial plot? We could sneak out to see which one it is that's being prepared.”
“Paul, this is morbid,” Lacey argued, frowning.
“Please, Lacey?”
“All right.” She shuddered with distaste.
They drove to the cemetery, but it was an isolated one without a caretaker on the premises. There was no one around to ask and no sign of a grave being freshly dug.
“Well, I guess this is a lost cause for now. We'll have to wait until there is someone here, or they actually dig the grave,” Paul said, disappointed.
“I could find out who is in charge of selling plots, then find out who owns the one they bury him in,” Lacey said. “But it may be faster to see who comes to the funeral and try to figure it out that way.”
“You're probably right. So, what's next?”
“Let's go to Minneapolis to see if we can find out more about your twin.”
“I'm ready.”
On the drive down, he fiddled with his clipboard, worrying about whether or not all his deliveries were being taken care of by his employees. He'd called Hank again this morning, to check on them, but received no answer.
Now as Lacey drove, he punched in one number after the next until he got an answer from a couple.
The police had located a couple of his employees including Kate. She screamed when she heard his voice, saying, “A guy who said he was a cop said you were murdered.”
He laughed. “Well, you know how those guys like to exaggerate things. Do I sound dead?”
“No, but what happened? Why would they say that?”
“I was mistaken for my twin brother.”
“Oh. Oh, dear.”
“What?”
“I'm sorry! I—I passed on the news of your 'death' to the other drivers.”
He swore at that. “Sorry, Kate. I'm not mad at you. You couldn't know. But, get on the phone and call them back and let them know it was all a mistake.”
“All right, I'll do it right away.”
“I'll try to get hold of the ones in this area. Have you heard from Hank or Joe?”
“Not lately.”
He went on making calls, checking off orders and deliveries on the list on his clipboard.
A thought occurred, and he turned to Lacey. “Do you think anyone will be around that bar this early?”
“The restaurant section will be open by eleven. But you're right,” she said. “Maybe we should try to talk to the birdwatcher lady first. Mrs. Hendricks.”
He frowned. “But, how would we find her?”
Lacey tossed him a smile as she changed lanes. “I got her name from the story in the Trib, and looked up her address on my computer last night.”
He stared at her. “You can do that?”
“I can do more than you want to know, Paul.”
“Yeah? Is Mrs. Hendricks anyone I know?”
“I can't know that. I found no obvious connection between the two of you.”
Lacey turned off the freeway and headed into a neighborhood of nicely kept single family homes. Large trees lined the street on both sides, and the lawns were perfectly manicured. “Look for number fourteen oh eight,” she said.
Paul forced his attention back to their surroundings and began to read house numbers. “It should be about two blocks ahead.”
Lacey pulled up half a block away and parked at the curb.
“You wait out here. I don't want her to see you and freak out.” She started to get out of the car.
Paul put out his hand to restrain her. “No way,” he said. “I need to see her to find out if she's someone I know. You can't do that for me. I'll stay out of sight.”
Lacey groaned. “If she recognizes you, she'll either go straight to the cops or the media like she did the last time.”
“I'll pretend I have a delivery for her. People will believe anyone who carries a clipboard is a delivery person. They look at that instead of your face. In these jeans and shirt, I look like any other working man.”
“What would you be delivering?”
He reached for his clipboard and pen. “I won't need to mention that. I'll ask for someone else, then say that I have the wrong house and leave. Just long enough for a good look at her.”
“And for her to get a good look at you,” Lacey said, frowning. “What if a servant answers the door?”
“I doubt this is that fancy a neighborhood. Just in case, you go first and ask for her, then signal me by lifting your hand and brushing your hair back. Then I'll walk up with my clipboard and ask for someone else.”
“This is crazy, Paul.”
“You got a better plan?”
She bit her lip and stared at him, shaking her head.
Starting to get out of the car again, she turned to him. “Now, let me ask the questions. You just get a look at her and leave. Okay?”
“Okay.”
Paul slipped on his heavy red and black plaid jacket. It always made him look ten pounds heavier. He gave Lacey a few minutes head start, then put on his sunglasses and cap and followed her at a leisurely pace.
Casually strolling down the sidewalk, clipboard in hand, he read the house numbers. Lacey had rung the doorbell and was talking to a woman who'd answered. He slowed, not wanting to be past the house before she had a chance to signal him.
There, she'd brushed back her hair. He turned, walked quickly up the sidewalk, keeping his eyes on the woman at the door. Damn. Nothing! He was sure he'd never seen her before.
She looked straight at him and hesitated a moment.
He gave her a disarming grin. “Is this the Harrington residence, Ma-am?”
“No.” She lifted a brow and stared questioningly at his clipboard.
“Sorry, I must have taken a wrong turn somewhere.” He spun and walked quickly back down the street, continuing on past Lacey's car.
In a couple of minutes Lacey got in her car, followed him down the block and picked him up. As he settled into his seat, she asked, “You didn't recognize her?”
Removing his sunglasses, he shook his head. “No.”
“I guess we bombed out there.” She pulled out into the street.
He glanced at her. “Did you get any more information out of her?”
“No. She said she didn't want to talk about it. She'd had enough of reporters.” Lacey chewed a fingernail. “Maybe we were wrong. She sounded like she's getting scared.”
Paul could see the doubt written on Lacey's face. Damn. That woman had Lacey wondering if he was really the man she'd seen after all. How was he ever going to convince her he wasn't guilty? Why did he care so much what she thought? He'd never see her again after all this was over, would he? Somehow that possibility made his heart lurch painfully. He pushed the thought away. “Let's go see if that restaurant is open yet. I'm getting hungry.”
Lacey turned onto the freeway and sent him an incredulous glance. “Hungry? After all that breakfast?”
“Hey, that was hours ago. It's almost noon.”
The restaurant had opened but was still almost empty. A waitress was setting tables, and showed them to a table near the center. The bar section was on a raised platform separated from the tables by a decorative wooden railing covered with a thick row of plastic green plants. The place had a pleasant, rustic look. As nearly as they could tell, the bar was open.
They ordered and ate turkey sandwiches, while Paul kept an eye out for the woman who'd claimed to know him.
“This may be a lost cause,” he told Lacey ruefully. “She might only come in here once in a blue moon.”
“True.”
They talked and dawdled keeping an eye on customers as they arrived. Paul was about to give up and suggest that they leave when a new waitress walked in from the back room, still tying her apron as she walked behind the bar. She was willowy and blond, with a wide mouth and long, swept-back hair. She glanced over at them and gave Paul a friendly wave and smile.
“Is that her?”
Paul shook his head. “No, but this woman seems to recognize me. Let's move to the bar so we can talk to her.”
They moved to the bar and slid onto the high stools. The waitress came to wait on them and grinned at Paul. Her name-tag read 'Ann.' She said, “Hi, John, what'll it be today?”
Paul exchanged looks with Lacey. “See? She knows I'm John, don't you?” He poked Lacey in the ribs and winked at the waitress. “Tell her I'm a nice guy, will you? Come on, Ann. Tell her you know all about me.”
Ann raised an eyebrow. “Did you come in to play games or have a drink?”
“Two beers. Come on, help me out with this contrary woman, will you? She doesn't believe a word I say,” Paul improvised. “You know me, don't you?”
“You come in fairly regular. I don't know too much about you, though.” She stared at Lacey, as though doubting his story, then looked back at him.
Ann filled two mugs with beer and slid them across the bar to them, took Paul's money and returned with the change.
Before she could ease away again, Lacey chimed in. “Well, Ann, maybe I believe part of what he says. Since you know him, maybe you could tell me something about him. Then I'll see if it jibes with what he said, okay? You know, where he lives and works and stuff like that.”
“Well....”
“His name is really John?”
“As far as I know, yes,” the waitress agreed.
Lacey tried again. “John what?”
Ann lifted a shoulder. “I don't know.”
“Can you tell me anything?” Lacey pressed. “Where he lives? Works?”
“Well, he's usually in here with a couple of other guys who work at Thompson's Manufacturing. So, I guess he works there, too.”
“Where's that?”
“A few blocks from here.” She gave her directions, still looking uncomfortable with talking to Lacey about him while he sat there grinning like it was all a big joke.
Lacey asked, “Have you seen a woman in here with him?”
“Sure, sometimes.”
She described the woman he'd met in the St. Croix valley bar who'd first called him John and claimed to have met him in this bar. “Was she tall, really built, with long black hair?”
Ann nodded. “Yeah, that sounds like her. Lucy Jones.”
Lacey grinned encouragement. “Know where she lives or where I can find her?”
“Nope. Sorry, I can't play games any more. I have to wait on these other people, John.” With a nervous glance over her shoulder at them, she eased away to wait on someone else.
Paul looked at Lacey. “So much for that.”
She shrugged. “Oh, I don't know. Now we know her name and got another lead by finding out where he works. Let's go check that one out.”
“You mean Thompson's?”
“Sure. You never know what we'll turn up there.”
They drove over to the industrial area of town, following Ann's directions. As they neared the address, the buildings looked worn and the air seemed filled with truck exhaust. Trucks of every size were either backed to loading docks or moved slowly along the streets.
“It should be in the next block,” Lacey said, looking apprehensively at the seedy area around her. “Yes, there it is.”
A sign identified a large, one-story, plain metal building as Thomson's Manufacturing, but gave no indication on the outside of what was manufactured there.
Paul parked, shrugged at Lacey, and said, “Well, let's just walk in, and play it by ear.”
“Okay,” Lacey said, looking doubtful.
They walked inside. The huge, open area held rows of worktables with men bent over them. The hum of machinery met their ears, with an occasional whine of metal on metal. Thompson's evidently made small metal parts, but for what, it was impossible to tell.
A small, wiry man carrying a toolbox met them and said, “Hey, there, John. Glad you're back.” Stopping, he peered at Lacey curiously.
She squirmed under his scrutiny and instinctively moved closer to Paul.
The man's gaze swung back to Paul. “Hey, was that a relative of yours who was murdered up on the St. Croix?”
Paul hesitated, then nodded. “Yeah, it was.”
“Thought so. We saw the picture in the paper and we all thought he sure looked like you. The boss is in there.” He nodded at the office and hurried on down the aisle between the noisy machines.
Lacey watched him go with a sigh of relief.
Paul grinned at her and took her arm. “So far, so good. Come on.”
A messy office loomed to their left and they stepped inside. Papers were piled on every surface in haphazard stacks. A large, florid-faced man at the desk looked up. Rising, he glanced at Lacey, then ignored her and looked at Paul. An angry scowl crossed his face. “Where the hell have you been for the last couple of days, John?”
Paul stared at him, at a loss for words.
Before he could explain that he wasn't John, the man said, “Never mind, it don't matter. I can't put up with your absences any more. You're fired!”
“But, I'm....”
“No buts.” He turned, yanked open a file drawer, reached in and pulled out a file. Opening it, he found a pay envelope and handed it to Paul. “Here's your final check. I was just ready to mail it. And don't ask me for no references, either, 'cause they wouldn't be good ones. Now get out.”
Paul took the envelope, staring down at it, nonplused.
Hands on hips, the man stared belligerently, as though daring Paul to make something of his decision.
Paul looked at Lacey, who merely shrugged, then tipped her head in a signal to leave. He stuffed the envelope in his pocket and followed her outside. Two men in rough work clothes lounged against the factory wall, smoking cigarettes. Ignoring the men, they walked back toward her car.
Paul's mouth twisted in a wry grin. He said, “Well, I guess John worked there, all right.”
She returned his grin. “Past tense is right. But we got what we came for.”
He stared at her. “What do you mean? We got nothing, just thrown out!”
Footsteps sounded behind them and a large hand covered Lacey's mouth. As she opened her mouth to scream and attempt to bite him, the man jerked her into the alley and slammed her head against the factory's wall.
Pain exploded in her head as she twisted and attempted to knee him or break away. Dimly, she heard Paul's swearing growl and saw a second man hitting Paul and pulling him into the alley.
The man holding her seemed to know which moves she'd make in her struggle to free herself and held her fast. Trapped in a hammerlock and barely able to breathe, she could only watch as the other man fought with Paul.
“Where the hell is the money you promised to pay last week?” the man growled as he landed a fist to the side of Paul's face. “This is just a taste of what's coming if we don't get it.” Paul ducked and returned the blow.
Wincing at each blow the other man landed on Paul, she saw that Paul knew how to fight. The struggle had shifted, and the other man was taking more blows than Paul was.
Lacey felt the man relax his hold as his attention shifted to his partner, and she bit down on his hand. With a curse, he suddenly threw her aside, obviously thinking her unimportant in the struggle. She fell to her knees in the hard dirt of the alley while the man rushed to help his partner.
Lacey's gasped at the sight of both of them beating up on Paul, and she rose to her feet. Frantically looking until she found her purse back near the sidewalk, she opened it with shaking fingers.
Pulling out her gun, she leveled it at them and yelled, “Hold it, or I'll shoot!”
All three of them stopped fighting and stared at the gun in her hand, incredulous surprise written on their faces. Then the two men turned and ran down the alley.
Lacey hesitated, then lowered her gun, letting them go.
Paul started after them, his face livid with anger. Then, apparently thinking better of pursuing them, he stopped and came back to Lacey who was putting her gun back into her purse. “Are you okay?” he asked, breathing hard.
“I've felt better,” Lacey admitted, rubbing her mouth to rid herself of the taste of the man's dirty hand. She put up a hand to smooth back her hair, and winced at the bruise along her temple. “How about you? Did he hurt you?” She touched his bruised cheek with a cautious finger.
“Nah.” His mouth twisted and he gave a rueful laugh as he looked at his hands. “I've had skinned knuckles before. No problem. Let's get out of here. I don't feel too welcome.”
She nodded. “You drive. I'm feeling a bit shaky.”
“Okay.” Paul got behind the wheel and they started back the way they'd come.
Lacey reached into the cooler in the back seat and took out two sodas. She handed one to Paul, then popped the other open and took a swig. “Do you have any idea what that was all about?”
Paul tipped back the soda and handed her the empty can. He sped up and swung onto the freeway. “Hard to say. He said he wanted the money he was owed.”
“Well, at least they weren't the ones who murdered John.”
“I guess not, because they weren't surprised to see him alive.” After a moment he asked, “What did you mean when you said that we got what we came for?”
“The pay envelope, Paul.”
“That's worthless. I can't cash my brother's paycheck.”
She put out a hand for it. “Not the money, Paul, the information. It should have his full name and address on it.”
“Oh.” Keeping one hand on the steering wheel, he dug in his pocket, drew the envelope out and handed it to her. He glanced at her as she opened it. “Well?”
She sent him a triumphant smile. “I was right. The stub has lots of information. The company and John's name, address, year to date pay, amount of taxes withheld, and so on.”
“Now we know where he lived.”
“Exactly.” She handed the pay envelope back to him, then took a Twin Cities street map from her glove box and located the address. “It's not too far from here. Let's check it out.” She gave him directions as he drove.
They left the industrial area and headed back to the residential areas. Following her instructions, he drove to a large, red brick apartment building and parked at the curb.
The spring sun felt warm on her face as they stepped out. Green grass in need of mowing covered the boulevard, and a row of yellow daffodils was budding against the foundation of the building. They went inside the fairly new building, and looked for John's name on the row of mailboxes in the hall. “Here it is, number two fourteen.”
“What now?” Paul asked. “This isn't going to help. I don't have a key.”
“If necessary, I have my lock-picking tools,” she said, patting her purse with a grin. “But, we have you. Just pretend you're John. If there's a manager on duty, tell him you lost your key. He should give you another one.”
She walked on down the carpeted hall, wrinkling her nose at the stuffy atmosphere. She found a door marked, 'manager.' Putting a hand on his arm, she looked encouragingly at him. “Go ahead, Paul.”
Paul's stomach knotted. After the way he'd been treated at the factory, what would the manager have to say? What kind of trouble had John been in to cause someone to want to murder him? “This feels weird.”
“You want to prove he's the dead guy, don't you?” she whispered. “Come on, knock.”
Paul shrugged and obeyed. A gruff voice called, “Come in,” and they walked inside.
The room wasn't an office, but the living room of an apartment. It was sparsely furnished in dull, depressing tones. A worn, dark brown sofa dominated the room, and the beige carpet badly needed vacuuming. A fat, elderly man sat at a battered wooden desk, with an open ledger in front of him. “Hello,” Paul said tentatively.
The man peered at them from behind thick lenses. “Oh, it's you, John. Been fighting again, eh? Did you bring the rent?”
“Oh, that,” Paul mumbled with a sinking feeling. Now what? “No, I lost my key. Can I get another one?”
The manager frowned. “Not 'til I get the rent. You're too far behind.”
Lacey poked an elbow into Paul's side. “Give him your paycheck, darling. You can just sign it over to him,” she said with a smile.
“Oh...well,” he hesitated. He glanced at the manager. “Would that be okay?”
“Sure.” His face lit up and he held out the ballpoint pen he'd been using. “I got a pen right here.”
Paul reached into his pocket and pulled out the check and tore off the stub. Stepping to the desk, he turned the check over and endorsed it with John's name, then handed it over.
“Harumph,” the man said, looking at it. “You're still short twenty bucks. See that you pay on time after this.” He reached in a drawer and handed Paul a key.
“Yes, sir.”
They walked out. He'd barely closed the door before Lacey let out a giggle. “That was great. 'Yes, sir.'“ she imitated.
Paul frowned at her as they walked up the dusty stairs. “It's not one bit funny,” he said. “I don't think it was even legal. The damn check will probably bounce on him.”
“No, it won't. The factory looked legitimate enough. The bank probably won't even look at your signature. Besides, Paul, think of it this way. John owed the money for rent, and you paid it with John's money.” Her voice softened. “You settled a debt for him when he can't.”
He nodded. “I suppose.”
The stale odors of food cooking drifted from an apartment as they walked down the hall and found John's apartment. Lacey took her gloves out of her purse and slipped them on.
Paul unlocked it. Inside, the rooms were sparsely furnished, but reasonably neat. Dark blue draperies covered the large picture window, making the room seem dreary. Paul pulled the cord to open them, letting the bright spring sunshine in. Then he slid up a side window to let in some fresh air.
A light film of dust covered the surface of the coffee table in front of the blue flowered sofa. Newspapers lay on the end table and a bookcase full of paperbacks stood against one wall beside a large, roll-top desk.
“Let's clean up that blood,” Lacey said. Leading the way to the small bathroom, she found a clean wash cloth and some antiseptic.
“Ladies first.” He washed his hands, then took the washcloth from her and gently cleaned the bruise on her temple. “You're lucky it wasn't worse. Does it hurt?”
She shook her head.
“You'll probably have a headache later.” He allowed her to bathe his bruised face and apply antiseptic to his skinned knuckles, then they went back to the living room.
Paul wandered around. It felt strange snooping through his dead brother's things. What would it have been like if they'd known each other, and he could have visited John here? Would they have been friends? Would John have liked him?
Lacey rolled up the top of the desk and began flipping through the contents.
A strange feeling of de ja vu settled over Paul. “Lacey,” he said suddenly.
“Yeah?” she mumbled, opening some bills.
“This apartment is almost like mine.”
“Really?” She glanced around, her eyes narrowing. It was. Except that Paul's apartment was decorated in shades of brown instead of blue. But they both had similar furniture and roll-top desks.
He scanned the titles of the books in the bookcase. “We even have some of the same mystery novels. And some other books written by the same authors. That's weird.”
“Not really, Paul. I've heard that identical twins often have the same tastes.”
“But we were raised separately.”
She nodded. “Even then.” She opened a bill and said, “Look at this. Lots of Visa charges made at the racetrack. John apparently liked to bet on the horses. And at various casinos. Especially the one in Wisconsin, only thirty miles from where his body was found!”
“Is that significant? Lots of Twin-City people drive out there to gamble.”
“True. But I don't like coincidences, Paul. I've found they're usually important.”
“How?”
She shrugged and looked away. “I don't know, yet. But these aren't small amounts, Paul.”
Frowning, he said, “John's paycheck showed he was working steadily and making good money. He could afford a little gambling for fun.”
“These amounts look like more than fun, Paul.” She held out the Visa bill. “Here, see for yourself.”