Free Dream House by Rochelle Krich Page B

at the end of the driveway, near the garage. So if she was kidnapped, the kidnapper could have taken her out the back door and no one would have seen.”
    Bolt's choice of words interested me. “You're not sure she was kidnapped?”
    “I guess she was. They were waiting for a ransom demand—Hank has money—but it never came.”
    I sensed he was holding back. Reporter's intuition. That and his earlier disapproval; his slight, uneasy hesitation; the fact that he wasn't making eye contact. I thought about the mocking tone of the woman I'd heard talking to Reston, about Reston's anger directed at her and possibly the architect. What was his name? Dorn. Jeremy Dorn.
    “I heard people talking about this case just the other night,” I lied. “I didn't realize they were talking about Margaret Linney. They seemed to think the husband was a suspect in the disappearance.”
    Tim shrugged. “You'd have to ask the police.”
    Not exactly a denial. “What about Jeremy Dorn? Was there something going on between him and Margaret Reston?”
    He stiffened. “I've known Margaret all my life. She was a beautiful person, inside and out. People like to say nasty things, but that doesn't make them true.” His face was flushed with anger.
    So there
had
been talk. “Did she know Jeremy Dorn?”
    “They both did. Hank and Margaret were building their dream house. Dorn was the architect.”
    “The other day Professor Linney asked you if Margaret still hated him. What was that all about?”
    “I really can't say.” Bolt glanced toward the stairs visible through the arched doorway and stood. “I'd better check on Peggy.”
    Couldn't
say, or wouldn't? I stood, too. “I appreciate your talking to me, Tim. One more question? Was Professor Linney the head of the HARP board when he served on it?”
    Tim looked at me with curiosity. “I don't think so. What's the difference? Either way, he's dead,” he said quietly. “That sad old man is dead.”

C HAPTER T WELVE
    Z ACK WAS ROCKING ON MY PORCH GLIDER, HIS HANDS IN the pockets of his black leather jacket, when I pulled into my driveway.
    He met me at the trunk of my car.
    “Another five minutes, and I would've been the first cryonically preserved rabbi. Who said L.A. doesn't get cold?” He smiled. “
Shavua tov,
Molly.” Have a good week.
    “
Shavua tov.
Why didn't you call first?”
    “I did. You weren't home, and your cell phone wasn't on. Your mom said you left right after havdalah, so I figured I'd pick you up at seven.”
    He lifted out my roll-aboard overnighter and wheeled it along the pavement and up the steps to the porch.
    I checked my watch. It was five after. “Did we have a date?” I took out a bag with the quart of Baskin-Robbins Pralines 'n Cream I'd bought after leaving Tim Bolt's.
    Zack turned and gave me a quizzical look. “We always go out Saturday night. Why would tonight be different?”
    I shut the trunk and joined him on the porch. “You didn't mention it on Friday. And you didn't walk over last night, or this afternoon. So I wasn't sure.”
    “My cousins are visiting from New York. Remember?”
    “Not really.” Now that he said it, I
did
remember something about relatives coming. All that worry . . .
    The apartment smelled musty. I opened a window in the breakfast nook, where I left Zack while I wheeled my luggage to my bedroom and took off my jacket. When I returned he was in my tiny kitchen, rearranging frozen vegetables in my freezer to find a spot for the ice cream.
    “I need five minutes,” I said. “Where are we going?”
    “There's an eight-thirty showing of the new Tom Hanks film at The Grove. How does that sound?” He removed his jacket and slipped it around a dinette chair.
    “Fine.”
    I'm a big fan of Tom's, though not of war movies, which this was. But it was “kosher”—no steamy sex, no nudity, little or no profanity. Aside from animated films, action flicks, selected thrillers, and romantic comedies (my favorite), there's not