“Have brunch before you take your nap, dear,” Grace said, coming downstairs. “You don’t want to nap on an empty stomach. I’ll whip together some homemade waffles topped with my famous berry compote, along with my equally famous buttermilk fried chicken.”

“Chicken and waffles, that sounds delicious,” Monica said. “Troy, want to have brunch with us?”

Since Grace had re-appeared, the stress lines had faded from Troy’s face. But he shook his head at her invitation to dine with them.

“I have an errand to run,” he said. “I’ll be out for a while. I’ll pick up the kids from school on my way home.”

35

Nick Sullivan ran his private investigations firm out of an office suite in the Toco Hills Shopping Center, in North Druid Hills. Troy was familiar with the area. Emory University, where he had completed his residency, was fewer than fifteen minutes away. He found the retail center with little trouble.

During the drive, he spun through different scenarios of exactly where in Grace’s bedroom he had left behind his lock-pick set. He believed she hadn’t yet found the tools. She was too cheerful when he’d left the house. Probably he had forgotten them in the closet, in an area on the floor that would have been tougher for her to spot.

Retrieving the tools seemed an impossibly difficult objective, though; unless she left the door unlocked, he would have to pick the lock again. He didn’t know when he would get the opportunity, or if it was worth pursuing. If Grace found the set, would she actually understand its purpose and suspect him of snooping around?

On the Move Investigations was sandwiched between a tanning salon and a dentist’s office. A Mexican restaurant was nearby, spicing the cool November air with the aroma of grilled meat, onions, and peppers. It was almost noon, and Troy realized he hadn’t eaten anything all day. He had been so intent on his plans that the thought of food was a distraction.

He stepped inside the office suite.

“Hello there!” a woman said. She sat behind a glass desk in a small reception area. She was blonde, probably in her mid-forties, with a deep-baked bronze complexion undoubtedly maintained with regular visits to the tanning salon next door. She wore a tight, candy-red scoop neck sweater that displayed cleavage rivaling Pamela Anderson’s. Troy wasn’t a boob man, but the sheer girth of her breasts was mesmerizing.

Those have to be implants, he thought. He had to force himself to look away and concentrate on her blue-eyed gaze. Her eyes were such a dazzling shade of aquamarine he surmised she was wearing colored contact lenses, too.

“I’m Mandy.” She adjusted the headset she was wearing. “You must be Doctor Stephens? I’ll tell Nick that you’re here.”

“All right.”