Last Breath by Mariah Stewart Page B

maybe I’d overlooked a crate or two. Which is why I started marking the crates with an X on the corner after you and I went through the contents and checked off every item.”
    â€œMaybe we should go through it all again. Maybe something was misplaced, returned to the wrong crate and you only think we missed it.”
    â€œWe’ve spent an entire day going through every single piece that’s here,” Daria said wearily. “I’m convinced.”
    â€œThen convince me,” Louise told her. “We’ll take one more day.”
    The two women worked until nine that night, then locked the room when they went for dinner. The dining hall had long since closed, so they cleaned themselves up as best they could and drove into Howeville for pizza, which did nothing to revive either of them. They agreed to leave guards posted overnight, and to resume working at eight the next morning.
    By three the following afternoon, Louise had to accept what Daria had been telling her for the past twenty-four hours. None of the missing items had been found.
    â€œI’ll call the police.” Louise patted her pockets for her cell phone.
    â€œNo, not for something like this.” Daria shook her head and starting searching her purse for her wallet. “You’re going to need the FBI, not the local police. I met someone who works for them. I have his card in here somewhere, and if it’s all right with you, I’d like to call him…”

FOUR
    C onnor dove into the pool and made barely a ripple. He emerged at the opposite end, then began a methodical series of laps. He’d been here at his home in Maryland, surrounded by woods and little else, for the past week. He hadn’t spoken to anyone since last Thursday—which was, for the most part, fine with him—but this morning he’d gone into the nearest town and spent nearly an hour in the supermarket. The variety of foods never failed to amaze him. He’d spent nearly thirty minutes in the produce section alone, marveling at all the offerings from all over the world. His last few trips to the Middle East had taken him to places where you had to buy your food every day, since there was no refrigeration where he stayed, and where the selection was limited to what the merchants had for sale that day.
    He wandered through the store and was pleased to discover an entire aisle dedicated to organic food where he stocked up on cereals and other goods. At the meat counter, he picked up a few steaks, some chicken, ground beef, pork chops.
What a luxury to have such choices,
he was thinking as he went through the checkout line.
Not to mention a refrigerator with a freezer.
    He’d stopped on the way home at the local fish market and treated himself to some blue claws, then stopped again at a local produce stand for tomatoes, corn, zucchini, and hot peppers. When he got home, he put everything away, made himself some salsa, and put it in the refrigerator to chill. Then he stripped down, grabbed a towel from the laundry room, and headed out to the pool.
    Unaccustomed to being in one place for any length of time, he’d grown restless. He ran every morning—eight to ten miles, regardless of the heat and humidity—and swam for at least thirty minutes after his run, and again later in the afternoon. Bored, he’d called his boss the previous morning and asked when he’d be getting a new assignment.
    â€œI don’t have anything that’s quite right for you,” John Mancini had told him. “But it wouldn’t hurt for you to have a little down time.”
    â€œI’ve had over a week of down time. I’m ready to go back to work. I’m bored.”
    â€œSo find a hobby. Take up knitting.”
    Connor wasn’t looking for a hobby. He’d already caught up on his reading and taken care of things around the house that needed to be done. He’d had all the time off he felt he could take. Too