“But she never made it back here,” Abe said. “Whoever searched her apartment didn’t know about this locker. That means she didn’t trust him.”
“Or her,” Daphne said. “This was Ramona’s secret.”
“Like Jack always says, a secret is only a secret as long as only one person knows it. Stands to reason that a professional con would probably have a few trust issues.”
“I’m beginning to think that a lot of people have trust issues.”
Abe started to rummage through the contents of the suitcase. “I trust you.”
He said it so matter-of-factly, so casually, so calmly, that for a second or two she didn’t think she had heard him correctly. Such a statement should have been a very big deal, she thought. In fact, it was a very big deal, but he had said it as though it were a simple fact of life as far as he was concerned.
“Thank you,” she said, oddly rattled and uncertain how to proceed. “I am . . . honored. Not sure that’s the right word.”
He flashed her a quick grin. “Neither am I, but I guess it will have to do for now.”
“No,” she said, suddenly very sure. “No, it doesn’t have to do for now. I trust you, Abe.”
Abe smiled, satisfied, and went back to the suitcase.
It was neatly packed with the bare essentials a woman on the move might need: a change of underwear; a couple of sets of dark, nondescript clothes; a few travel-sized cosmetics; a pair of studious, black-framed glasses; a dark-haired wig; a bucket hat designed to shield the face—and a large, thick envelope.
“I think,” Abe said, “that we should get out of here before we open that envelope. There is always the possibility that someone else might find this place. Be better if we weren’t inside if that happens.”
“Good plan.”
Abe stowed the suitcase in the trunk of the car, tossed the envelope to Daphne, and then closed the locker.
They drove sedately back through the front gate and turned onto the road that would take them to the interstate.
Daphne opened the envelope very carefully. Her fingers shivered a little.
“You do realize this could be construed as tampering with evidence,” she said.
“Someone used a crazy person to try to torch all of us in our beds last night,” Abe said. “The police on Cooper Island do not inspire confidence. I think we’ve got a good reason to try to figure out what the hell is going on.”
“This is true.”
Very carefully she removed the contents of the envelope. There was another, smaller envelope inside and another set of IDs featuring Ramona’s picture. In the driver’s license photo her hair was cut short. She wore the black-framed glasses and the wig that had been packed in the suitcase.
Daphne set the ID aside and opened the second envelope. Several photographs fell out. The pictures looked as if they had been taken with a long-range camera lens. There were also three printouts of newspaper articles dated just over twenty years earlier and photocopies of several pages from a small notebook. The writing on the lined pages was cramped and sloppy.
Last but by no means least, there was a photocopy of a California driver’s license issued to Norman Purvis.
Daphne stared at the items, hardly daring to believe what she was seeing. Then she glanced at the headlines on the newspaper articles.
“What have we got?” Abe asked.
“You’d better find a place to get off the interstate,” Daphne said. “You need to see these.”
A short time later Abe parked in a strip mall lot, shut down the engine, and picked up the pictures and photocopies.
“Well, hell,” he said softly.
Daphne handed him the photocopy of Purvis’s driver’s license.
“I think we’re looking at copies of the contents of that damned briefcase,” she said. “Ramona knew she was involved in something dangerous. She probably kept a copy of everything she found, thinking it would be insurance.”
“Same mistake Tom Lomax and Edith Chase made.” Abe took out his phone.
“Jack, it looks like we found copies of the contents of that briefcase that got sealed up in a certain wall eighteen years ago. They were in a getaway suitcase that Ramona stashed in the storage locker. You need to see this stuff. I’m going to scan in everything we found and email it to you.”
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
Madeline stared at the image on the private investigator’s license that had just come up on Jack’s computer screen. A moment ago she had been standing at the kitchen table, but when Norman Purvis’s picture appeared, she was once again struck with a disturbing sense of vertigo. She could feel his overwhelming bulk crushing her into the sacks of garden loam. His hand across her mouth, threatening to suffocate her. His voice grating in her ear. Be quiet, you stupid little bitch, or I’ll kill you. I swear I will. She wanted to scream her rage to the uncaring universe, but she couldn’t breathe.
She collapsed into the nearest chair. He’s dead. Dead and buried under the gazebo. He can’t hurt you. But the mantra was no longer a source of comfort because his ghost was staring up at her from the license, haunting her. From beyond the grave the bastard had managed to turn her world upside down again.
Jack was still on the phone, but he was watching her closely. She tried to concentrate on listening to his side of the conversation, but she could not look away from the monster in the picture.
“Hang on,” Jack said into the phone. He reached out and gripped Madeline’s hand.
His touch broke the nightmarish trance. She looked up from the computer screen and into Jack’s eyes.
“He’s dead,” Jack said.
She nodded, unable to speak. Jack took his hand off hers and did something fast on the keyboard. The license disappeared. A newspaper clipping about the murders of Carl Seavers and Sharon Richards took its place. She read it, oddly numb now.
. . . A stockbroker and a female companion were found dead from gunshot wounds in a suburban neighborhood . . . Police speculate that drugs may have been involved . . .
“No,” Jack said. He was once again focusing on the scanned images open on his computer. “You and Daphne are not coming back here to the island. You’re going to Arizona. Don’t worry, Madeline and I are going with you. We’ll leave the island on the late ferry. Meet you at Sea-Tac. Buy four tickets to Phoenix.”
Madeline looked up from the screen. It was the first time Jack had said anything about leaving the island.
“. . . As soon as I end this call I’ll get in touch with my contact in the FBI and make sure he sees this material,” he continued. “What do you mean, how will I explain the stuff coming into my possession? I’ll tell Joe we came across the items in the course of what we assumed was an unrelated investigation that we are conducting for a client. No, he won’t push it. I’ll cite client confidentiality and the fact that he owes me a couple of favors. Not the first time this has happened. Joe and I have an understanding . . .”
The first of the scanned photographs came up on the screen. Madeline stared at it, stunned.
Jack ended the connection in his customary fashion—he tapped a button and put the phone aside. He continued to focus intently on the screen. “So this is what was in the damn briefcase. Incredible. No wonder your grandmother and Tom were afraid to go to the police.”
The photos had all been shot just after dark on what appeared to be a summer evening in a quiet residential neighborhood. There was still a little light in the sky. In addition, the photographer had been aided by a fair amount of ambient light from streetlamps and nearby houses.
“If Egan Webster knew that Grandma and Tom had seen these pictures, I don’t doubt for a second that he would have arranged for them to suffer fatal accidents,” Madeline said. “And he probably would have gotten rid of Daphne and me and Daphne’s mom, as well.”
“Your grandmother made
an executive decision,” Jack said. “She looked at the bottom line and made the hard call.”
Madeline continued clicking slowly through the images. The camera had been a very good one. In spite of the low lighting, there was no difficulty making out a male figure dressed for a twilight jog. In the first few images it was impossible to make out his features because the hood of a black windbreaker had been pulled up to conceal much of his face. Nevertheless, she could tell that the man was tall, with a slender, athletic build.
The next series of photos showed the subject standing on the front steps of a bungalow-style house. The door of the house was open. Another man was silhouetted against the interior lights. In two of the photos a woman could be seen in the background.
“The victims,” Jack said. “Carl Seavers and the woman who was with him that night—Sharon Richards. She was probably collateral damage. Wrong place, wrong time.”
More pictures followed, several of which had obviously been taken at much closer range through a living room window. The venetian blinds were only partially closed. The camera had been aimed through the cracks.
In the living room shots, the face of the visitor was visible. He had pushed back the hood of his jacket. His silver-blond hair and distinctive, sharp-boned profile was unmistakable—Egan Webster as he had looked two decades earlier.
In the next photo Egan was shown with a gun in his hand, bending over two bodies. Even though she had steeled herself for what she knew was coming, Madeline was shocked in spite of herself.
“My God,” she whispered. “Egan Webster shot them in cold blood.”
“Norman Purvis must have been stunned when he realized what he had photographed,” Jack said. “He was probably scared as hell. But he also must have realized that what he had was worth a fortune in blackmail money.”
“The gun looks strange.”
“Silencer,” Jack said.
“Webster planned the killings.”
“You don’t take a silencer out jogging if your only reason for having a gun is for self-protection.”
Madeline clicked to another photo. It had been shot from a more discreet distance, but it was a fairly clear image of Webster exiting through the rear door of the bungalow. In the scene he was illuminated by a bright porch light. It was possible to make out an old-fashioned laptop in his gloved hand.
Madeline shuddered and turned away from the screen.
“We were right,” she said. “Egan Webster murdered Carl Seavers and stole the computer that must have contained the stock-picking program. But how could Porter-Purvis have known that Webster planned to murder Carl Seavers that night?”
“I doubt if he had any clue about what was going to happen that night. I think we can assume that Porter-Purvis was hired to follow Webster for some other reason. Purvis had probably been tailing Webster for days, stalling as much as possible so that he could pad the bill. He just got lucky with the photos of the killings.”
“Lucky.”
Jack moved one hand impatiently. “You know what I mean.”
“Yes, I know what you mean. Okay, we know that Porter-Purvis was a private investigator. Who would have hired him to follow Egan Webster?”
“No way to know for sure yet, but offhand I can think of one very common reason why PIs get hired to follow married men around.”
“Damn. Even at the age of twelve Daphne and I were aware of the rumors about Egan Webster’s womanizing. Everyone on the island knew he had a reputation. I’ll bet Louisa Webster hired a PI to get some proof.”
“The PI got something that was a lot more valuable,” Jack said. “He must have come here to the island that night to make a big trade—maybe one last payoff. Webster was very rich by that time. The PI used a different name when he checked into the Aurora Point Hotel. Trying to be careful.”
“Webster must have gone crazy for a while, wondering why the blackmailer just disappeared,” Madeline said. “He must have wondered why the demands stopped.”
Jack lounged deeper into his chair, brooding on something only he could see. “Maybe he tried to search for the blackmailer from time to time. But he would have had almost nothing to go on.”
“Unless he concluded that Louisa had hired someone to follow him and confronted her. Then he could have gotten the name of the PI from her.”
“That information may not have led him to the anonymous Mr. Porter,” Jack said. “And even if he did connect the two names, he still had a problem because Porter-Purvis had vanished. You know, it’s interesting to think that Louisa and Egan Webster have probably both been sweating this mystery for years, wondering if and when the blackmail material would come out into the open.”
“And now it has.”
Jack smiled a thin, humorless, utterly unnerving smile.
“Yes,” he said. “It has come back to haunt them. In fact, it’s now online in the form of a couple of email attachments and it’s about to go to the FBI. There’s no way this can be hushed up.”
Madeline looked out the kitchen window and thought about the gazebo.
“What about the part of the past that is connected to Daphne and me and Daphne’s mom?” she asked.
“The rest of the story will come out once the FBI and the San Diego police get involved. You and Daphne and Daphne’s mother will probably have to give statements, but I think that will be the end of it. Daphne’s mother acted as she did because she feared for her daughter’s life as well as her own. The sooner it comes out, the safer you and Daphne will be.”
Madeline thought about that. “You may be right. In any case, there’s no going back to the way things were.”
Jack smiled. “That’s what I like about you, Madeline. You go straight—”
“—to the bottom line.” Madeline bared her teeth. “You know, I’m really getting tired of having people tell me that’s what they admire about me.”
“It’s not the only thing I admire about you,” Jack said.
She eyed him with some suspicion. “You’re sure?”
“Positive.”
“Name a few other things.”
“I’ll be happy to go through the list point by point.” Jack got to his feet. “But not right now. There’s something else we need to do first.”
“What?”
“We’re going to have a little chat with Egan Webster.”
She shot to her feet. “Hold on, bad idea. You’re turning this problem over to the FBI, remember? Let them handle Egan Webster. He’s a cold-blooded killer. We know that for a fact. You just said I’m good with the bottom-line thing, remember? Well, that’s the bottom line here.”
“Not quite. There’s only one strong emotion that a man like Webster comprehends. Fear.”
“Fine. I get that. But soon he’ll have the FBI breathing down his neck, not to mention the local cops. Let them make him feel fear.”
“I don’t think that’s going to be enough to neutralize Webster. He’s got platoons of lawyers to throw at the forces of law and order. He may not win in the end, but his legal team can probably keep him out of jail, at least long enough for him to get to some no-name island or a country that doesn’t have an extradition treaty.”
Madeline wanted to argue, but there was no point. Jack was right.
“All right,” she said.
He raised his brows, amused. “Just like that?”
She gave him a warning look. “It’s not like I’ve got a better idea.”
“If you do happen to think of one, please let me know.”
“I’ll do that.” She paused to make sure she had his full attention. “I’m going with you when you talk to Egan.”
“No.”
“This is not open for debate.”
He watched her, not speaking. She smiled.
“Forget the gunslinger stare,” she said. “I’m in charge here, r
emember?”
Jack’s expression hardened but he did not respond. Instead he did a quick staccato on the table with his fingers. “There is one really big question left to answer here.”
“Who decided to tidy up the Webster family history?”
“Right, that question. But first things first. Let’s go talk to Egan Webster.”
CHAPTER FIFTY
“I must admit that you and Ms. Chase are among the very last people I expected to come here today,” Egan said. “Please, sit down.”
“We won’t be staying long,” Jack said.
He was pleased to see that Madeline picked up the cue. She made no move to take a chair. She had excellent intuition, Jack reflected. There were times when you made sure to sit in the presence of the enemy because it demonstrated confidence and hinted at superior firepower. But there were other occasions when common sense dictated that it was more prudent to stay on your feet—occasions when you might have to pull out a gun. He did not think that would be necessary today, but with a guy like Webster it seemed wise to take precautions.
When they had arrived at the Webster compound a short time ago, it had come as no surprise to see that the household had been plunged into shock and mourning. The shock was real enough, Jack thought. But he wasn’t so sure about the cloud of mourning. He suspected that most of it was a thin cover-up for what everyone else on the island felt—relief. As far as he could tell, no one—with the possible exception of Louisa—had been fond of Xavier Webster.
The housekeeper had announced in low tones that Egan was in seclusion with the rest of the family, but when Jack had pushed her, she had disappeared to let her employer know who was at the front door. When she had returned, she had immediately escorted the visitors into the study. Egan had received them with an air appropriate to a grieving father.
“Well, then, what was it you wanted to say to me?” Egan asked. He made a show of looking at his watch. “My wife and I have an appointment with a funeral director this afternoon.”