Ken smiled. “I’m looking forward to meeting this Irene. She sounds interesting.”
“You’ll like her.”
“Almost forgot.” Ken reached inside his hand-tailored jacket. “Here’s that key you asked me to get for you.”
“I’m suitably impressed.” Luke reached across the table to pick up the key. “I didn’t give you much notice.”
Ken managed to appear highly offended. “It’s an apartment complex. One bored guy on duty in the manager’s office. How hard do you think it was to create a little distraction that made it possible to get into the office and make a duplicate of the master?”
“Not hard, I take it.”
Ken did not dignify that with an answer. Instead he picked up a plastic sack he had put on the seat when he first sat down.
“Here’s your outfit,” he said.
“Appreciate it.” Luke took the sack. “You got a look at the apartment complex when you went there to get the key. Any words of advice?”
“Yeah. Don’t get caught.”
Thirty-eight
It was midafternoon and the sun was out, but it seemed to Irene that the windows of the house of her nightmares at the end of Pine Lane were just as dark as they had been at midnight seventeen years before.
She halted the compact in the drive and sat quietly for a moment, summoning her courage and fortitude for the task that lay ahead. Walking back into her old home was going to be hard, maybe the hardest thing she had done since she attended the funerals of her parents.
Like every other building in Dunsley, the house looked smaller and more weathered than she remembered, but otherwise disturbingly familiar. Aunt Helen had sold the place as quickly as possible after the tragedy. She had not made much of a profit, because no one in Dunsley wanted to buy a house in which violent death had occurred. The realtor had eventually found an unsuspecting client from San Francisco who acquired it with the goal of turning it into a summer rental.
When she had lived here, the house had been a warm, golden tan with brown trim, Irene reflected. Somewhere along the line it had been repainted a light gray. The trim around the windows and the front door was black.
It will look different inside, too, she promised herself. Probably been through several owners. Bound to be new carpet and new furniture. It won’t be the same. It can’t be the same. I don’t think I can take it if it looks the same as it did that night.
Her breathing was all wrong, quick and shallow. It occurred to her that it might have been a very good idea to wait before she came here, until her nerves had settled down after the road rage incident.
But she dared not put this off any longer. She had to know why Pamela had gone to the trouble of renting and rekeying the house.
She opened the car door and got out before she could talk herself into leaving and coming back some other time. One thing was certain, she thought, taking the key out of the pocket of her trench coat, she was definitely not going in through the kitchen door this time.
She went up the front steps, crossed the porch and inserted the shiny new key into the lock with trembling fingers.
Drawing a deep, centering breath, she opened the door.
Shadows swirled in the hall. Automatically she reached out to flip the light switch on the wall. Another chill went through her when she realized that she remembered exactly where the switch was located.
She closed the door slowly and made herself walk into the living room. The curtains on all the windows were closed. The interior of the room was drenched in gloom, but she could make out the furnishings.
Relief washed through her when she saw that someone had, indeed, redecorated. Her mother’s pictures were gone from the walls. The sofa, armchairs and wooden coffee table were generic summer rental, inexpensive and, best of all, unfamiliar.
Keep moving, she ordered herself, or you won’t get through this. She knew there was, in fact, a very sound reason for hurrying. It would not be a good idea to be caught inside the house. True, it had been her home in her youth, but she had no claim on it now. If someone noticed her car in the drive and called the police, she would have a major problem on her hands. Sam McPherson was definitely not her best friend at the moment. As far as he was concerned, she was still the prime suspect in an arson case. The last thing she needed was for the chief to send one of his men out here to investigate a possible intruder in the house on Pine Lane.
She walked slowly through the shadowed living room into the dining area.
How do you conduct a search when you have no idea what you’re looking for? she wondered. Think about this. If Pamela did intend for you to find the key and if she wanted you to use it, she probably would have made certain that you would recognize whatever it was she wanted you to discover here.
The wooden chairs and table in the dining room were all new, too. The curtains were closed. That was good, she thought. The last thing she wanted to do was look at the view. It would remind her of all the meals she had eaten in this room, her father seated at one end of the table, her mother opposite, and her in the middle looking straight out at the lake and the old dock.
She pushed aside the memories with the skill and determination born of long practice. Turning, she made herself go to the entrance of the big, old-fashioned kitchen.
At the threshold she was forced to come to a halt. Nausea twisted her stomach. Her breath seemed to be locked inside her lungs. She could not go any farther.
It was all she could do just to make herself look into the room where she had found the bodies. She gave the counters a swift, sweeping glance, saw nothing out of the ordinary and then spun around before she got physically ill.
If the object of her search was in the kitchen, it would have to remain there. She could not bring herself to walk into that space. Surely Pamela would have realized that.
She fled back through the dining room and living room and stopped in the front hall. She knew her labored breathing was caused by incipient panic, not exertion.
Take it easy. You’ve got to do this logically, or you’ll never find whatever it is you’re looking for.
She went down the hall to her old bedroom. Dread and certainty gripped her every step of the way.
Like the other rooms, her bedroom, too, had been redone. The colorful posters had been taken down, and the sunny yellow walls that her mother had helped her paint were now a boring shade of beige.
There was a white cardboard box on the bed. On top of the box was a book. She recognized the small volume immediately. It was a paperback romance novel, one that had been published seventeen years earlier.
Anticipation shuddered through her. She crossed the floor, removed the book and lifted the cover of the white box. Inside was a white dress sealed in clear plastic. At first she thought it was a wedding gown. Then she realized it was too small. A christening gown, perhaps, she decided. There was another object in the box, a video.
She replaced the lid of the box and reached for the paperback novel. The badly faded cover illustration depicted a beautiful blond heroine in the arms of a dashing hero. Both were garbed in romantic nineteenth-century fashions. The edges of the pages were yellowed.
She opened the book to the title page and read the inscription written there.
Happy 16th Birthday, Pamela.
You look like the heroine on the cover. I’m sure that one day you’ll find your hero.
Love,
Irene
She tested the weight of the small volume in her hand. Few people would have noticed that the book was a little too heavy for a paperback novel, she thought.
Thirty-nine
It’s too large to be a christening dress.” Tess examined the plastic-wrapped gown that Irene had placed on her coffee table. “Maybe it’s an old costume that she wore for Halloween or a school play.”
Irene turned away from the window and the view of Tess’s garden. It had been instinct as much as anything that had led her to bring the dress and the video to her former English teacher. Sh
e did not know what to expect from the video, but she had been very certain that she did not want to view it alone. She also knew that she could not wait until Luke returned from his meeting with Ken Tanaka. Tess Carpenter was the only other person in town with whom she felt comfortable enough to share whatever secrets might be revealed.
Student-teacher bonds ran deep. But it wasn’t just their old classroom connection that had compelled her to come here. She knew that, in the old days, her mother had considered Tess a friend who could be trusted.
She walked back to stand in front of the coffee table.
“I don’t know,” she said slowly. “Hard to imagine that Pamela was sentimental about a childhood costume.”
Tess frowned in a considering manner. “She didn’t show it to you when the two of you were friends that summer?”
“No.” Irene studied the dress. “I never saw it.”
“But you do recognize the book?”
“Yes. I gave it to her for her birthday.” She sank down onto the couch beside Tess. “Thanks for letting me bring these things here.”
“No problem.” Tess poured coffee for both of them. “I must admit, you’ve made me very curious. Where do we start?”
“With the novel.” Irene looked at the volume, aware of a sad, wistful feeling. “She laughed when she opened her present and saw it. She said that the romance thing wasn’t for her. Later she told me that she had found a good use for the book.”
“What was that?”
Irene put the novel down on the table, flipped past the title page with its inscription, and turned to Chapter Two.
The rest of the pages following that chapter had been neatly glued together to form a solid block of paper. The center section had been hollowed out to create a small opening that was concealed when the book was closed. Inside was a small key chain–sized object.
“A convenient container in which to carry a supply of drugs, cigarettes or spare condoms,” Irene said. “Pamela said every girl should have one.”
Tess raised her brows. “You learned a lot from her.”
Irene wrinkled her nose. “I was such a complete dork. We had zilch in common. I never did understand why she wanted to hang around me that summer.”
Tess looked at the object she had removed from the book. “What’s up with the key chain?”
“It’s not a key chain.” Irene pulled her laptop closer. “It’s a computer data storage device.”
“Any idea what’s on it?”
“No,” Irene said. “But I’ve got a hunch it’s going to be very unpleasant.”
Forty
Luke cruised slowly past Hoyt Egan’s apartment building, turned the corner and drove two more blocks. He found a space for the SUV on a street where three or four other similar vehicles were parked. Satisfied that his ride didn’t stand out in the crowd, he switched off the engine and tried Egan’s cell phone and landline one more time. Still no answer.
He reached into the plastic sack and pulled out the cap and windbreaker that Tanaka had supplied. Both articles of clothing bore the logo of a familiar delivery company. There was an outside possibility that Egan was home and not answering his phone for one reason or another. But the odds were good that a busy senator’s aide would not ignore his phones.
Luke picked up the empty box he had brought along and got out of the SUV.
The decision to try to take a look at Egan’s apartment had formulated at the back of his mind during the drive from Dunsley. Now that there was an indication that Egan was engaged in blackmail, it seemed like an especially good idea. He had no hard evidence on Egan, he reminded himself, as he walked back toward the apartment complex, just that old familiar feeling deep in his gut.
Adrenaline spiked.
There was no one around when he reached the locked gate at the entrance of the complex, but he dialed Egan’s number on the entry phone system just in case. When he got no answer, he gave it a few seconds and then palmed the master key and opened the gate, making it look as though he had been buzzed in by a resident.
He went into the lobby, box under one arm, and climbed the stairs to the floor where Egan’s apartment was located.
He stepped out into an empty hallway, went down the corridor and knocked gently on Egan’s door.
When no one responded, he automatically tried the door before inserting the duplicate master key.
The knob twisted easily in his hand.
Another jolt of adrenaline shot through him. Guys like Egan, guys with heavy responsibilities and lots of important senatorial secrets, probably didn’t forget to lock their doors when they left their apartments.
He opened the door. The stench that wafted out of the room brought back memories and nightmares.
He didn’t need the sight of Egan’s body lying facedown on the blood-soaked carpet to know that death had arrived here first.
Forty-one
The message on the computer screen chilled Irene to the bone. She could almost hear Pamela’s voice in the words that she and Tess were reading.
If you found these files, Irene, then it looks like Plan A failed. This is Plan B. By the way, if you’re not Irene, screw you. The rest of these files are seriously encrypted and will automatically be fatally scrambled if the wrong code is used.
Irene, if this is you, you know the magic words. Here’s the big clue: You are the only person on the planet other than me who knows them. Eternal secrecy, remember?
“Think she’s telling the truth about the files being destroyed if I use the wrong words?” Irene asked.
Tess studied the screen with a worried expression. “Depends on what kind of encryption program she used, I suppose. But Phil says that, even with a good system, it would be next to impossible to completely delete all traces of the files.”
“Probably take a real expert to recover them, though. The average person certainly wouldn’t be able to salvage anything.” Irene poised her fingers over the keyboard. “Here goes.”
She typed in orange vanilla.
“That’s it?” Tess asked. “That’s the supersecret code?”
“Hey, we were teenagers, remember? Seemed like a great secret code at the time.”
The screen went blank. Irene froze, appalled.
“Wrong code?” Tess asked nervously.
“I can’t think of anything else. If that wasn’t it, I’ve just destroyed all the data Pamela stored on the computer.”
A list of files appeared. There were four of them.
Irene started to breathe again. “Might as well start with the one labeled Number One.”
She opened the file.
“A film clip,” Tess said. She leaned forward to get a better look.
Pamela appeared on the screen. She was sitting on the sofa in the Webb summer house.
“Oh, jeez.” Another eerie chill whispered through Irene. “This is going to be very, very weird.”
Tess watched the screen, her unease clear in her strained features. “You can say that again. Look at the date on the film clip. She made this the day before she died.”
“The day the Pine Lane house was rekeyed,” Irene said.
Pamela was dressed in a pair of dark trousers and a snug pullover that revealed a lot of cleavage. She had a glass of wine in one hand. Her smile was cool and sophisticated, but her eyes were shadowed.
“Hi, Irene. Long time no see. Sadly, if you’re looking at this it means I lost my nerve and decided I couldn’t face you, after all. You obviously got a second e-mail note from me telling you where to find the spare key to your folks’ house.”
“I never got that e-mail, because she never sent it,” Irene said. “She didn’t lose her nerve, she was murdered.”
“I’m probably sitting on a nice, sunny island somewhere in the Caribbean right now, downing those drinks they serve with those tacky little umbrellas. Sorry about that. I’d hoped I’d have the guts to tell you the truth in person. But then, I’ve never been real big on doing the right thing or te
lling the truth. I’m more the self-indulgent type, as we all know.”
On the screen, Pamela paused to take a sip of wine.
“She’s drinking wine, not martinis,” Irene said.
Pamela put down the wineglass and continued speaking into the camera.
“I’ve thought about you a lot over the years, Irene. You probably won’t believe it, but you were the closest thing I ever had to a real friend. I’ll try not to get too sappy about it, though. This is true confession time. I’ll come straight to the point.
“I know you never really believed that your dad killed your mother and took his own life. Guess what? You were right. You want to know who was responsible? Me.”
Irene stared at the screen. “What is she talking about? That’s impossible. I was with her that night. There’s no way she could have shot my parents.”
“Hush.” Tess touched her arm. “Listen.”
“No, I didn’t pull the trigger, but I might as well have. Because what happened that night was my fault.”
Pamela tucked one long leg under herself and reached for more wine.
“But first you’ll have to watch the next film clip. Better warn you, it is definitely not PG.”
The scene of Pamela on the sofa winked out. Another living room setting appeared.
“The interior designer who did that place must have had a previous career as a wedding cake decorator,” Tess observed.
“Or else he specialized in bedrooms for little girls,” Irene said, studying the scene.
The room was a pink-and-white fantasyland. Pink velvet draperies, white carpet and furniture upholstered in pink satin created a fairy-tale feeling. But there was something off about it, Irene decided. This was going to be one of the old, dark, truly frightening fairy tales, she thought, not a modern, cleaned-up, politically correct version.
“No dolls,” she said.
Tess looked at her. “Dolls?”
“It looks like a girl’s bedroom except there are no dolls or tea sets, stuffed animals or children’s books. None of the trappings that you’d expect to see in a real child’s bedroom.”