Promise Not to Tell

  For a while he and Virginia sat quietly, facing each other across the desk. He did not try to restart the conversation. Once upon a time he had been a cop. He understood the value of silence.

  A mid-February rain beat steadily, lightly, against the windows. He had lived in Seattle for several months now, but this was his first full winter in the city. He was starting to think of it as the Season of the Deep Gray. The skies were overcast most of the time, and when the sun did make short, fitful appearances, it was low on the horizon. The weak, slanting light was often blocked by the gleaming new office towers. The boom in high-rise construction in recent years had created dark canyons in much of downtown.

  It should have been depressing, he reflected. Instead, there was a sense of energy about the city. He had been surprised to discover that something in him responded to the vibe. He wasn’t the only one. The region was home to innumerable start-ups. The new gig economy was going full blast. Businesses of all kinds were enthusiastic about setting up shop in the city. New restaurants and coffeehouses opened every week.

  Seattle was infused with a frontier spirit. That was as true now as it had been in the gold rush and big timber eras. But these days there was a hell of a lot more money around. That, he told himself, ought to be good for the investigation business—the business in which he and two of his foster sons, Cabot and Max, were engaged.

  His job was to ensure that Cutler, Sutter & Salinas prospered. When the door had opened a short time ago, he’d hoped that the representative of a corporation or maybe a lawyer needing discreet services for a wealthy client would walk into the office.

  Instead, Virginia Troy had entered the small reception lobby, bringing with her the long shadows of the past.

  He hadn’t recognized her, of course. She had been one of the youngest kids he brought out of the burning barn all those years ago—a wide-eyed little girl so traumatized by the events that she had not even been able to tell him her name for several hours. Cabot, who had been orphaned that night, had supplied him with Virginia’s name.

  Virginia was thirty-one now. No wedding ring, Anson noted. That did not surprise him. There was a cool reserve about her. She wasn’t exactly a loner, he concluded, rather someone who was accustomed to being alone. He knew the difference.

  She was the kind of woman who caught a man’s eye, but not because she was a stunner. Attractive, yes, but not in a standard-issue way. She wasn’t one of those too-beautiful-to-be-real women like you saw on TV. Instead there was something compelling about her, an edge that was hard to define. Probably had something to do with the bold, black-framed glasses and the high-heeled boots, he decided.

  Most men wouldn’t know how to handle a woman like Virginia Troy. Sure, some would be damned interested at first, maybe even see her as a challenge. But he figured that, in the end, the average guy would run for the hills.

  A short time ago, when she had walked into the room, she had taken a moment to size up everything in sight, including him. He had been relieved when he and the expensive new furniture appeared to have passed inspection.

  Although his name was on the door, technically speaking he was the office manager, receptionist, researcher and general gofer. Max and Cabot were the licensed investigators in the firm. Both had complained mightily about the stiff rent on the newly leased office space, as well as the money spent on furnishing the place, but Anson had refused to lower his newfound standards of interior design.

  Before embarking on his career in office management, he had never paid any attention to the art of interior design. But after hiring a decorator and immersing himself in the finer points of the field, he had become convinced that the premises of the firm had to send the right message to potential clients. That meant leasing space in an upscale building and investing in quality furniture.

  The result, however, was that Cutler, Sutter & Salinas now had to start making some serious money.

  Virginia crossed her legs and gripped the arms of the chair. Anson knew that she was ready to tell him why she had come looking for him.

  “I own a gallery in Pioneer Square,” she said. “One of the artists who occasionally exhibits her work with me died a few days ago. The authorities have ruled the death a suicide.”

  “But you don’t believe it,” Anson said.

  “I’m not sure what to believe. That’s why I’d like to hire you to investigate the circumstances.”

  The door opened before Anson could ask any more questions. Cabot walked into the room carrying two cups of coffee—one balanced on top of the other—and a small paper sack emblazoned with the logo of a nearby bakery. He was slightly turned away from the desk because he was using the toe of his low boot to close the door. He did not immediately notice Virginia.

  “The Coffee Goddess said to tell you she’s got a new tattoo that she might be willing to show you if you’ll let her surprise you with one of her own custom lattes,” he said. “Evidently she’s tired of you ordering regular coffee instead of one of her specialties. Says you need to be more adventurous.”

  Anson felt himself flushing. He cleared his throat, but before he could warn Cabot that there was a client in the room, the client spoke.

  “Some things are best appreciated in their purest, most essential forms,” Virginia said.

  Cabot turned very quickly to confront her. Anson stifled a sigh. Confront was the operative word when it came to Cabot. Not that he was confrontational in the sense that he was always looking for a fight. If anything, he usually came across as unnaturally aloof and unemotional. It took a lot to make him lose his temper, and on the rare occasions when that happened, you didn’t want to be standing in his vicinity.

  The issue was that he regarded anything or anyone new, unknown or outside his normal routine, as a potential problem at best and, at worst, a threat until proven otherwise. The result was that he confronted situations and people until he could decide what to do about them.

  He also had a bad habit of being attracted to women who thought they needed a man to rescue them. Unfortunately, that type of woman was attracted to him—but never for long. Anson had observed that needy women were happy enough to use Cabot for as long as he was useful, but sooner or later they found themselves dealing with the whole man, not just the rescuer part. And Cabot was nothing if not complicated. His relationships, such as they were, usually ended badly.

  The swift, sure way he moved to deal with Virginia said a lot about the man, Anson thought. Most people would have lost the top cup of coffee with such a sudden turn, but Cabot had excellent reflexes and an innate sense of balance. He’d had those talents from childhood and had honed them over the years. Some men ran or lifted weights to stay in shape. Cabot had a black belt in an obscure form of martial arts.

  He contemplated Virginia now with a cool, calculating gaze. People often got nervous when Cabot fixed his attention on them. It was the primary reason why Anson or Max usually took on the task of dealing with new clients. Those seeking the services of an investigation agency were already uneasy when they came through the door. There was a general consensus that Cabot might scare off new business.

  Virginia seemed unaffected by the infamous Cabot Stare. If anything, she appeared amused.

  “Sorry,” Cabot said. “Didn’t know we had a visitor.” He held out one of the paper cups. “Want Anson’s coffee? It’s straight. No sugar, no mocha, no foamy milk, no chocolate sprinkles, no caramel.”

  Anson winced. Some people might have assumed that Cabot was trying to make a small joke. They would have been wrong. Cabot was inclined to take things literally. He often spoke the same way. He possessed a sense of humor but you had to know him really well before you could tell when he was joking and when he wasn’t.

  Virginia glanced at the cup Cabot was offering and then looked at the other cup.

  “Out of curiosity, what are my options?” she said.

  Ca
bot’s brows rose. “Options?”

  “You’ve got two cups of coffee,” Virginia said with an air of grave patience. “You just told me that one is straight. I am inquiring about the status of the second cup.”

  “That would be mine,” Cabot said. “It’s straight, too. Anson’s the one who taught me how to drink coffee.”

  “I see,” Virginia said. “Thank you, but I’ll pass.”

  Cabot nodded once, as if she had just confirmed some conclusion that he had made. He placed one of the cups down on the desk in front of Anson. Every move was fluid and precise. There was no wasted motion.

  “You’re the fully-loaded-latte type,” he said.

  “Actually, no,” Virginia said smoothly, “I’m not.”

  She did not elaborate.

  Cabot’s eyes tightened a little at the corners. He did not take his attention off Virginia. Anson recognized the expression and suppressed a small groan. Cabot’s curiosity had been aroused. It was a fine trait in an investigator but it could also cause problems.

  Cabot was not the subtle type. What you saw was pretty much what you got. That was, of course, why he had trouble when it came to his relationships with women. They were inclined to believe they could smooth out the rough edges and still keep the tough, strong core. Big mistake. And then, inevitably, they concluded they no longer wanted to deal with the inflexibility that was a part of that core.

  “This is Virginia Troy,” Anson said before the situation could deteriorate further. “One of the kids in the barn.”

  He did not need to say anything more.

  Cabot went very still.

  “Virginia,” he said. He spoke very softly. “I remember you. Little kid. Dark hair. Big eyes. You had a book that night. You wouldn’t leave it behind.”

  On the surface his tone was devoid of all inflection. Anson wondered if Virginia heard the echoes of the nightmares that moved in the depths.

  “And I remember you,” Virginia said. Her voice was equally neutral. “You were the one who told the rest of us to go low to avoid the smoke.”

  Oh, yeah, Anson thought. She had sensed the bad stuff, all right. He could hear the same grim echoes in her words.

  “I assume you’re here because of what happened that night,” Cabot said.

  That was Cabot for you, Anson thought. He had the gift—or the curse, depending on your point of view—of being able to put a couple of stray facts together and add them up in a hurry.

  “How did you know?” Virginia asked. Curious, but not surprised.

  “No other reason you would show up now, after all this time,” Cabot said.

  “No, I suppose not,” Virginia agreed. “I was just telling Mr. Salinas—”

  “Anson,” Anson said.

  She dipped her head slightly in acknowledgment of the invitation to use his first name.

  “I was just telling Anson that my grandparents encouraged me to put the past behind me,” she said. “I have tried to do that.”

  “Didn’t work, though, did it?” Cabot said.

  Some people would have been offended by the observation. Virginia gave Cabot a wry smile.

  “No,” she said. “Did it work for you?”

  “No,” Cabot said. “Gave up trying a long time ago. Makes more sense to acknowledge the power at the core and channel it.”

  Virginia studied him intently for a moment and then she nodded. “I see.”

  “Don’t mind him,” Anson said. “He says things like that from time to time. It’s martial arts crap—I mean, philosophy.”

  “Sort of like saying that ‘some things are best appreciated in their purest, most essential forms,’” Cabot said, deadpan.

  Anson groaned. But Virginia did not miss a beat. To his amazement, a smile came and went in her cool green-and-gold eyes.

  “I see that martial artists and art gallery owners have a few things in common,” she said. “We both get to say pretentious stuff that sounds way more insightful than it actually is.”

  Cabot looked intrigued by the concept that they might have something in common. “Do you say pretentious stuff a lot?”

  “Mostly just when I’m trying to sell some art. You?”

  “Mostly just when I’m trying to sound like I’m a hotshot private investigator.”

  Time to move on, Anson decided. He sat forward and clasped his hands on his desk. “Virginia owns an art gallery here in Seattle. She wants us to investigate the death of one of her artists who was living on an island in the San Juans. Says the local authorities are calling it suicide. She has her doubts.”

  “What does this have to do with the past?” Cabot asked.

  “If I’m right,” Virginia said, “if Hannah Brewster was murdered, then I think we have to consider the possibility that Quinton Zane is still alive.”

  CHAPTER 3

  She had their full attention now.

  Virginia watched the expressions on the men’s faces with a sense of relief. She had hoped that they would at least listen to her wild theory, but Anson Salinas and Cabot Sutter were doing a whole lot more than just hearing her out. They were one hundred percent focused, a couple of natural-born hunters who had just sensed prey. She reminded herself that they were both ex-cops.

  “Correct me if I’m wrong,” she said, “but I have the impression that you’re not altogether surprised to hear me say that Zane might still be alive.”

  “Anson and my brothers and I have never found hard proof that he’s dead,” Cabot said. “Until we get solid evidence, we’re working on the theory that he’s alive.”

  “I don’t remember you having brothers at Zane’s compound,” she said.

  This time Anson responded. “Max Cutler and Jack Lancaster. After the fire they didn’t have much in the way of family. They came to live with me. I did the foster parent thing.”

  Paternal pride was infused in Anson’s voice.

  “So I’ve got brothers,” Cabot said. “And a dad.”

  “I understand,” Virginia said. “All of you have questioned Zane’s death?”

  “Over the years we’ve chased down every rumor—every hint—that he might still be out there somewhere,” Cabot said, “but if he is, we’re almost certain he’s operating outside the country these days.”

  “A few years ago there was a pyramid scheme in New York that looked like it had his fingerprints all over it,” Anson said. “But by the time it came to our attention, whoever was running the scam had vanished.”

  “Generally speaking, we keep our little conspiracy theory a family secret,” Cabot added. “We’ve learned the hard way that it gives other people a bad impression. They tend to regard our interest in Quinton Zane as an unhealthy obsession.”

  “Anything connected to Quinton Zane is, by definition, unhealthy,” Virginia said. “But just so you know, I share your obsession.”

  “We’re listening,” Cabot said.

  He angled himself onto the corner of Anson’s desk, one foot braced on the floor, and peeled the plastic lid off his coffee. His movements were deceptively relaxed. He had no doubt been born with that fluid coordination, Virginia thought. But his actions were infused with an aura of control and power that told her he had worked to hone his natural talent.

  Mentally she did the math and concluded that Cabot was in his early thirties, two or three years older than she was. The tall, lanky boy with the very serious eyes had matured into the kind of man who probably wasn’t the life of the party. He would, however, be the kind of man you’d want at your back in a bar fight.

  His dark hair was cut ruthlessly short and his lean profile had hardened into pure granite. His eyes were a feral shade of amber brown and still unnaturally intense. Hannah Brewster would have said that Cabot had the eyes of an old soul. But that wouldn’t have been entirely accurate. He had the eyes of a man who took the world very
seriously.

  There was no ring on his hand. That surprised her because everything about him intrigued her. Surely she wasn’t the first woman to find him interesting. On the other hand, Cabot Sutter would definitely not be the easiest person on the planet to live with. There was a gritty, uncompromising vibe about him that, sooner or later, would probably convince a lot of women that he was more trouble than he was worth.

  She understood the reaction. She was a little screwed up herself, with a history of failed relationships testifying to the fact that a number of men had decided that she was more trouble than she was worth.

  “As I told Anson, Hannah Brewster was an artist,” Virginia said. “She was also quite eccentric. Some would say unhinged. I occasionally exhibited some of her work in my gallery.”

  “Was she any good?” Cabot asked.

  “Hannah was quite good but her work is . . . disturbing. It’s too raw and too dark and too personal for most people. Hannah painted to exorcise the demons of her past—our past. She was there, you see.”

  “She was a member of Zane’s operation?” Cabot asked.

  “Yes. She was my mother’s closest friend in the cult. I’m sure you remember her. She did much of the cooking and cleaning.”

  Cabot glanced at Anson. “See if Brewster’s name is on our list.”

  Anson was already at work on his computer.

  Virginia watched him. “You’ve got a list of the cult members?”

  “It’s not a complete list,” Cabot said. “Nobody used last names, remember? And Zane confiscated everyone’s ID. Most of the documentation that he collected disappeared with him that night.”

  “I interviewed the survivors after the fire,” Anson said, “but they were all traumatized. Some refused to identify themselves. Others were afraid. Most just took off and disappeared. I had no legal grounds to hold them. We’ve done our best to compile a list of cult members but, as Cabot said, we don’t think that it’s complete, not by a long shot.”