Sara reached out to touch her. “Please, Mrs. Stocker, we think your husband may know something about these murders.”
Angrily, the woman shook off her hand. “Get out. Both of you. Now.”
Nick thrust one of the stills at the old man. “Did you murder this woman?” Anger resonated in his voice. “Did you film it?”
“If you don’t leave, I’m going to call the police.”
Sara sat in the chair, her heart pounding, unable to take her eyes off the frail elderly man before them. She hadn’t expected Nick to go after him so hard.
Nick ignored the woman and focused on Stocker. “Talk to us,” he said. “I’ll make sure the police know you cooperated.”
“What the hell is going on here?”
The deep male voice boomed like a gunshot. Nick stood abruptly and faced the door. Sara did the same to see a exquisitely dressed man of about thirty-five years stride toward them. Eyes as black and cunning as the old man’s swept from Sara to Nick. “Who are you people and what are you doing here?”
When neither of them answered, his eyes went to Mrs. Stocker. “Mother, what’s going on here?”
“He claims to be a police officer with questions about the Douglas-Tyson murders up in Cape Darkwood.” Channing Stocker’s hand shook when she brought the glass to her lips. “Lewinski checked him out. I thought Blaine might be able to help them.”
The man’s eyes landed on Nick. “Let me see your ID.”
Nick reached for his wallet and flashed his badge. “I’m with the Cape Darkwood PD,” he said. “And who are you?”
“I’m Brett Stocker.” He motioned toward the old man in the wheelchair. “Blaine is my father. And you are trespassing.”
Nick shoved his wallet back into his pocket. “We have reason to believe your father may be able to help us solve the murders of several women.”
“Murder?” Brett Stocker choked out a laugh. “Are you insane?” He motioned toward his father. “Look at him! Does he look like a dangerous man to you?”
“Mr. Stocker,” Sara began, “these murders happened a long time ago.”
Stocker glared at her. “We are not inclined to answer any more questions.”
“If you don’t cooperate, I’ll have no choice but to take what proof I have to the FBI.” Nick shrugged. “I thought you might want to protect your old man from that kind of publicity.”
Brett’s eyes went from Nick to his mother, to his father. “Look, I don’t know what you people are up to, but my father is a good man. There’s no way he’s involved in anything illegal, especially murder. He’s a philanthropist with an impeccable reputation. How dare you walk into his home and attack his character.”
The elder Stocker raised his head, his eyes flicking to Nick. “Get…out.”
Brett walked over to this father and squeezed his thin shoulder. “It’s okay, Dad. I’ll handle this.”
“We’re just trying to find out what happened,” Sara said. “We thought he might be able to help us.”
“If you people had some kind of evidence, the cops would be all over this.” He shook his head. “You don’t have anything. You’re fishing. Probably trying to generate some negative publicity.” He snarled. “Parasites.”
Nick flashed the final still at the elder Stocker. “We know what you did, old man. We’ll be back when we have proof.”
Channing Stocker strode to her husband’s side. “This interview is over. If you don’t leave now, I’ll call the police and have you arrested for trespassing.”
Sara had never seen Nick like this. Angry and pushing boundaries. She moved toward the door, hoping he would follow.
But Nick held his ground, his eyes never leaving Blaine Stocker. “We’re not finished with this.”
Crossing to Nick, Brett slapped the photo from his hand. “Get out and take your worthless accusations with you.”
Certain Nick was going to launch himself at the man, Sara strode quickly forward and took his arm. “Let’s go.”
Nick didn’t budge.
Brett Stocker’s lip curled. “Mother, call 911.”
In her peripheral vision, Sara was aware of the woman setting down her drink, walking to the desk and picking up the phone.
“Nick,” she said. “Let’s go.”
Nick resisted a moment longer, then turned and started for the door.
Lewinski appeared at the doorway. His jacket stood open. At his side, Sara saw a leather holster and the blue steel of a pistol. “You heard the man,” he said. “Out. Now.”
Nick glared at Brett Stocker. “If I were you, I’d get your old man a good lawyer. He won’t do well in prison, believe me.”
Lunging forward, Lewinski shoved Nick toward the door. “Unless you and your lady friend want to spend the night in jail, I suggest you move your ass. Now!”
For a terrible moment, Sara thought Nick was going to punch the guy. Hoping to avoid a fight—and possible arrest—she once again started toward the door. Behind her, she heard Nick follow, Lewinski bringing up the rear. “Sorry about this, Mr. Stocker,” he said.
“Get them out of here,” Brett snarled. “I’ll deal with you later.”
Sara barely noticed the opulence of the mansion as she moved down the hall toward the door from which they’d entered. She could hear Nick and Lewinski behind her. She sensed the gun in the latter man’s hand, wondered if he had it pointed at Nick’s back. Or hers.
Outside, in the sunshine and crisp breeze off the bay, she felt dirty, felt the sudden need to wash her hands. Nick made eye contact with her as they headed toward the rental car.
“That was productive as hell,” he muttered sarcastically.
“I recognized the old man,” she said.
He shot her a questioning look. “From where?”
“I don’t know, but I’ve definitely seen him before.”
Nick glanced over his shoulder as he yanked open the car door and slid inside. Lewinski stood on the porch, his eyes hidden behind dark shades, the pistol in his hand.
Nick put the car in gear. “That son of a bitch knows something,” he said.
As they pulled out of the driveway and onto the street of the exclusive neighborhood, all Sara could wonder was what.
Chapter Twelve
Full darkness had fallen by the time Nick and Sara reached his bungalow. Sara hated it that the trip to San Francisco had been a wash. Only now did she realize she’d been overly optimistic in hoping Blaine Stocker would give up his secrets easily. He might be old and frail, but she’d seen the remnants of the young man he’d once been in his eyes. A young man who’d evidently had a dark side.
The lingering aroma of that morning’s coffee welcomed them when they entered the bungalow. “I’ve got steaks in the freezer,” Nick said, tossing his keys onto the counter.
They hadn’t eaten since noon, but Sara wasn’t hungry. She was still keyed up, her mind replaying everything that had happened.
As if knowing how she felt, Nick gave her a half smile. “I’ve also got a nice bottle of merlot that’s been sitting around gathering dust.”
“Good place to start,” she said.
He walked to the bar, pulled out a bottle and proceeded to uncork it. Sara found a couple of stemmed glasses in the cabinet and carried them to the bar. “Sorry I lost my temper earlier,” he said.
“You’re entitled.”
He poured, then raised his glass. “Here’s to uncovering secrets.”
“And vindicating my father.” She clinked her glass to his.
Gazes holding, they sipped. “It’s good,” she said.
“Local vineyard. French grapes.”
“I didn’t know you were a connoisseur of wine.”
“I’m not, but my dad was. He tried to teach me, but I was too young to fully appreciate it.”
“I didn’t realize until today how hard this must be for you, too,” she said.
“It’s okay. I was skeptical, but that old man recognized those photos.” The mus
cles in his jaws went taut. “I think that son of bitch killed them.”
“Me, too.”
Shaking his head, Nick set his glass on the counter and walked to the living room. Sara watched from the bar as he went to the hearth for wood and kindling and built a fire.
She joined him a few minutes later and sat down beside him. “All these years and it still hurts.”
“It was bad enough losing them the way we did. But for the killer to frame your father…For him to portray your mother and my father as adulterers…” As if at a loss, he let the words trail.
“The person responsible destroyed our families,” Sara said.
Nick stared into the flames. “Because they were going to expose him for what he was.”
“The maker of snuff films.”
“It’s a logical assumption.”
“What do we do now? It seems like we’ve reached a dead end.”
His gaze met hers. Hard-edged determination churned within their depths, and Sara knew now that he believed her he wouldn’t give up until Stocker was behind bars. “We have one more source of information we haven’t tapped into.”
Her mind spun through the players. Blaine Stocker. Channing Stocker. Nick’s mother, Laurel. Her own fractured memory. “Who?”
“The lead detective who investigated the case.”
“Of course.” Excitement jumped through her at the thought. “Henry James.”
“He retired ten years ago. You remember him?”
“He was kind to me. I always liked him. I didn’t realize it at the time, but I think he always believed I saw the killer that night.”
“What makes you think that?”
“He questioned me quite a bit about it. He was the one who recommended hypnosis.” Remembering the countless sessions with several psychologists and therapists, she shook her head. “Nothing ever panned out. I could see the man, but I couldn’t recall his face, and I could never identify him.”
“Pretty horrific scene for a seven-year-old kid.”
Even now the memory of that night made her shudder. “It was bad, Nick. Ugly. To see your parents like that. The blood. Knowing they were gone forever. It’s like your worst nightmare becoming reality.”
For a moment she thought he would put his arm around her or perhaps set his hand over hers. But he continued to stare into the fire. She wasn’t sure if she was glad for it…or disappointed.
“Let me see if I can find a current number or address for Detective James.” Rising, he walked to the bar and opened his laptop.
Sara remained at the hearth and sipped her wine, but it had gone sour on her tongue. Had they reached a dead end? Or would the retired detective be able to help them?
At the bar, Nick tapped keys. The computer beeped and he sighed. “He retired a few months after the case closed and moved to Phoenix. I’ve got a phone number.”
She glanced at her watch. “It’s not yet nine o’clock…”
“Let’s call him and see what he has to say.” Nick picked up the cordless phone and punched in numbers. Sara held her breath, hoping the detective would be able to help them put the final pieces of the puzzle together.
“Henry James, please.”
Nick’s voice drew her from her dark thoughts. She watched his face. “How did it happen?” he asked.
Sara saw his jaw tighten, his brows knit. “I’m sorry to have bothered you, ma’am.” He hung up the phone and shook his head.
She could tell by the look in his eyes that the news was not good. “What?”
“He passed away in a motor vehicle mishap a few months after retiring,” he said.
“Oh no!” Even though the prospect of gaining helpful information from the former detective had been a long shot, Sara felt the words like a gut punch. “A car accident?”
“Hit and run.” His expression hardened. “Someone ran him off the highway.”
“Did the police find the person responsible?”
“No.”
Suspicion spun through Sara’s mind like shards of glass, cutting through the last remnants of hope. A dozen scenarios rose inside her. One look at Nick and she knew he was thinking the same thing. “Do you think he was murdered?”
“I think it’s a possibility.”
Needing to move, Sara rose and began to pace, her wine forgotten. “My God, Nick, if it wasn’t an accident…” Her words trailed; she could barely bring herself to utter them. “Someone killed him to cover their tracks.”
“Keep him from digging,” Nick added.
The thought sent a shudder through her that went all the way to her bones. “How are we going to prove any of this?”
“We keep digging until we find something concrete.” He tossed her a sage look. “Until we blow this thing open, I don’t want you out of my sight.”
An argument drifted through her mind, but Sara didn’t voice it. She didn’t want to admit it, but she was scared. If Stocker could kill a trained detective, he could get to anyone….
“All right,” she replied.
“No one knows you’re here with me,” Nick said. “Let’s keep it that way.”
“Okay. I can do that.” She looked at him. “But I’m not going to sit around and do nothing.”
He approached her, his eyes going hard. “You can’t go back to the mansion. I’ve got two officers working for me. The Cape Darkwood budget can’t afford for me to pay one of them to babysit you.”
“I wouldn’t ask you to do that.”
A quiver went through her when he set his hands on her shoulders. “Someone is trying to kill you,” he said. “They almost succeeded yesterday. I’m not going to give them another chance.”
She didn’t want to make eye contact. There were too many emotions inside her, too close to the surface. She knew that once she looked into his eyes she would be lost.
“Look at me, damn it.”
The pull to him was too powerful; she wasn’t strong enough to resist. Like a swimmer caught in a current, she would be swept away and drowned. She only continued stare at the floor, he cupped her chin and turned her face to him.
She felt the contact like an electric current running the length of her body. Heat and shock and a dozen other sensations she couldn’t begin to name.
“Why are you shaking?” he whispered.
“Because there are other things going on that scare me, too.”
“You mean between us?” His gaze searched hers.
“Yes.”
“It scares me, too.”
“What are we going to do about it?”
“Take it slow,” he said. “Like this.”
The floor caved in beneath her feet when he lowered his mouth to hers. The electrical pulses she’d felt earlier shot outward and exploded in every nerve ending. Her body went rigid. With shock. With pleasure. With the intellectual knowledge this was going to complicate an already complicated situation.
But for the first time in her life, Sara didn’t care about logic. She didn’t care about doing the right thing. Or playing it safe.
Banking the little voice telling her to stop, she kissed him back with an abandon that shocked and thrilled. Slow and easy turned fast and ravenous. His mouth moved over hers as if he wanted to devour her. Sara felt that same hunger rising inside her. The urgent need to feel his hands on her body. The equally powerful need to touch him and explore every hard male inch of him.
He kissed her until she was dizzy with pleasure. Drunk on the electric hum of desire. Until bells clanged in her ears and her heart thrummed like thunder.
“The door,” he growled as his mouth moved over hers.
Only then did she realize the sound of bells ringing in her ears was the doorbell. “Might be important.”
The bell rang again. Groaning, Nick pulled away. He glanced down at himself, and Sara realized he couldn’t answer the door without revealing more than either of them wanted revealed.
Grumbling beneath his breath, he grabbed a wind-breaker off a coat rac
k, tied it around his waist and checked the peephole. Sara saw him pause, draw a breath, then open the door.
“Mom,” he said.
Laurel Tyson walked into the living room without waiting for an invitation. Her eyes swept the room, her expression going cold and hard when she spotted Sara. Her smile fell. She stood as rigid as an ice sculpture, her eyes moving to her son.
“I didn’t know you had company,” she said.
“Had you called before dropping in,” Nick replied levelly, “I would have told you.”
“What is she doing here?” As if realizing the question was superfluous, Laurel raised her hands. “Never mind. I think it’s obvious.”
Nick stared at his mother, his expression stony. “Is there something I can do for you, Mom?”
“I can’t believe you let her get to you.”
“You’re out of line,” he said.
“And you’re just like your father,” she snarled.
Realizing the situation was about to spiral out of control, Sara stepped forward. “Mrs. Tyson, don’t be angry. Please. We have something to tell you.”
Laurel’s attention snapped to Sara. “I have no interest in hearing anything you have to say.”
Undaunted, Sara continued. “Nick and I have been looking into what happened twenty years ago.”
“I’ll bet.”
“We believe things didn’t happen the way the police said they did.”
“Or maybe my son is drawn to you the same way my husband was drawn to your mother.”
Sara nearly winced at the loathing that seethed in the woman’s eyes. “Your husband and my mother were not involved. And my father didn’t kill anyone.”
“How dare you dredge up all that pain in a desperate attempt to clear your father’s name?”
“There was someone else in that room,” Sara shot back. “A man with a gun. He shot them because they were working on a tell-all book. A book that would have ruined a wealthy Hollywood director and sent him to prison.”
“That’s absurd. A wild story fabricated because you can’t deal with the truth.”
Nick turned to his mother. “It’s true. We think Blaine Stocker was involved in the making of snuff films. Dad was collaborating on a book with Richard and Alexandra Douglas. Stocker went after them, murdered them, planted evidence to make it look like a murder-suicide. The local media was all too happy to accommodate him.”