MacNamara's Woman

  But she knew this house, D.D. reminded herself. She’d already trod this hall, judiciously avoiding the pools of vomit, while noticing every pertinent detail.

  She reached the top of the stairs, still looking side to side, then peering down, into the inky pool that marked the landing below. The humming had disappeared. Worse than the singing was the total silence.

  Then, from out of the darkness, low and lilting: “Rock-a-bye, baby, on the treetop. . . .”

  D.D. halted. Her gaze ping-ponged reflexively, trying to determine the location of the intruder as the singing continued, slow and mocking: “When the wind blows, the cradle will rock. . . .”

  She got it then. Felt her own blood turn to ice as the full implication sank in. Why do you stage a scene? Because you’re looking for an audience. Or maybe one audience member in particular. Say a hardworking detective stupid enough to be found after dark at a crime scene all alone.

  She reached belatedly for her cell.

  Just as a fresh noise registered directly behind her.

  She spun. Eyes widening.

  As a figure darted out of the shadows, heading straight for her.

  “When the bough breaks, the cradle will fall. . . .”

  Instinctively, D.D. stepped back. Except she’d forgotten about the top of the staircase. Her left foot, searching for traction, found only open space.

  No! Her phone clattering down. Her SIG Sauer coming up. Trying belatedly to lean forward, regain her balance.

  Then . . . the shadow reaching out. Herself falling back.

  Down, down, down.

  At the last second, D.D. squeezed the trigger. An instinctive act of selfpreservation. Boom, boom, boom. Though she knew it was too little, too late

  Her head connected with the hardwood landing. A crack. A shooting pain. The final verse, whispering through the dark:

  “And down will come baby, cradle and all. . . .”

  Read on for a preview of

  #1 New York Times bestseller

  Lisa Gardner

  writing as

  Alicia Scott

  in her novel

  BRANDON’S BRIDE

  Available in December 2013 from Signet

  wherever print and e-books are sold.

  Ray Bands could count the cumulating days by the number of crumpled pretzel bags and empty diet sodas piling up on the surveillance van’s metal floor. In the beginning, he’d thought absently of bringing a wastebasket for his next shift. Now he waded through the crinkling, salty cellophane without a second thought. It wasn’t his van, anyway. And in his line of work, neatness didn’t count.

  Results did.

  He stretched up his arms again, rolled his old, creaking neck, then adjusted his headphones. The screens in front of him remained static, the large reels of tapes frozen, waiting for a sound to trigger them to action. Still nothing happening. Ray propped his feet on a milk crate, opened a fresh bag of fat-free pretzels and stared at them morosely. He wanted French fries.

  Ray had grown up during the days when food was just food and you were happy you got some. No fat-free this or free-range that. For God’s sake, who ever would have believed that food that contained so much less—less fat, less sodium, less cholesterol, less taste, for crying out loud—could actually cost more. It defied the imagination.

  But then last year, he’d started dating a granola-crunching, sassy-mouthed aerobics instructor who was a fraction of his age and so damn beautiful she took his breath away. She had him eating puffed rice cakes, lean meats and fresh vegetables. He’d given up cigarettes. He’d given up beer. He’d joined a health club where young, nubile bodies preened in front of mirrors so shamelessly he didn’t know where to look.

  And there were nights he woke up just so he could watch Melissa sleep, her dark hair like a satin frame around her pale, ethereal face. God, she was gorgeous. And then he would wonder what a sweet girl like her was doing with a beat-up old geezer like him. Sometimes, he thought she had to be KGB, but those days were gone, of course. No more cloak-and-dagger. No more evil empire. He’d survived it all without seeing half the glory he’d thought he would. Hell, he was four years from retirement and they’d pulled him off his current case to eavesdrop on a semiretired Wall Street investment banker.

  On cue, the screens in front of him abruptly blinked to life. Sound waves undulated across the black backdrop, spiking to indicate louder noises. Brandon Ferringer was finally awake in his Manhattan apartment.

  From the little the powers that be had deemed to tell Ray, Ferringer was one of those Richie Rich thrill-seeker types. In the four years since his young wife’s death, he’d been running around the globe hell-bent on either adventure or suicide, depending on how you looked at it. He’d just returned from Nepal, which must have been something because the man had been asleep for five straight days. Now, at last, Ray could hear him moving about.

  Ray adjusted the headphones and focused on the four primary screens. The mike in the bathroom reported the sound of a shower running, then the brisk whisk, whisk of someone toweling off. Footsteps pattered down the hall, and the kitchen mike transmitted the sound of a coffee grinder roaring to life.

  Brandon’s cell phone was turned on. Finally getting some action, the van’s reel tapes kicked to life and recorded the call. Ferringer didn’t have phone service reconnected to his apartment yet. A big break for Ray. Bugging a landline phone sometimes caused interference or small clicks that gave the wiretapping away. Cellular phones, on the other hand, didn’t require a bug. If you knew the frequency, you could eavesdrop or trace a call to your heart’s content. Ferringer had obviously been monitored before—the frequency, serial number and PIN of his cell phone had been included in his dossier.

  The ringing was staticky. The high-rises didn’t always get the best reception—too many steel girders got in the way. At the other end, a man finally picked up.

  “C.J.’s Mortuary. You stab ’em, we slab ’em.”

  “C.J.,” Brandon said.

  “My God!” the other man replied.

  Frowning, Ray dug through the pile of empty pretzel bags until he found Ferringer’s file. Who the hell was C.J., and why would Ferringer call a mortician? After a moment, Ray solved the mystery. According to the file, Ferringer had two half siblings, Maggie Ferringer and C. J. MacNamara. They all shared the same father, Maximillian Ferringer, whose plane went down in Indonesia in 1972. His body was never found.

  The MacNamara son had entered the marines, Force recon. Now he lived in Sedona, Arizona, where he owned a bar and worked part-time as a “bail enforcement officer.”

  Ray snorted. Bounty hunters were nothing but a bunch of cop wannabes who couldn’t make the cut. Loser bastards, every last one of them. Then again, judging by the grainy black-and-white, MacNamara probably didn’t do too badly with the ladies.

  “Holy smokes, look what the cat dragged in,” C.J. said at last. “It’s been what, four, five months? How are you, Brandon, and where the hell have you been?”

  “Everest.”

  “As in the mountain? Hell, Brandon. People die on Everest!”

  “I didn’t.”

  “Obviously God does look after fools then.”

  “Which you also know firsthand,” Brandon replied wryly. “How are you, C.J.? And how is Tamara?”

  Tamara Allistair was listed in the file as a public relations executive who currently lived with MacNamara. See file, Senator Brennan. Ray had no idea what that meant.

  “Oh, we’re fine. Tamara just set up shop here in Sedona, and it’s going well. We’ve set the wedding date for September. I don’t suppose you’ll be in the Northern Hemisphere sometime around then.”

  “Actually, I’m planning on spending the next six months in Oregon. I was selected to be a hotshot.”

  “What?” Ray seconded C.J.’s surprise.

  “Our father gave Maggie a locket,” Brandon said quietly. “Did she ever tell you that? Inside, there’s a picture of a beautiful woman. She
’s not one of our mothers.”

  “Surprise, surprise. Now what does that have to do with Oregon?”

  “I—well, Julia—also discovered that Max had two business partners, Al Simmons and Bud Irving. Lydia says they were all best friends from Tillamook High School. They formed the partnership right after graduation, and according to the Chamber of Commerce records, it’s never been dissolved. Don’t suppose you know about that?”

  “Maximillian and partners? Give me a break, Brandon. The man didn’t even send postcards to his wives or children. Can you picture him working with two other people?”

  “Al Simmons disappeared in 1970,” Brandon said softly, “but I’ve traced Bud Irving to Beaverville, Oregon.”

  “Uh, Brandon. When you say this Al guy disappeared, what do you mean by disappeared?”

  “I mean I can’t find any trace of Al Simmons after 1970. No taxes, no driver’s license renewals, no credit cards, no bank accounts. No death certificate. As of 1970, Al Simmons ceased to exist.”

  “That’s not a good thing. Ceasing to exist is never a good thing.”

  “No, it probably isn’t.”

  “Brandon . . .” C.J.’s sigh was audible over the line, but the brothers’ argument must have been old, because Brandon cut him off at the pass.

  “You think it’s too dangerous,” Brandon supplied.

  “Absolutely.”

  “You think Max has been dead for twenty-five years, why mess with it now?”

  “Let sleeping dogs lie,” C.J. agreed.

  “C.J., don’t you think it’s odd that in a partnership of three people, two have disappeared without a trace? One in 1970 and one in 1972. I’ve been to the wreckage of Max’s plane in Indonesia. There’s no good reason his body wasn’t found. Something is going on here, C.J. And the answer lies with Bud Irving in Beaverville, Oregon.”

  On the other end of the line, C.J. was silent.

  “I have to know,” Brandon said quietly.

  ‘‘Brandon, this isn’t a walk in the park. I’ve gotten threatening phone calls about Max. You—”

  “I may have lost my wife,” Brandon stated.

  “The police said she was shot by a mugger.”

  “She was researching Max for my family tree and then she was shot? Bloody hell, it was a mugger!” His voice was abruptly savage.

  “You don’t know—”

  “And neither do you, C.J. Neither do you!” Brandon exclaimed.

  Whoa. Ray sat back, impressed. MacNamara was a marine, and marines were known for their temper, but he never would have picked an intellectual Wall Street banker as the passionate type. Apparently, Brandon had inherited more of Maximillian the Chameleon’s genes than either of the brothers realized.

  The apple never did fall far from the tree.

  And Maximillian the Chameleon had been some apple.

  His sons were taking deep breaths and working on cooling their tempers.

  “Let me come out there,” C.J. said.

  “No, you have Tamara. I won’t jeopardize that.”

  “That’s not your decision—”

  “I will call you if there’s a problem. Mail my wedding invite to Lydia’s, would you? And, C.J., congratulations, man, I wish you the best.”

  “Brandon . . .” C.J. sounded disgruntled. Then he sighed. “Just be careful, all right? I want you at my wedding, dammit. And I want my wedding day to be as happy as yours. You know?”

  “That was a special day, wasn’t it?” Ferringer said softly. “Yours will be special, too, C.J. Congratulations.”

  He hung up before his brother could reply.

  The cell phone wasn’t turned on again. No sound came from the apartment for so long Ray almost panicked, but then he replayed the conversation in his mind and got a visual image of Brandon Ferringer standing at the window of his Manhattan penthouse, gazing at a world-class view of Central Park and seeing only his wife, Julia, on their wedding day.

  Ray’s eyes got a little moist. Christ, he was becoming a maudlin old fool. But then he started thinking of Melissa again, and wouldn’t it be something to see her in wedding whites? And what would he do if something ever happened to her?

  He shook his head, knowing white picket fences would never exist for a man like him. And Melissa really could do better.

  He took off the headphones, found a landline phone and dialed from memory. In his line of work, phone numbers, names and instructions were never written down. If you couldn’t remember it, you deserved your fate.

  “Subject’s on the move,” he said without preamble.

  “Details.”

  Ray recapped the conversation. At the other end, the man fell silent. Ray wasn’t sure exactly who he was. He had proper clearance and knew the passwords, which was all that mattered.

  “Follow him,” the man said. “Stay on him. If he gets too close, kill him.”

  “All right.” On the road again. Melissa wouldn’t like that, but what could he do? I’m a salesman, honey. I have to travel. But don’t worry. I’m four years from retirement. Just four years from retirement.

  “Make it look accidental. Incredibly so. We don’t want MacNamara involved.”

  The former marine, Force recon. That made sense. “All right.”

  “Don’t call again unless things have changed. The less contact, the better.”

  “Sure.” Ray hung up, not required to bother with such pleasantries as goodbye. He put on the headphones. No sound. Ferringer must still be at the window. Did he miss his Julia that much? Or was he thinking about his father and how badly he wanted to know the truth?

  Some things aren’t meant to be known, Ferringer, not even in this day and age.

  Ray began plotting his strategy. With his feet up and his mind running through a list of the best “accidents,” he opened a new bag of pretzels and bit into a rock-hard mass. Traffic accidents were always suspicious, tampering with machinery better. House fires were pretty good, or electrocution. Maybe a nice shove off a cliff.

  He bit the pretzel wrong and almost cracked a tooth. God, he missed potato chips.

  #1 New York Times bestselling author Lisa Gardner

  is back with another thriller.

  Read on for a preview of

  TOUCH & GO

  Available everywhere print and e-books are sold.

  Here is something I learned when I was eleven years old: Pain has a flavor. The question is what does it taste like to you?

  Tonight, my pain tasted like oranges. I sat across from my husband in a corner booth at Scampo’s in Beacon Hill. Discreet waiters appeared to silently refill our glasses of champagne. Two for him. Three for me. Homemade breads covered the white linen tablecloth, as well as fresh selections from the mozzarella bar. Next would be tidy bowls of hand-cut noodles, topped with sweet peas, crispy pancetta and a light cream sauce. Justin’s favorite dish. He’d discovered it on a business trip to Italy twenty years ago and had been requesting it at fine Italian restaurants ever since.

  I lifted my champagne glass. Sipped. Set it down.

  Across from me, Justin smiled, lines crinkling the corners of his eyes. His light brown hair, worn short, was graying at the temples, but it worked for him. He had that rugged outdoors look that never went out of fashion. Women checked him out when we entered bars. Men did too, curious about the new arrival, an obvious alpha male who paired scuffed work boots with two-hundred-dollar Brooks Brothers shirts and made both look the better for it.

  “Gonna eat?” my husband asked.

  “I’m saving myself for the pasta.”

  He smiled again, and I thought of white sandy beaches, the salty tang of ocean air. I remembered the feel of the soft cotton sheets tangled around my bare legs as we spent the second morning of our honeymoon still sequestered in our private bungalow. Justin hand-fed me fresh peeled oranges while I delicately licked the sticky juice from his callused fingers.

  I took another sip of champagne, holding it inside my mouth this time, and concentratin
g on the feel of liquid bubbles.

  I wondered if she had been prettier than me. More exciting. Better in bed. Or maybe, in the way these things worked, none of that mattered. Didn’t factor into the equation. Men cheated because men cheated. If a husband could, he would.

  Meaning that, in its own way, the past six months of my marriage hadn’t been anything personal.

  I took another sip, still drinking champagne, still tasting oranges.

  Justin polished off the selection of appetizers, took a restrained sip of his own champagne, then absently rearranged his silverware.

  Justin had inherited his father’s twenty-five-million-dollar construction business at the age of twenty-seven. Some sons would’ve been content to let a successful business continue as is. Not Justin. By the time I’d met him when he was thirty-four, he’d already doubled revenue to the fifty-million mark, with a goal of achieving seventy-five million in the next two years. And not by sitting in some office. Justin prided himself on being a master of most trades. Plumbing, electrical, drywall, concrete. He was boots on the ground, spending time with his men, mingling with the subcontractors, first one on the site, last one to leave.

  In the beginning, that’s one of the things I’d loved most about him. A man’s man. Comfortable in a wood-paneled boardroom but also played a mean game of pickup hoops and thought nothing of taking his favorite .357 to light up the firing range.

  When we were first dating, he’d taken me with him to his gun club. I’d stand, tucked into the solid embrace of his larger, stronger body, while he showed me how to position my hands on the grip of a relatively petite .22, how to sight down the barrel, home in on the bull’s-eye. The first few times, I missed the target completely, the sound of the gunshot startling me, causing me to flinch even with ear protection. I’d fire into the ground or, if I was very lucky, hit the lowest edge of the paper target.

  Time and time again, Justin would patiently correct me, his voice a low rumble against the back of my neck as he leaned over and helped me level out my aim.