She felt as if she’d been running forever. After she left Gavin Williams smoking in his automotive funeral pyre, she’d hitchhiked to Portsmouth, Virginia. Knowing that the cash from Williams’s wallet would not last long, she’d taken a risk and sent an uncoded e-mail to Karen’s friend, asking for new supplies, money and a fake ID good enough to fool the staff at nearby Norfolk airport. For three days Grace lay low at her motel praying for a package to arrive and anxiously scanning the news channels for word of her escape, or of Gavin Williams’s murder. None came. The powers that be must have hoped they’d find her before she caused them any more embarrassment. By the end of the third day, she was starting to despair that her e-mail had been intercepted when the motel owner informed her that a FedEx envelope had arrived. “Linda Reynolds. That’s you, right?”
Grace’s heart soared. One day, when all this was over, she would repay her debt to Karen’s mysterious contact, this stranger who had risked so much to help her. Right now, though, she had work to do. Her first call was to Mitch Connors.
“Grace! Thank God you’re alive. Did Williams hurt you? Where are you?”
The sound of his voice made Grace smile.
“Sorry. Can’t tell you. But I’m fine.”
“Listen, Grace, I know about John Merrivale.”
“It’s true, then? John killed Lenny?”
Mitch sighed. “It’s looking that way, yes. We think he was behind the fraud, too. He’s been hoodwinking the FBI this whole time. But for God’s sake, don’t do anything stupid, okay? Everyone knows now—the FBI, the CIA. John’ll get what’s coming to him just as soon as they bring him in.”
“Bring him in? He’s missing?”
In the silence that followed, Grace could hear Mitch kicking himself. What the hell did I say that for? “Grace, honey, I’m on your side. You know that.”
Grace blushed. Lenny used to call her “honey.” She couldn’t decide if she liked hearing the endearment from Mitch or resented it.
“But you have to let justice take its course. Turn yourself in. Let the feds deal with Merrivale. Grace…Grace?”
After she hung up, Grace sat on her motel bed for a long time, thinking.
So John was on the run now. A fugitive. Like me.
Everyone was looking for him, that’s what Mitch said. But not because he’d murdered Lenny. No one gave a damn about that. Because they thought he’d taken the money. The stupid money, that was all that mattered to the FBI. Not right and wrong. Not justice. America had forgotten what justice meant. If it ever really knew.
Grace closed her eyes. She tried to put herself in John Merrivale’s shoes.
Where would I go? With the whole world looking for me. Where would I hide?
A few minutes later, Grace opened her eyes. Of course.
She picked up the phone. “I’d like you to send a cab please. Norfolk International Airport. Uh-huh. As soon as you can get one here.”
BACK ON THE FISHING BOAT, LISTENING to the soft lapping of the waves as the warm African sun kissed her face, Grace smiled to herself again, thinking about her revelation in that grimy Virginia motel room and how it had brought her here, halfway across the world. Or perhaps revelation was the wrong word? Memory. It was a memory that had told her where John Merrivale would run, a memory that made her certain of where he was now. The memory was so sweet, Grace closed her eyes and savored it again…
IT WAS THE MONTH BEFORE SHE and Lenny got married. They were in France, in a charming little bastide Lenny had rented in the hilltop town of Ramatuelle, a ten-minute drive from Saint-Tropez.
Grace sighed. “I never want to leave here. It’s enchanting.”
They were having dinner with Marie La Classe, Lenny’s French real estate broker, and John and Caroline Merrivale.
“Don’t you find it a bit quiet?” said Caroline. She’d been lobbying since the start of the vacation for the four of them to move into Le Byblos, or better yet have Lenny’s yacht sail up from Sardinia so they could lord it over the smaller boats in the harbor. What was the point in coming all the way to Saint-Tropez and spending the entire week stranded up a mountain in a dull little village no one had ever heard of?
“S-some people like the quiet,” John ventured timidly. Caroline shot him a thunderous look.
“It makes me feel like the princess in a tower,” Grace gushed, beaming at Lenny, who beamed back. “Like I’m stranded on the most beautiful island and no one can reach me.”
“’Ave you ever been to Madagascar?”
They all turned to look at Marie.
“All the culture of France, combined with the natural beauty of Africa, encapsulated in a single, unspoiled island. I grew up there.”
“It sounds magical,” said Grace.
“It is. You would love it. The wildlife, the scenery, the view from Fort Dauphin is one of the wonders of the world. Je vous assure.”
“I’ll tell you something else about Madagascar.” Lenny grinned that naughty, schoolboy grin of his, stabbing a piece of perfectly cooked lobster tail with his fork. “It’s a crook’s paradise. No extradition treaty with the United States. Did you know that, Marie?”
Marie smiled politely. “I did not.”
Caroline said, “Well, if John ever robs a bank, we’ll move there. In the meantime, I, for one, am pining for a bit of civilization. Who’s on for a trip to Les Caves after dinner?”
THE PROPERTY WAS IN ANTANANARIVO, ON a hilly, cobbled street that might have been lifted brick by brick from Ramatuelle. With its two-foot-thick stone walls and imposing turrets, it was more like a small castle than a house. A retreat, in every sense of the word.
Lenny looked at Grace. “Is this the one?”
They’d been in Madagascar less than two days, with Marie La Classe acting as their tour guide, and already Grace had fallen in love. They both had.
“This is the one.”
Lenny pulled out a checkbook, wrote a check for 10 percent more than the asking price and handed it to Marie. He turned to Grace and smiled. “Happy one-month anniversary, Gracie.”
Grace had been so happy, she’d danced in the street.
They called the house “Le Cocon”—the cocoon. They planned to retire there.
JOHN MERRIVALE WASN’T WELL. HIS DOCTOR prescribed antidepressants and a month of total peace.
“Here.” Lenny pressed the keys to Le Cocon into his hands. “Take as long as you need. There’s a housekeeper, Madame Thomas, in permanent residence. She’ll wash and cook for you, but otherwise you’ll be alone.”
John was touched, but the idea wasn’t practical. “I c-can’t just disappear to Madagascar. What about Quorum?”
“We’ll be fine.”
“C-Caroline will never agree to it.”
“Leave Caroline to me.”
When he returned to New York six weeks later, John was a new man. He showed Lenny and Grace the photographs. Himself, strolling the cobbled streets of Upper Town in Antananarivo, relaxing in the hot springs of Antsirabe, trekking through the rain forest at Ranomafana.
Of course, his happiness didn’t last. Caroline made sure of that. But Grace would never forget the look of childlike wonder on John’s face when he spoke of Madagascar. He even approached Lenny privately about buying Le Cocon.
“Name your price.”
Lenny smiled. “Sorry, buddy. Any house but that one. The guest suite will always have your name on it. But she’s not for sale.”
GRACE CALLED TO THE FISHERMEN. “Combien de temps encore?”
“Environ deux heures. Trois peut-être. Vous allez bien?”
Grace wasn’t doing fine. But she would be once they got there. Reaching into the knapsack she never let out of her sight, she fingered Gavin Williams’s gun lovingly, stroking it the way a child might a teddy bear. She wondered how long it would take her to track John down once they got to the island. Le Cocon had been sold when Quorum was liquidated. The buyer was a Dutch Internet entrepreneur, a man named Jan Beerens.
&nb
sp; I’ll start with him.
THIRTY-FIVE
HARRY BAIN TURNED TO MITCH CONNORS. “I hate this shithole.”
“Yeah, well. Don’t we all.”
Mombasa was a shithole. Hot and dirty and soulless. Both Mitch and Harry were covered in bites from mosquitoes as big as hummingbirds, and the combined effect of the itching and the heat made sleep all but impossible. No wonder they’d begun to get short with each other. They’d been able to trace John Merrivale’s movements as far as Kenya, but since they arrived in Kenya, the trail had gone stone cold. At this rate they might be stuck here for many more days, perhaps even weeks.
Mitch thought about Helen and his daughter, back in New York. It was shamefully long since he’d last seen Celeste. He didn’t miss Helen anymore, but Celeste was a different story. He tried to push the little girl out of his mind, to focus all his mental energy on this case, but it was hard.
If Mitch and Harry Bain didn’t find John Merrivale before Grace did, Grace would kill the guy for sure. Understandably, she’d lost all faith in the system. The whole notion of an appeal seemed laughable to her. Personally, Mitch couldn’t have cared less if Merrivale got a bullet between the eyes. But if Grace ended up with a murder charge against her, she would be beyond his or anybody’s help.
There was a knock on the door of the hotel room. Mitch looked at Harry, as if to say, Who the hell can that be? It’s after midnight. Both drew their weapons.
“Who is it?”
“It is I, Jonas. We met this morning at the airport. Please, you are letting me inside?”
Mitch grinned. The Kenyans might rob you blind, but they’d say “please” and “thank you” while they did it. As a nation, you couldn’t fault them for politeness. Jonas Ndiaye was a pilot Mitch and Harry had interviewed earlier after a tip that Merrivale may have chartered a small plane to fly into Tanzania. But the trip had been another dead end. None of the pilots had recognized John’s picture.
Mitch opened the door.
Jonas Ndiaye was thirty years old but looked younger. He had a naughty, boyish face, with no visible stubble, and a spiky, Westernized hairstyle glued into place with some sort of spray or gel. He reminded Mitch of a black Bart Simpson.
“I apologize with the late hour.”
“That’s okay,” said Harry Bain. “We weren’t sleeping. What can we do for you, Jonas?”
“The question I am asking is what I can do for you? After you leave today, I am shaking my brains about that photograph. Yes indeed. I think you will be happy to give some dollars to me about the things I am knowing, yes, yes, I think so.” He flashed Harry an open, expectant smile. As if asking flat out for a bribe was the most normal, reasonable thing in the world. “Tonight we are doing business, yes indeed! My memory is becoming alive.”
Wearily, Harry Bain unlocked his bedside drawer. He pulled out a wad of twenty-dollar bills, held together with a rubber band. You couldn’t take a dump in Kenya without bribing somebody. Jonas Ndiaye’s eyes widened. He stretched out a hand for the money, but Bain shook his head.
“What do you know?”
“The man in the photograph was traveling in my plane. Yes, it is true! Two weeks ago he came.”
“You took him to Tanzania?”
“No.” Jonas held out his hand again. Harry Bain peeled off five bills from the pile and handed them to him.
“Where?”
“The gentleman was wishing to fly to Madagascar.”
Harry looked at Mitch. No extradition treaty.
“I brought him to Antananarivo airport. He was talking about the wildlife. He will go there on safari, you see, to take many pictures and also to dive in the ocean. Now my memory has come back to me, I can tell you he was a charming gentleman. Very charming, the man in the photograph.”
Mitch asked, “Did he tell you where he was staying? Or how long he intended to be on the island?”
Jonas smiled expectantly at Harry. More cash was exchanged.
“He did not.”
“Hey! Give me back that hundred, you son of a bitch.”
Jonas looked hurt. “Please, sir, do not become agitated. The gentleman did not tell me his plans. But he did ask me some sights to recommend.”
“And?”
Another smile. Harry Bain’s patience was fraying. “Don’t push it, kid.”
Mitch looked pointedly at his gun lying on the bedside table. The pilot decided not to push it.
“For diving, there is only one place and that is Nosy Tanikely.”
“Nosy what? What is that? A beach?”
“It as an island,” Jonas explained politely. “A place of sanctuary for the wildlife of the ocean.”
“A marine reserve?”
“It is where the divers go. Your friend, the gentleman, was traveling with diving equipment.”
Harry Bain looked at Mitch and smiled. “Thank you, Jonas. You’ve been a lot of help.”
“Yes, I am delighted to make this service to you. Now you are giving me some dollars for my transport, and I think it is the end of our business.”
GRACE STOOD OUTSIDE LE COCON FOR a long time. She hadn’t expected to feel emotional. After everything that had happened, she didn’t believe she was capable of it anymore. But as she stood on the steep cobbled street, looking up at the thick stone walls that had once made her feel so protected, tears streamed down her cheeks.
She was surprised to learn that Mr. Beerens was in residence. She’d assumed he bought Le Cocon on a whim, as Lenny had done, one of a fleet of vacation homes he thought about from time to time but rarely visited. She gave her name as Charlotte Le Clerc, and was even more surprised when Beerens agreed to see her.
“May I offer you a drink, Ms. Le Clerc?”
Jan Beerens was middle-aged, fat and amiable, with thinning reddish blond hair and brown eyes that twinkled when he smiled.
“Thank you. A glass of water would be great.” Grace struggled to maintain her composure. Inside, the house had not been changed at all. She hadn’t realized that Beerens had bought it lock, stock and barrel, including her and Lenny’s furniture and artwork. She even recognized the glasses, crystal tumblers she’d had shipped especially from Paris.
Grace’s hair had grown out a little at Dillwyn and in the weeks since her escape. In Mombasa, she’d had it cut into a chin-length bob that she dyed a rich, mahogany brown. Catching sight of herself in the library mirror, she thought, The only thing in this house I don’t recognize is myself.
“What brings you to Le Cocon? To Madagascar, for that matter. You are on vacation?”
“Sort of. I stayed here once, with a friend. Years ago.”
“You were a guest of the Brooksteins?”
“My friend was. It’s actually a little awkward, but this friend of mine, he’s been going through a hard time recently.”
Jan Beerens looked sympathetic. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Thanks. He took off a few weeks ago and no one’s heard from him since. I know he made it as far as Madagascar. I wondered if maybe, out of nostalgia or whatever, he’d stopped by the house.” She pulled out a picture. “I don’t suppose you’ve seen him?”
Beerens studied the picture for a long time. Grace’s hopes soared, then plummeted when he handed it back to her.
“Sorry. I feel as if I recognize him from somewhere. But he hasn’t been here.”
“You’re quite sure?”
“Positive, I’m afraid. You’re my first visitor in over a year. That’s partly why I decided to sell. I adore the house and the island, but it’s too isolated. I’m only here now to sign the papers, and to say my farewells. You’re lucky you caught me.”
“Oh.” She didn’t know why, but it made Grace feel sad that this kind, thoughtful man would be leaving Le Cocon. “Who’s the new owner? If you don’t mind me asking.”
“Actually, it’s all rather mysterious. I was approached by a lawyer in New York, and he’s handled everything, but he’s never divulged the name of his cli
ent. Whoever it was clearly knew the house intimately. This lawyer made a number of requests for specific pieces of furniture, carpets, that sort of thing. He’s moving in on Monday, I believe.”
Grace’s breathing quickened. She felt the hairs on her arms prick up. Whoever it was knew the house intimately.
Jan Beerens walked her to the door. “I’ll say this for Lenny Brookstein. He may have been a crook, but he’d have made a hell of an interior designer. I’m gonna miss this place. As for your friend, I’m sorry I couldn’t be of more help.”
Grace shook his hand. “Actually, you’ve been very helpful. Good-bye, Mr. Beerens. Good luck.”
HARRY BAIN AND MITCH CONNORS DECIDED to split up. Madagascar was the size of Texas, and all they had to go on was what Jonas Ndiaye had told them.
Harry said, “I’ll stay in Antananarivo. I can interview staff at the airport, taxi drivers, real estate brokers. I’ll talk to the managers of all the good local hotels. If he was here, someone’ll remember him, especially with that stammer.”
Mitch took a small plane to the north of the island. Nosy Tanikely was a tiny atoll in an extensive archipelago off Madagascar’s northwest coast. A diver’s paradise, there was nothing there but beach and ocean. For a roof over their heads, divers and sightseers alike had to go to nearby Nosy Be. It amused Mitch that the capital of Nosy Be was called “Hellville.” If anywhere truly lived up to the brochure fantasy of paradise, with white sandy beaches and tranquil turquoise waters, it was this place. If you were going to spend the rest of your life on the run from U.S. authorities, this was the place to do it, all right. John Merrivale was nobody’s fool.
Mitch went to every five-star hotel on the island. Every supermarket, drugstore, bar and car rental office.
“Have you seen this man?