by Amanda Quick
“And why would he take the risk of having an affair with one of Lyra’s friends before the wedding? He had to know that if Lyra found out she would end the engagement. In fact, given what I know about Hamilton, I wouldn’t be surprised if he unconsciously wanted to be discovered in bed with Lyra’s friend. It got him out of a marriage he probably does not want.”
Nick studied his notes again. “People rarely use a lot of logic or common sense when they indulge in an affair.”
There was an acute silence from the other side of the table. Nick looked up. Vivian was very busy feeding bacon to Rex under the table. It occurred to him she was probably thinking about their own newly minted affair and the possibility that logic and common sense had not been involved.
“I’m not an expert on this sort of thing but it sounds like you’ve just ruled out our two prime client suspects,” she said. “What about Ripley Fleming?”
“I can’t see him as a client,” Nick said. “There’s no connection between the two of you. But he makes a very good assassin. Perfect cover. Perfect camouflage. Talented actor. We know he showed up at the scene of the Carstairs murder and now he’s here in Burning Cove.”
Vivian shook her head. “The thing is, he seems genuinely grateful to me for not taking his photo that night.”
“If he is the killer, he had every reason to be grateful. Doesn’t mean he doesn’t plan to kill you.”
“We know he didn’t leave the hotel grounds the other night, so he couldn’t have murdered Toby Flint.”
“I’m not so sure he didn’t leave. According to Oliver Ward there were plenty of sightings of Fleming throughout the evening but it’s impossible to know where someone is every single minute. If Fleming is our man in the work clothes and cap, he could have used that disguise long enough to slip out of the hotel through a service entrance, murder Flint, and then return to the bar.”
“Still, he seems so nice.”
Nick raised his brows. “You’d be amazed how often people say exactly that after a killer is arrested.”
Vivian made a face.
“There is, however, one other possibility,” Nick continued. “An unknown figure. We’ll call him Mr. X for now.”
“We don’t know anything about him.”
“You’re wrong. We know a lot about him because of the timeline. Morris Deverell, the Dagger Killer, attacked you about a month ago because he realized you were the one who told the cops the killer was probably a photographer working in the pictorial tradition.”
“That turned out to be the truth. Remember, the police found an expensive camera and a collection of daggers in Deverell’s house.”
“And then he was mysteriously run down by a car immediately after he escaped from the hospital.” Nick paused. “Before he could talk to the cops.”
Vivian went very still. “You’re convinced someone murdered him after he escaped from the hospital, aren’t you?”
“Yes. Probably the same someone who helped him escape. Now Toby Flint is dead by the same means. There has to be a connection.”
“Mr. X murdered both of them. Motive?”
“Both men knew too much. Mr. X has the answers we need. With a little luck he’ll walk into the trap that Luther and I have set for tonight.”
Vivian’s brows rose. “Since when do you believe in luck?”
“Since I met you.”
She smiled a dazzling smile. “It’s so nice to know I am contributing to this investigation.”
“I wouldn’t be this far along without you.”
“Do we have any special plans for today?”
“No. Today is all about waiting and looking as if we aren’t the least bit concerned that a killer is watching you.”
“In that case, is there any reason why I can’t use Joan Ashwood’s darkroom to develop a couple of prints for her to hang in her gallery?”
Nick thought about it. “No, not as long as Lyra and I accompany you. I don’t want you to be alone today.”
Chapter 39
The storm struck in full fury shortly before midnight. Vivian was sitting in a booth in the Burning Cove Hotel’s elegant bar. She was not alone. Lyra was with her. So were Raina Kirk and Irene Ward. Rex was under the table, enjoying occasional pats from the women.
The glamorously shadowed lounge was packed because most of the hotel guests who otherwise might have chosen to spend the evening at one of the local nightclubs had decided to stay on the grounds. It was not as if the hotel did not offer plenty of first-class entertainment. A jazz trio was playing on the small stage and the cocktails were served up by skilled bartenders who put on a show every time they crafted a drink.
Security was tight but the beefy men wearing extra-large tuxes remained mostly in the shadows.
Raina took a sip of her cocktail and set the glass on the table.
“Don’t worry, Vivian,” she said. “Everything will be fine. Luther has had a lot of experience setting traps for bad guys and he assures me Nick knows what he’s doing, too. Mr. Sundridge is an investigator, after all.”
“I know.” Vivian swirled her drink in an absentminded way.
She reached under the table to touch Rex. He licked her hand as if he understood she needed reassurance. She had given up trying to shake the sense of impending disaster that had been plaguing her since Nick had left the hotel an hour ago. She would not be able to relax until it was over and Nick walked through the door of the lounge.
“It’s not as if there are only the two of them involved in this thing,” Irene pointed out. “Oliver is with them tonight, and so is Detective Brandon from the Burning Cove Police. Brandon has officers watching the road in and out of the rendezvous point. When the assassin picks up the journal, they’ll move in and grab him.”
“You make it sound so simple,” Lyra said.
“Simple plans are usually the best, according to Luther,” Raina said.
“Oliver agrees,” Irene said. “He says that even the most complicated magic trick has a fairly simple explanation. It’s all about distracting the audience with a good story.”
“Exactly,” Raina said. “Tonight the assassin is the audience. The story is that he is finally within reach of something he wants desperately.”
“The journal of poems,” Irene said.
“Right,” Raina said. “He’ll believe he’s safe because the deal was set up by an underworld figure, the Broker.”
Lyra was fascinated. “Does Mr. Pell really have underworld connections?”
Raina’s smile was difficult to interpret. “Luther is a complicated man with a complicated past. Let’s leave it at that, shall we?”
Something in her tone sent a tiny chill of awareness across the back of Vivian’s neck. She looked at Raina, trying to read her eyes, but the flickering candlelight made it difficult. The only thing she could be certain of was that Raina’s past was complicated, too. Everyone had secrets.
Curious, she decided to try a little careful probing.
“How long have you been here in Burning Cove?” she asked in what she hoped was a casual manner.
“Not long,” Raina said. “I used to live in New York.”
That explained the East Coast accent, Vivian thought.
“I’ve never met a female private investigator,” Lyra said. “It sounds very exciting. How do you go about getting a job like that?”
“I don’t know how other people do it,” Raina said. “But in my case I just rented an office, put out a sign, and advertised in the local phone book.”
“Do you carry a gun?” Lyra asked.
Raina was starting to look amused. “I own a gun, if that’s what you want to know. But I rarely carry it. The cases I handle are seldom dangerous. For example, I run background investigations on people this hotel and the Paradise Club are considering for employment. I do some missing perso
ns work. I’m also trying to market my services to women who are considering marriage.”
Lyra was fascinated. “What services do you offer them?”
Irene smiled. “She means she’s available to take a close look at the past behavior of the man the client is planning to marry.”
Lyra’s eyes widened. “What a fantastic idea. I wish I’d hired you to look into my ex-fiancé’s history, Raina. I mean, I knew Hamilton had a certain reputation as a ladies’ man but I thought that was all in the past. I never dreamed he was actually cheating on me with one of my best friends.”
Vivian glanced at the rather large handbag Raina had with her. “You brought your gun with you tonight, didn’t you?”
Raina nodded, saying nothing.
“Raina had a rather nasty experience recently,” Irene said. “She and several other people were taken hostage at the Paradise Club.”
Vivian looked at Raina. “I read about that in the papers. Luckily none of the hostages was hurt.”
“Luck,” Raina said, “had nothing to do with it.”
Lyra started to ask another question but she stopped and smiled at the familiar figure making his way toward the booth.
“Look,” she said, “here comes Ripley Fleming.”
Chapter 40
The storm was a complication they could have done without, Nick thought. He was behind the wheel of the Packard, making his way along Cliff Road, a narrow, winding, two-lane strip of pavement that followed the bluffs above the ocean. The rain was coming down hard now, severely limiting visibility, even for someone with his excellent night vision.
He was alone in the sedan. Luther and the others were waiting at the old pier. The trap had been set. It remained to be seen if the killer would take the bait.
How badly do you want that journal, Mr. X? How desperately do you want to complete the commission?
The first hint of engine trouble came when he tried to accelerate out of a sharp turn. The car did not respond with its usual surge of power. The steam appeared when he went into the next curve. It wafted up from the front of the vehicle.
The engine was overheating. That should not be happening. He took very, very good care of the Packard. The radiator hose was in excellent shape.
He eased the car to the side of the road before the big eight-cylinder engine died and he sat quietly for a moment, running through possibilities and probabilities.
He left the headlights on to warn other motorists there was a vehicle parked on the edge of the pavement although it was unlikely there would be much traffic on such a stormy night.
He found the flashlight in the glove box, opened the door, and got out from behind the wheel. He left his hat behind. He was going to get drenched. There was no point ruining the fedora as well as his jacket and trousers.
He walked around to the front of the car and raised the hood. Hot steam hissed from the nearly empty radiator. He crouched and aimed the flashlight under the car. The perfectly good radiator hose had burst in at least three places. The water meant to cool the engine had drained out somewhere along Cliff Road.
He straightened and used the flashlight to check his watch. It was going to be a long walk to the pier where Luther and the cops were waiting. The deal for the journal was due to take place in an hour.
The low growl of a car engine rumbled in the distance. He looked back down the road and saw the twin beams of a pair of headlights. They flashed briefly and then disappeared when the vehicle went into a curve.
He opened the driver’s side door, reached inside, and doused the headlights. Then he closed the door again. The rainy darkness closed in hard and fast. He switched on the flashlight and surveyed the rocky, weather-beaten landscape on the far side of the road, away from the bluff. It offered few places of concealment. He decided his best option was a cluster of boulders.
He crossed the pavement, moved behind the largest rock, and turned off the flashlight. Moments later a car cruised slowly out of a curve, windshield wipers slashing. The headlights picked up the darkened Packard.
The driver pulled to the side and came to a halt directly behind the Packard. The headlights illuminated the vehicle but the rain reduced visibility. The motorist could probably tell there was no one sitting behind the wheel but that was about all that he would be able to see.
After a moment the driver got out of the front seat. He left the lights on and the engine running. A familiar cap was pulled down low over his eyes in an attempt to ward off some of the rain. He held a flashlight in his left hand but his right arm was stiff and straight at his side.
Nick could not see the gun but he was sure it was in the driver’s right hand.
“Hello,” the driver shouted. “Anyone around? Looks like you had some car trouble. I’d be happy to give you a lift into town.”
Nick waited.
After a moment the driver walked to the passenger side window of the Packard and aimed the flashlight into the front and rear seats. Satisfied that there was no one inside he immediately moved to the back of the car and opened the trunk.
“So you’re the Poet,” Nick said.
The driver gave a violent start of surprise and dove for the shadows on the far side of the Packard, putting the vehicle between himself and Nick.
“Who the fuck are you?” the Poet shouted. “How did you get hold of my journal? How did you break the code?”
“It’s a long story. Let’s just say breaking the code was the easy part.”
“You’re not law enforcement.”
“No. Just someone who knows your poems are records of your so-called commissions. Names, dates, clients. The techniques you used to make the murders look like natural causes, suicides, or accidents.”
“Did you really think I was dumb enough to walk into the trap you set up at that old pier tonight?” the Poet said.
“The possibility occurred to me, yes. I know you’re desperate to recover the journal.”
“I knew you had it figured out when you grabbed the photographer. Why are you protecting her?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” Nick said. “Miss Brazier is the bait I needed to trap you.”
“You failed. I never had any intention of showing up at the pier tonight. In case you’re wondering, I got to your car in the hotel parking lot last night.”
“Out of curiosity, what did you use on the radiator hose? A knife?”
“Ice pick.” Hot satisfaction seethed in the Poet’s voice for a few seconds. “The same thing I’m going to use on the photographer. Here’s the part I know you’ll appreciate. It’s going to look like you killed her. Newly wed husband discovers that his bride isn’t the woman he believed her to be. Grabs the ice pick. Act of passion.”
“Oddly enough, I’ve already lived out a very similar script. But in that case, the woman survived. Someone else died instead.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Your lack of originality.”
“Where’s the journal?” Rage and frustration crept into the Poet’s voice.
“You haven’t given me much of an incentive to answer that question.”
“Here’s the deal. We’re going to do a trade. You give me the journal, you get to live.”
“Fair enough, but it won’t work because I can’t hold up my end of the bargain.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
“I don’t have the journal. Not on me. It’s not in the car, either.”
“Where is it?”
The Poet’s voice was rapidly becoming shrill.
“You’re almost at the breaking point, aren’t you?” Nick said. “That kind of mental instability is a real problem for someone in your line of work.”
“Tell me where the journal is.”
“It’s exactly where the Broker told you it would be,” Nick said quietly. “At the p
ier.”
“I don’t believe you. You wouldn’t let it out of your sight. It’s too valuable. It’s hidden inside the car.”
Nick did not respond.
“Who are you?” the Poet asked. He sounded calmer now. Back in control. Barely.
“Haven’t you figured it out yet?” Nick said. “I’m your competition.”
“What the hell—? You think you can take my place? You’re out of your mind.”
“You’re losing your edge. Your skills are no longer sharp. Take the disguise you used the night you firebombed Miss Brazier’s cottage. You wore the wrong shoes. A rich man’s shoes.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I realize you’ve been working under a time constraint and that you were feeling the pressure. But, seriously, talk about amateurish techniques. In the end you couldn’t even safeguard your journal, the one thing that could send you to death row. Face it. Time to retire.”
There was a shock wave of silence from the far side of the Packard.
“One thing I’d really like to know,” the Poet said finally. “How did you steal my journal?”
“I didn’t steal it,” Nick said. “Someone else did. I just picked up the rumors about it and followed them to the source.”
“What rumors?”
“The minute you notified the Broker that you were interested in buying a certain book of handwritten poems at any price, no questions asked, the rumors began circulating.”
“So much for the Broker’s promise of anonymity,” the Poet said. “You can’t trust anyone these days.”
“The Broker kept his word. That’s why he has survived as long as he has. But when something extremely valuable comes on the market there are always rumors.”
“Who stole my journal?” the Poet screamed.
His pistol roared in the night, punctuating the words.
One down, five shots to go, Nick thought. Unless the Poet was carrying extra ammunition. Probably not. Judging by the accounts in the journal he was not accustomed to using a gun for his kills. He preferred more subtle methods.