Promise Not to Tell

by Jayne Ann Krentz

  Relief crashed through Virginia.

  “Does this mean you’ll take my case?” she asked.

  “Oh, yeah,” Cabot said. “We will definitely take the case.”

  The icy certainty in the softly spoken words sent a flash of unease through Virginia. There was a fine line between keeping an open mind and full-on obsession, she thought. She ought to know. She had been walking that line herself for years.

  She had wanted a private investigator who would take her concerns seriously. That was why she had tracked down Anson Salinas. She had hoped he could advise her, and she had been hugely relieved to discover that he was now in Seattle and part of an investigation agency. But it was clear that, while Anson would be involved, he wasn’t the one who would be actively working the case. She was pretty sure now that she would be dealing primarily with Cabot Sutter.

  As if he had read her mind, Cabot met her eyes.

  “What’s the matter?” he said. “Having second thoughts?”

  She tapped her finger on the desk. “It just occurred to me that it’s one thing for me to wonder if Zane is still alive and if he murdered Hannah Brewster. After all, I’m the client. I’m entitled to my suspicions.”

  “But it’s something else altogether if the investigators are on board with your personal conspiracy theory, is that it?”

  “I think we need to be concerned about maintaining a degree of objectivity here,” she said, trying for a diplomatic response.

  “Sorry,” Cabot said. “You’ve picked the wrong investigation agency if you want objectivity. When it comes to Quinton Zane, this is Conspiracy Central.”

  Anson scowled at him. “Stop trying to scare the client, Cabot.” He turned back to Virginia. “Don’t worry. Appearances to the contrary, he’s a very good investigator. In fact, after he got out of the military, he spent a couple of years as a chief of police.”

  “Really?” Virginia looked at Cabot. “Why did you leave the police chief job?”

  “I was fired,” Cabot said.

  She did not know where to go with that. “I see.”

  “Now, let’s get back to our conspiracy theory,” Cabot said. “Looks like the first step is to pay a visit to the island where Hannah Brewster died. I’ll pull up the ferry schedule and see how soon I can get there.”

  It dawned on Virginia that she was losing control of the situation. It was time to take charge.

  “Don’t bother,” she said. “I’ve visited Lost Island so often I’ve got the schedule memorized. The island is served by a private ferry. Service is only once a day in the early afternoon. Reservations are suggested if you’re bringing a vehicle.”

  “Right,” Cabot said. “I’ll be on the next available ferry.”

  She gave him a cool smile. “So will I.”

  He went absolutely still for a moment. She knew he was trying to decide how to deal with her.

  “That’s not a good idea,” he said finally.

  “I didn’t ask your opinion on the matter. I’ve got a reservation on the ferry tomorrow. You’re welcome to join me if you still want to take the job.”

  “I’m taking the job,” he said evenly.

  Anson exhaled a long-suffering sigh. “I’m afraid Cabot is still learning the ropes when it comes to the fine points of client relations, but like I told you, he’s a damn good investigator, Virginia. He knows what he’s doing.”

  “I’ll take your word for it.” Virginia shut down her tablet and stuffed it into her tote. “It’s not like I’ve got a lot of options, is it?”

  Cabot allowed himself a small smile. “Nope.”

  “Fine. I’m the one with the reservation for a car on the ferry, so I’ll be driving. If you’ll give me your address, I’ll pick you up in the morning. We’ll need to leave Seattle by seven thirty to catch the first of the two ferries it will take to get to the island.”

  “You don’t have to worry about picking me up,” Cabot said coolly. “I’ll be at your door a little before seven thirty.”

  She hesitated and then concluded that the issue of who picked up whom was one battle she did not need to fight. She gave him her address.

  “It’s a condo,” she added. “I’ll meet you in the lobby.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  It was a vow. The intensity infused in his words triggered a shiver of wariness. She had the feeling that she hadn’t just hired a professional investigator—she had unleashed a force of nature.

  “All right,” she said, because there really wasn’t anything else to say. She turned toward Anson and gave him a warm smile. “It’s good to see you again, Anson.”

  He got to his feet and rounded the desk to help her into her trench coat.

  “Good to see you, too, Virginia,” he said. He opened the door. “Now, don’t worry about Cabot. He doesn’t exactly excel at customer relations, but he’ll get the job done.”

  “That’s all I ask,” Virginia said. She moved past him into the hall. “Don’t worry about the poor attitude. I’m used to dealing with temperamental, eccentric artists.”

  She had the satisfaction of seeing the stunned expression on Cabot’s face before Anson very quickly closed the door.

  For some inexplicable reason, she suddenly felt a lot more cheerful. She went on down the hall to the elevator and pushed the call button.

  CHAPTER 5

  Cabot went to the window and looked down at the rain-slick pavement of Western Avenue. He was feeling simultaneously energized and thoroughly pissed off. He couldn’t remember the last time he had experienced such a weird mix of emotions. He also couldn’t get Virginia’s parting words out of his head.

  “I’m used to dealing with temperamental, eccentric artists.”

  Like hell you are, lady.

  Cutler, Sutter & Salinas occupied a small suite of offices on the fourth floor of a commercial building not far from Pike Place Market. It was a good address. True, it was not a flashy, high-end address in one of the gleaming downtown towers, but it was a respectable location. It also had the advantage of offering a discreet, low-profile entrance that appealed to those who were in the market for an investigator’s services.

  “What’s your take on her?” he asked without turning his head.

  Anson exhaled heavily. “I think Virginia Troy’s got a lot of unanswered questions about the past.” He paused a beat. “Same as everyone else who survived Zane’s operation.”

  “Including Max and Jack and me.”

  “You know, after that fire at the compound, I called in every favor I had, contacted everyone I knew in law enforcement, trying to run down Zane. And then, a few months later, he’s supposedly dead in a convenient fire-at-sea scenario.”

  “He faked his own death because he knew you would never stop looking for him.”

  “And now he’s got you and Max and Jack on his trail. World’s a different place these days. Lot more technology available. Sooner or later you’ll find him, assuming he’s alive.”

  “He’s still out there, Anson. I know it.”

  “No argument from me. I never did buy that yacht-fire story.”

  Cabot turned around. “Virginia as much as admitted that Hannah Brewster was borderline if not full-on crazy.”

  “Here’s what you should keep in mind,” Anson said. “Hannah Brewster was Virginia Troy’s last link to the cult, the last person who could have supplied some answers about the past. Now Brewster is dead, leaving Virginia with a lot of unanswered questions. She needs to know if Brewster really was hallucinating when she did that last painting.”

  “We need to know that, too.”

  “Yep,” Anson said. “Okay, I gave you my take on her. What’s yours?”

  Cabot tried to sort through his initial impressions. Virginia Troy was cloaked in a cool reserve that made it impossible to get a handle on her. There were some con
tradictions that were hard to resolve.

  It had come as no surprise to discover that she owned an art gallery. It was the first time he had met someone who actually did own a gallery, but damned if Virginia didn’t look like what he expected an art dealer to look like: sharp, polished, sophisticated.

  But there had been none of the elitist attitude that he’d expected from a woman who moved in the art world.

  Her dark hair had been swept straight back and secured in a severe knot that made you very aware of her intelligent green-and-gold eyes. The black-framed glasses contributed to the crisp look-but-don’t-touch aura.

  There was, he concluded, something very fierce going on just under the surface. He understood because there was a similar energy burning deep inside him. We’ve both had to learn how to channel the fire at the core, haven’t we?

  Her clothes—dark trousers and a close-fitting jacket in a deep, dark rust color—looked expensive. And then there were the boots.

  What was it about a woman in high-heeled boots that made a man take notice?

  “She seems to be doing all right in the gallery business,” Cabot said.

  Anson pursed his lips. “Successful, I’d say. But I don’t think she’s exactly raking in the cash. I’ll do a little research on her gallery and see what I can find.”

  “No ring.”

  “You noticed, huh?” Anson sounded amused.

  “What?” Cabot said.

  “Nothing,” Anson said a little too easily.

  “She said I was eccentric.”

  “Not exactly. I believe what she actually said was that she was accustomed to dealing with temperamental, eccentric artists.”

  “Which carries the strong implication that she classifies me in the same category as one of her temperamental, eccentric artists.”

  “Well, if it’s any consolation, I’d say you’re not temperamental. Just the opposite. You’re not big on heavy drama, that’s for sure.”

  Cabot groaned. “Thanks for that.”

  “Expect it’s a result of all that martial arts training.” Anson sat forward and folded his hands on top of his desk. “Moving right along, I do think that Virginia Troy’s got a solid reason to want to go to that island and ask a few questions.”

  “So do I,” Cabot said. “Think we should notify Max and Jack that we’ve got a possible new lead on Zane?”

  “It’s not a lead; it’s a rumor based on the hallucinations of a woman who was, by all accounts, certifiably nuts. Jack is working a consulting gig in Chicago. He needs to focus. And why drag Max and Charlotte back from their honeymoon if there’s nothing concrete? I vote we find out exactly what we’re dealing with before we go off the deep end.”

  “Right.” Cabot headed for his office. “I’ll clean up the paperwork on that insurance job so you can send the bill to the client.”

  “One more thing. That lawyer fellow called again.”

  “Burleigh?” Cabot paused in the doorway. “What the hell did he want?”

  “Same thing he wanted the first time. He wants to talk to you.”

  “You gave him my message?”

  “Word for word. Told him you haven’t had any connection to your mother’s family in your entire life and you don’t plan to change that situation now. But I can tell that he’s the persistent type.”

  “So am I.”

  “You want my advice?”

  “No, but I’m going to get it, aren’t I?”

  “Yeah,” Anson said. “Because I’m pretty sure Burleigh’s not going to go away. Find out what he’s after and then you can make an informed decision.”

  “My decision is already informed by the fact that my mother’s family disowned her when she ran off with my biological father.”

  “A new generation has come of age since your mother got kicked out of the Kennington family,” Anson said. “Be reasonable. Maybe someone found out what happened all those years ago and wants to reach out to you. Reopen the lines of communication.”

  “If that was true, why go through a lawyer? Everyone knows that no one wants to get a call from a lawyer.”

  “Your choice,” Anson said. “But I’m telling you, Burleigh is not going to go away.”

  “Fine.” Cabot moved into his office. “I’ll return his call. I’ll listen to what he has to say and then I’ll tell him to go to hell.”

  “That’s the spirit. I left the number on your desk.”

  Cabot went into the office, closed the door and sat down. The only thing marring the Zen-like surface of his desk was the sticky note with Burleigh’s name and a telephone number.

  He contemplated the digits for a while. Anson was right. Lawyers generally did not give up and go away just because they couldn’t get someone on the phone; at least not well-paid lawyers, and any lawyer calling on behalf of the Kenningtons of San Francisco would be very well paid.

  His mother’s family controlled a closely held empire that had been founded in California during the heyday of the gold rush in the 1800s. The original source of wealth had not been gold, however. Thomas J. Kennington had been far too smart to waste time chasing a fantasy with a pick and a shovel. Instead, he had built a nice little empire selling picks and shovels and other equipment to the prospectors who were chasing the fantasy.

  Later, Kennington and his heirs had invested in oil and railroads. Eventually those old-school sources of revenue had given way to a more modern, more diversified portfolio that included a lot of valuable California real estate. “You can never go wrong with waterfront property” had been the Kennington company motto since the 1930s. They had proven to be profitable words to live by.

  For nearly five decades, the man in charge of Kennington International had been Whittaker Kennington. Cabot had never met his grandfather, and that wasn’t going to change now, because two months ago Whittaker Kennington had collapsed and died. The cause of death was a heart attack. He had been eighty-five and on his third marriage. The family had kept the precise circumstances of his death vague, pleading privacy issues. But they couldn’t control the rumors. The old man had been in bed with his mistress at the time of his death.

  The Kenningtons were brilliant when it came to business, but they were also notorious for their family dramas. They were known for their volatile tempers. They harbored grudges, engaged in multigenerational feuds and usually racked up multiple marriages.

  Cabot reached for the phone on his desk. Get it over with, he thought. Then he could start thinking about tomorrow morning and Virginia Troy.

  A woman with a smooth, polished voice answered on the second ring.

  “Burleigh Hammond.”

  “Cabot Sutter returning a call from—” Cabot broke off to glance at the sticky note. “From J. L. Burleigh.”

  “Yes, of course, Mr. Sutter.” The polished voice warmed instantly. “Mr. Burleigh is expecting your call. I’m afraid he’s on the other line. Will you hold?”

  Cabot glanced at his watch. “He’s got thirty seconds.”

  Burleigh took the call immediately.

  “Thank you for returning my call, Mr. Sutter.”

  It was a lawyer’s voice: sincere; trustworthy; very, very smooth. It was a voice well suited to telling a story to the jury. “Ladies and gentlemen, you have the rare opportunity to right a terrible wrong. My client is an innocent man.”

  “I got your message,” Cabot said. “What is this about?”

  “You are no doubt aware that your grandfather passed away two months ago.”

  “I heard.”

  “My firm is handling the estate. As I’m sure you can imagine, it is a very complex situation.”

  “That’s your problem.”

  “I’m calling to let you know that, due to a small technicality in the will, you are entitled to receive a very nice sum of money.”

  Cabot sat v
ery still. “Is it the customary one-dollar bequest acknowledging that I’m a descendant so I can’t sue on the grounds that my grandfather was unaware of my existence?”

  “I can assure you, this is considerably more than one dollar,” Burleigh said. “The amount in question is twenty-five thousand dollars.”

  So, definitely more than the token dollar that was employed to prevent a member of the family from obtaining grounds to sue. But twenty-five grand was pocket change for the Whittaker Kennington estate—probably the equivalent of one dollar to the old bastard.

  But a nice windfall in my world, Cabot thought. It would cover the rent on his overpriced Seattle apartment for a few months and leave a little extra that could be used to upgrade the agency’s computer systems.

  “Got to admit, I’m surprised,” he said. “Any idea why the old man decided to acknowledge my existence?”

  “When people reach the end of their lives, they often reflect on the past and experience regrets,” Burleigh said.

  “I heard he died in his girlfriend’s bed. Doesn’t sound like he was spending a lot of time brooding on the past.”

  “Don’t believe everything you see in the media. Unfortunately, the circumstances of Mr. Kennington’s death have become fodder for the tabloids. Your grandfather was a rather colorful personality.”

  “That’s one way of describing him.

  “Mean, unforgiving, tyrannical womanizer would be another way,” Cabot added under his breath.

  “As I was saying, you are to receive the twenty-five thousand dollars,” Burleigh continued. “But there is some paperwork involved.”

  “Sure. Just overnight it to my office.”

  “I’m afraid it’s a bit more complicated than that. The easiest and fastest way to handle it would be in person.”

  “I’m working a case. I’ll call you when I’m free.”

  Burleigh chuckled. “I wasn’t suggesting that you go to the trouble and expense of traveling all the way to San Francisco. It’s my job to do the running around. I can fly up to Seattle with the check tomorrow, if that’s convenient.”