Promise Not to Tell

by Jayne Ann Krentz

  “We’ll follow you to the airport,” Cabot said. “Make sure you get safely past security.”

  “Thanks,” Kate said. “I would appreciate that.”

  “What about your car?” Virginia asked.

  “It’s a rental. I’ll turn it in at the airport. When I realized that someone might be watching me, I decided it might be smart to leave my own car in the garage at my apartment building. Obviously that brilliant plan didn’t work. Shit. Still can’t believe someone tried to kill me.”

  “It’s a weird feeling, all right,” Virginia said.

  • • •

  A short time later Virginia and Cabot stood inside the bustling Sea-Tac terminal and watched Kate wend her way through the airport security screening lines. When she disappeared, they went back over the sky bridge into the parking garage.

  They got into the SUV and sat quietly for a moment.

  “It feels like we’re chasing shadows,” Virginia said.

  Cabot cranked up the engine. “Old shadows and new ones.”

  The cool, distant tone of his voice told her that he had moved into his zone. She glanced at him. In the harsh light of the parking garage his profile was hard, fierce. This was the man she had glimpsed the first day in the offices of Cutler, Sutter & Salinas, a man who could be your best friend or your worst nightmare of an enemy.

  Any brute could be dangerous, she thought. What she found so deeply compelling about Cabot was that he adhered to a code, one that involved gritty, old-fashioned qualities like honor, determination and loyalty. This was a man who would walk into hell for those he loved and those whom he felt bound to protect.

  “We need to find the intersection between the past and the present, don’t we?” Virginia said.

  “Yes.”

  “Got any ideas?”

  “One.”

  “I feel a cryptic martial arts saying coming.”

  “Nope, this is a pragmatic detective saying.”

  “What is it?” Virginia asked.

  “Follow the money.”

  “Wow, that’s old-school, all right. But we’ve already followed the money. We know our mothers hid it twenty-two years ago in a secret account.”

  “That’s one money trail,” Cabot agreed. “But we are dealing with two, and the second one goes directly to Night Watch.”

  “How could the embezzlement that seems to be going on at Night Watch be connected to the money that disappeared all those years ago?”

  “I don’t know yet, but there has to be a link,” Cabot said. “I can almost see it.”

  Virginia smiled.

  “What?” Cabot asked.

  “In your own way, you’re an artist, Cabot Sutter.”

  “I keep telling you, I’m no artist.”

  “You’re wrong. But never mind. Where do we go next?”

  “Obviously we need to take a closer look at Laurel Jenner, but first I want to try to get a handle on what Sandra Porter was doing in your back room on the night she was killed.”

  “I take it you’re not buying Sandra Porter in the role of drug dealer?”

  “Nope. Doesn’t fit. Nothing else in this case is actually about drugs, but it’s interesting that people keep trying to point us in that direction.”

  “Porter is dead, so where do we look for answers?”

  “In my experience, the home of the dead person is always illuminating. The crime scene tape should be down by now. Tomorrow we’ll see if we can get inside Porter’s apartment.”

  “All right. You know, it occurs to me that whoever was driving that hit-and-run car tonight might have been aiming for you,” Virginia said. “Maybe Kate wasn’t the target.”

  “Funny you should mention that,” Cabot said. He put the SUV in gear and reversed out of the parking stall. “The possibility did cross my mind.”

  CHAPTER 49

  Virginia lay awake for a long time, waiting for sleep or an anxiety attack. When neither occurred, she gave up on both and pushed the covers aside. It was one thirty in the morning. For a couple of minutes she sat on the edge of the bed, listening to the night. After a while she heard the door of Cabot’s room open. She knew he was probably headed toward the living room with his laptop.

  She found her glasses, got to her feet, pulled on a robe and went out into the hall. Sure enough, her living room was illuminated by the cold light of a computer screen. Cabot was on the sofa, his laptop in front of him on the coffee table.

  “You know, the experts say that it’s a bad idea to stare at a computer screen before going to bed,” Virginia said. “Something about the blue light.”

  “Yeah, I’ve heard that,” Cabot said. “It’s on the standard list of good sleep hygiene rules. Right up there with ‘go to bed at the same time every night’ and ‘don’t watch television in bed.’”

  “None of those sleep hygiene rules have ever worked for me.”

  “Didn’t work for me, either.” Cabot looked up. “You don’t look like you’re having an anxiety attack.”

  “I don’t feel like it, either. But I can’t sleep. I keep thinking about how someone tried to kill you tonight.”

  “We don’t know I was the target. There’s a very good possibility the driver was aiming for Kate Delbridge.”

  “In which case, you might have been collateral damage. Doesn’t change anything. I don’t think I’m going to get much sleep tonight. I think I’ll make some herbal tea. Want a cup?”

  “Sounds good.”

  Virginia went into the kitchen and made the tea. The little ritual—for years a lonely one—seemed very different tonight. Because I’m making tea for both of us.

  When she carried the mugs of steaming tea back into the living room, Cabot closed his laptop, leaned back and stretched out his legs. Virginia set the mugs on the coffee table and sat down on the sofa. She curled one leg under herself and picked up her tea.

  The lights were off but the glow from the cityscape illuminated the space. She and Cabot sipped their tea in a companionable silence for a while.

  “What was it like, growing up with Anson as your foster dad?” she asked.

  “Good,” Cabot said. “It wasn’t always easy, but it was good. From day one he made it clear that he would be there for us until hell froze over. Took us a while to really believe him, but one thing we learned about Anson Salinas—if he gave you his word, you could take it to the bank.”

  “Was he married at the time?”

  “No. His wife had died a couple of years earlier.”

  “He never remarried?” Virginia asked.

  “No. There was a woman once. For a while my brothers and I thought that Anson would marry her. But in the end she married someone else and left town. After that Anson had a few discreet relationships, but he never got serious about any other woman.”

  “Did you ever find out why Anson and the first woman didn’t marry?”

  “Anson never talked about it, but Jack and Max and I knew why she chose someone else. She didn’t want to take on the task of raising three teenage boys who were all carrying a few scars.”

  “And Anson would never have abandoned the three of you.”

  “No,” Cabot said.

  They went back to drinking their tea in silence. At some point Virginia put her empty mug down on the table. Cabot set his mug beside hers. He put his arm around her. She settled against his side, savoring the heat of his body.

  She did not remember closing her eyes.

  • • •

  She awoke to the early morning light. It took her a few minutes to realize that she and Cabot were both stretched out on the sofa, entangled in each other’s arms. Cabot was still asleep.

  She extricated herself very carefully and got to her feet. For a time she stood looking down at Cabot. A sense of wonder swept through her.

  “W
hat?” he asked without opening his eyes.

  “Nothing,” she said. “I’ll go put on the coffee.”

  She had gone to sleep in her lover’s arms. No anxiety attack involved.

  Life was good.

  CHAPTER 50

  Sandra Porter’s apartment was located in an anonymous downtown apartment tower. The lobby was sleek, modern and covered in a lot of hard surfaces—black granite and glass, for the most part.

  “Yeah, sure, you can take a quick look around,” the manager said. According to the little tag on his white shirt, his name was Sam. “Cops took the crime scene tape down yesterday. No one has shown up to claim Porter’s stuff. I’m getting ready to have her things removed and put in storage so I can get the place cleaned and back on the market.”

  “What number?” Cabot asked.

  “Twelve ten.” Sam handed Cabot a key. “If anyone asks, tell ’em I sent you up. You’re prospective renters. Got it?”

  “Got it,” Cabot said.

  He slipped Sam a couple of large bills. Sam made the money vanish with an expertise that told Virginia it wasn’t the first time he had accepted a gratuity in exchange for looking the other way.

  Virginia did not say anything until she and Cabot were in the elevator.

  “That was slick,” she said. “Do that a lot?”

  “You’d be amazed how far old-fashioned cash goes in a world where most transactions are done online or with credit cards,” Cabot said. “It’s still the perfect medium of exchange if you want to protect your privacy.”

  Virginia nodded. “Untraceable. No need to explain things to the tax people. No awkward questions about your credit history.”

  “There’s a reason why criminals and private investigators prefer the old-fashioned methods in certain situations,” Cabot said.

  She could feel the icy energy charging the atmosphere around him. He was back in the zone.

  “You live for this,” she said.

  He shot her a quick, wary look. “For what?”

  “For the moment when the vision starts to come together.”

  “Do me a favor, stop comparing me to one of your oddball artists.”

  “Okay,” she said. “But for the record, I don’t think you’re an oddball artist.”

  “No?”

  “No. Just an artist. No oddball qualities involved.”

  Fortunately the elevator doors slid open before Cabot could think of a response. He instantly refocused and led the way out of the elevator.

  She followed him down the hall and waited while he got the door of 1210 open.

  Sandra Porter’s apartment was a studio with an alcove for the bed and a bath. Virginia’s first thought was that someone had searched the place. The room was definitely in an untidy state. Drawers looked as if they had been emptied and then had the contents dumped back inside. Cupboards and closet doors stood open. The furniture had been pushed around in a random manner.

  “Good grief,” Virginia said. “Either Sandra Porter wasn’t much of a housekeeper or someone got here before us.”

  Cabot handed her a pair of gloves. “I think you can blame the crime scene people for most of this mess. After they go through a place looking for evidence, they don’t refold clothes or put items neatly back on shelves. Not their job.”

  “I see what you mean.”

  Cabot headed for the small kitchen area.

  Virginia pulled on the gloves and went into the alcove. The bed had been stripped. The clothes in the closet had been shoved to one side. A collection of shoes littered the floor.

  “What are we looking for?” she called.

  “I have no idea,” Cabot said. “But I’ll know it when I see it.”

  She heard the refrigerator door open. There was a pause and Cabot appeared.

  “There’s almost nothing in the refrigerator,” he reported. “Nothing in the freezer, either. Looks like she lived on takeout. Any luck in here?”

  “No. Well, there are some clothes, but that’s about it. Nothing of a personal nature. No books. No pictures on the walls. If there was something important here, the cops found it.”

  “Maybe. If so, Anson’s good pal Schwartz is no longer passing along the information.”

  Virginia closed a drawer. “Do you really think Sandra Porter’s death is connected to Zane’s cult?”

  “Everything in this case is connected.”

  “Because you can see it,” she said, smiling a little.

  “Yes.”

  Virginia went into the bathroom. The process of going through the dead woman’s things was not only frustrating, it gave her the creeps.

  “Remember why you’re doing this,” Cabot said quietly behind her.

  Startled, she turned to face him.

  “It gives me a weird feeling,” she said.

  “I know. That’s why you have to remember that you’re going through a dead woman’s stuff because you’re trying to find out why Hannah Brewster died and because you’re trying to identify the person who tried to murder us.”

  His words had a bracing effect. She took a deep breath.

  “Right,” she said. She looked around. “I think I’m done in here. Maybe you should take a look. You’re the professional.”

  “Yes, but that only means I see things from a particular point of view. Your observations are just as valid because you look at them from an entirely different angle.”

  “Because I’m a woman?”

  “No, because you come from the art world. You know how to look beneath the surface.”

  “Right. Maybe I should try that approach.”

  She went past him and moved into the main room of the studio. For a couple of minutes she wandered through the space, just looking at her surroundings, as if the studio were a work of art. Waiting for some small kernel of truth to speak to her.

  She was about to give up when she noticed the cardboard shipping box on the floor in the kitchen. It stood next to the recycling containers. Her first thought was that it had been destined to be flattened and taken down the hall to be discarded in the trash room.

  She lifted the box lid and looked inside. Light glinted on pieces of a broken mug. There was also a man’s black T-shirt that looked as if it had been attacked with a pair of scissors. A couple of small, smooth rocks that looked as if they had been picked up on a beach, a smashed picture frame and a photograph that had been ripped in half completed the strange collection.

  She picked up a couple of pieces of the mug and examined it closely. When she fit the pieces together, she was able to read the words written in bold red letters: Happy Birthday.

  Cabot came to stand next to her.

  “I assumed the stuff in the box was junk that Porter intended to recycle,” he said.

  “Maybe.” Virginia dropped the shards of the mug back into the box and held up a piece of the T-shirt. “This belonged to a man. It was cut with scissors, not accidentally ripped.”

  “Everything in that box is broken,” Cabot said thoughtfully.

  Virginia studied the contents of the box. A chill of knowing whispered through her.

  “Not accidentally broken,” she said. “Shattered. Destroyed.”

  “There’s a difference?”

  “Oh, yes,” Virginia said softly. “There’s a difference.”

  She reached back into the box and picked up the ripped photograph. She put it on the kitchen counter.

  “It’s the right size to fit inside the picture frame,” she said.

  Carefully she smoothed out the page.

  The picture had obviously been taken at an office party. A crowd of people was gathered beneath a banner that read, Night Watch Employee of the Month for January: Tucker Fleming.

  Virginia stared at the picture, shock icing her blood. She felt Cabot go very still and knew t
hat he, too, was stunned.

  In the festive scene a smiling Josh Preston was handing a coffee mug and an envelope to a tall, good-looking man with a disturbingly familiar face.

  “Tucker Fleming is not quite a dead ringer for Quinton Zane,” Cabot said, “but he’s got to be a relative—a son or a nephew, maybe. Same height, similar build, although not as lean.”

  Virginia shuddered. “Same profile.”

  “Dress him in black and the resemblance would be very close to the Zane we knew twenty-two years ago.”

  “Why didn’t the cops take this as evidence?” Virginia asked.

  “Evidence of what? It’s just a picture of an office party for an employee of the month.”

  “Hannah Brewster must have seen Tucker Fleming on Lost Island,” Virginia said. “No wonder she painted that picture of Zane in modern clothes and added a late-model car. She probably believed that he had come back from the dead.”

  “Or she may have figured out that his son was searching for the missing money.”

  “Either way, she was trying to warn me.”

  CHAPTER 51

  The rain was coming down hard by the time Xavier got off the bus. He paused in the shelter to check the screen of his phone again. His excitement spiked when he saw that he was very close to his objective. It looked like the subject was inside the small bungalow at the end of the block.

  The neighborhood was very quiet. The houses were small and most of them needed a fresh coat of paint. The cars parked on the street were all older models.

  All he had to do was make a note of the address, he thought. He was about to crack the case. Cabot and Anson would be impressed. They’d probably want to give him a permanent job at the agency. As for Virginia Troy, she would think he was brilliant, a real hero.

  It occurred to him that a photograph of the target who lived in the house, or at least the license plate of his car, would be even better than just an address. Armed with that information, Cabot and Anson would know exactly what to do.

  He tucked the phone back into his pocket and pulled up the hood of his sweatshirt. Although the skies were heavy and gray, he put on his sunglasses. Just one more teen in a hoodie and shades.