“Okay. Division of labor. As you know, we’ve only been allotted eight hours per week of official work time on Azrael. We all have other cases that need our attention, so I don’t want to overload you. Richard, I want you to keep doing what you’re doing. But nothing goes directly onto the I-24/7 database. Any stats and projections connected with this investigation come to me first. Understood?”
The German raised an eyebrow but nodded his consent. Delaying the inputting of data onto Interpol’s systems was highly irregular. But not as irregular as disobeying a direct instruction from a superior officer.
“Claude, for now I need you to focus on forensics. See if there’s anything in the semen, blood or fingerprint analyses that the local police missed.”
“Yes, sir. If you don’t mind my asking, what will you be working on?”
“I’m going to make a few inquiries in Los Angeles,” said Danny. “There’s a man there I’d like to talk to again. An attorney by the name of Lyle Renalto.”
INSPECTOR LIU COULD NOT REACH ASSISTANT Director Danny McGuire. According to McGuire’s secretary, an obstructive French matron named Mathilde, McGuire was at a meeting and was not expected back in the office “for some time.” So much for Interpol’s promised 24/7 support.
Irritated, Liu left a message.
Mrs. Baring had a lover whom they now suspected of involvement in her husband’s murder. As such, Mrs. Baring herself was now a suspect in the investigation. She remained in Bali, and photographic evidence suggested that this man was staying with her there. Could Assistant Director McGuire organize an Interpol response team to help Liu and his men gain access to the villa and, if necessary, arrest the suspects? The Indonesian authorities were being less than helpful.
Hanging up, Liu looked at his watch. Four P.M., Hong Kong time.
If he didn’t hear from McGuire by morning, he’d take matters into his own hands.
CÉLINE MCGUIRE WAS NOT A HAPPY woman.
She was not happy because the boeuf bourguignon she had so painstakingly cooked for her husband had been reduced to a viscous, charred mass at the bottom of a casserole dish.
She was not happy because she’d done her hair and put on her prettiest dress, all for nothing.
She was not happy because all the excuses Danny was about to give her for his lateness would be lies, but she was too frightened to challenge him with the truth:
Angela Jakes was back in their lives.
Sometimes Céline likened Angela Jakes to a mistress. Pretty pathetic to be jealous of a woman your husband has never made love to and never will, a woman who’s almost certainly dead. This time around, Céline saw Angela more as an addiction, like alcohol or crystal meth or a glistening white line of freshly cut cocaine. After five happy years, Danny had fallen off the wagon. The addict’s lies had already started.
“Frémeaux called me into a meeting.”
“Mathilde’s off sick so I got stuck with a load of paperwork.”
“The IRT division’s up for a review next month. I’m gonna have to put in some extra hours.”
Céline had checked out each story, but she already knew what she’d find. If you want to lie through your teeth, Danny, you shouldn’t have married a fellow detective. He hadn’t even had the balls to tell her that a new investigation—Azrael—had been authorized, still less that he was heading the team. But if Danny’s lies were laughably transparent, Céline’s own tactics were just as risible. Fancy meals. Date nights. Sexy clothes. As if she stood a chance against his addiction. Against Angela.
“Sorry I’m late.” Danny burst through the door, a stack of files under one arm and a bursting-at-the-seams briefcase under the other. “You didn’t cook, did you?”
“What do you think?” snapped Céline, glancing over her shoulder at the smoky remains of the beef.
Danny looked stricken. “I’m sorry, honey. You should have told me.”
“I should have told you? I should have told you?” She stormed past him, an angry flash of red silk, grabbing her coat from the peg by the door on her way out. “Fuck you, Danny. And fuck Azrael.”
Before Danny could say another word, she was gone.
Azrael. So she knows already. Shit.
His instinct was to go after her, but he knew from experience that when Céline was this mad she needed space. Anything he said to her now would only fan the flames of her wrath. Wearily, he set down his work on the kitchen table. It had been a long, draining, fruitless afternoon. He’d spent most of it on the phone to L.A., tracking down every lead and calling in every favor he could think of in an effort to get hold of Lyle Renalto. But no one had seen or heard of the guy since 1997. He quit his law practice in that year apparently, barely twelve months after Andrew Jakes’s murder and ten since Angela’s disappearance. The same year Danny left town himself.
According to colleagues, Lyle was supposed to be taking up a new position back in New York—he was from the city originally—but Danny could find no trace of him in any of the public-records databases he checked there. Phone and utility bills, DMV, Social Security Administration, all had drawn a blank. Of course it was early days. But key players in the Jakes investigation had an uncanny tendency to evaporate into thin air just when Danny wanted to talk to them. Already the old feelings of frustration and helplessness and despair had started to return. Back in L.A. in the nineties, Danny had felt as if the truth he was seeking was a wet bar of soap: in his grasp one moment, but slipping through his fingers the next. Was that how it was going to be with Azrael?
He wondered for a moment who had spilled the beans about the investigation to Céline, then let it go. What did it matter, really? He should have told her himself. Now she would never understand, never forgive him. Unless I solve the case quickly. Unless I succeed this time, catch this bastard and put an end to this nightmare once and for all.
After a hastily made supper of a Brie-and-jambon baguette washed down with ice-cold Sam Adams—the French did a lot of things right but beer wasn’t one of them—he began working through his mountain of notes. It was almost ten before he got as far as checking his voice mails. Three were internal memos about budgeting, one was a lead on a case his division was working on in Bogotá and the fifth was from his mother in L.A. asking if he’d remembered his grandmother’s ninetieth birthday (he hadn’t). But it was the sixth and final message, from Inspector Liu, that made the hairs on Danny’s arms stand on end.
Lisa Baring had a lover. All of a sudden Demartin’s wild theory wasn’t looking so way out there anymore. Was it Lyle Renalto, all these years later, using a different name and identity? He’d be older, of course, in his late forties by now, but he was probably still attractive enough to lure a lonely, bored young housewife into his net.
Liu said something about him staying at the Barings’ Bali villa. If it were true, if there was even a chance of it being true, they couldn’t let him slip away again.
He thought about calling Liu back, but decided it could wait. What if Renalto, or whoever it was, was packing his bags right now, and Lisa’s. Spiriting her away so he could kill her like he had the others? Liu had asked for help with the local Balinese police, and that’s what Danny was going to give him.
Danny dialed the number for the Interpol switchboard.
“I need clearance for an operation in Bali. Put me through to the chief of police in Jakarta.”
INSPECTOR LIU CHECKED HIS BLACKBERRY. STILL no word from Lyon.
Interpol could go fuck itself and so could the Indonesians.
This is my investigation. I’m done asking for permission.
THE CALL TO INDONESIA DID NOT go well.
They had not requested Interpol assistance and knew nothing about the Azrael murders.
The Hong Kong police had already made a nuisance of themselves, harassing private citizens on Indonesian territory. Having failed to observe the basic courtesies, Inspector Liu now had the audacity to demand their cooperation, asking them to issue an arrest warrant despit
e having provided no evidence of any criminal activity by anybody at Villa Mirage.
Inspector Liu (and Interpol) could stick their demands where the sun didn’t shine.
Depressed, Danny returned to his mountainous to-do list, but his heart wasn’t in it. Maybe he should call Céline? She still wasn’t home, which was unlike her. After a fight, she typically stormed off for a few hours then came home a few glasses of wine later ready for a screaming match and some passionate make-up sex.
Pushing the paperwork to one side, a fax cover sheet slipped out of the file; Danny noticed that it was also from Liu’s office in Hong Kong. How had he missed it earlier? Behind the cover sheet was a scanned photograph. It was black and white and grainy. Clearly it had been taken from some distance. It showed a man and a woman on a balcony, embracing. Danny looked at the man closely, scanning what little he could see of his features for any resemblance to Lyle Renalto. It was impossible. The picture quality was too poor. Although there was something familiar about the image. The shape of the head, the stance as the man extended his hand toward the woman—Mrs. Baring, presumably—the way that the facial features looked stretched out, almost as if he were cracking a huge smile…
Danny’s stomach lurched.
Oh my God. No.
It can’t be.
Shaking, he picked up the phone.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
MATT DALEY WAS SITTING BY THE pool, enjoying the sunset and sipping one of Mrs. Harcourt’s perfectly mixed gin and tonics, when his cell phone rang. Danny McGuire’s number flashed across the screen.
Damn, thought Matt. He felt guilty about McGuire. Guilty that he’d been avoiding the guy’s calls, guilty that he hadn’t told him about Lisa. He couldn’t fully explain his silence, even to himself. It was just that what he had with Lisa felt so private and so precious, he was scared that once he cracked the door to the outside world, the floodgates would open and the dream would be shattered.
But he had to talk to McGuire at some point. For one thing, there was still a deranged killer out there, a maniac who had to be caught, for Lisa’s sake as much as anyone’s. Bracing himself for the inevitable abuse, he picked up.
“Danny, hi. I’m sorry I’ve been so tough to get hold of.”
“Listen to me very carefully, Matt.” Danny McGuire’s voice sounded strained rather than angry. “You need to get out of there. Right now.”
“Out of where?” Matt laughed. “You don’t even know where I am.”
“You’re in Bali, staying at Lisa Baring’s villa.”
The laugh died on Matt’s lips. How the hell did Danny McGuire know that? “I was going to tell you.”
“Tell me what? That you were lovers?” For the first time a note of anger crept into McGuire’s voice.
“Tell you I was here,” said Matt stiffly. “That I’d met her. For what it’s worth, we aren’t lovers.” Yet.
“It’s not me you have to convince,” said Danny. “It’s Inspector Liu. Were you aware that the Chinese view Lisa Baring as a suspect in her husband’s killing?”
Matt laughed out loud. “That’s insane. Lisa had nothing to do with Miles’s death, and that’s a fact.”
“Is it? Or do you just want it to be?”
It was a warm night, but Matt suddenly felt a distinct chill in the air.
Danny went on: “She had lovers, Matt. At least one that the police are aware of. Possibly more.”
“Bullshit.”
“Matt, listen to me. She brought men to the house for sex while Miles was at work.”
“You’re wrong.” You have to be wrong.
“It gets worse. Liu thinks you’re one of them. His men have been watching the pair of you at the villa. You’ve been under surveillance for weeks now. You were supposed to be lying low and instead you end up a goddamn suspect!”
“A suspect?” Matt spluttered. “That’s ridiculous. I wasn’t even in Hong Kong when Miles Baring was murdered.”
“I know that,” said Danny. “That’s why I’m telling you all this now and not racing to have you arrested like Liu and his men. But you haven’t exactly helped your own cause, my friend.”
“I can’t believe the Chinese have been spying on us,” Matt said indignantly.
At this, Danny lost his temper. “It’s a murder investigation! Hello? You’re not out there on vacation. Or had you forgotten?”
Matt hadn’t forgotten, but he certainly wanted to. He wanted to forget all of what he’d just heard, especially the lies that McGuire had told him about Lisa. He wanted to take Lisa far, far away, to protect her and love her and never have to think about death or pain or betrayal ever again. He tried to keep calm.
“You don’t know Lisa, okay? I do. She would never have cheated on Miles. She just isn’t that sort of person.”
Danny McGuire’s eye roll could practically be heard down the telephone line. “Come on, man…”
“And even if she did, so what?” Matt’s voice grew increasingly desperate. “It doesn’t make her a killer.”
“No, it doesn’t. But it might make her an accomplice.”
“To what, her own rape?”
“Maybe it wasn’t rape. Maybe it was consensual.”
“Take that back,” Matt said quietly.
“I’m sorry,” said Danny, picking up the hurt and anger in Matt’s voice. “I’m not saying this is what I think.”
“I should hope not.”
“I still have no idea what happened that night. But Liu has Lisa in his sights, and he has good reason for it. She did have a boyfriend—still does, for all we know. She was the only person who stood to gain financially from Miles’s death. She instructed her staff not to come to the top floor the night of the attack. She was the only person, other than her husband, who knew how to disable the security alarm. And by the way, it was disabled earlier in the day, if you want to talk about facts. Whoever killed Miles Baring had inside help.”
Matt didn’t want to hear it. “If Liu had enough evidence to arrest Lisa, he’d have done it. But he hasn’t. He’s grasping at straws because he’s got nothing. Just like you had nothing in the investigation of my father’s murder.”
It was a low blow, but Danny had no choice but to suck it up. All he wanted was for Matt Daley to get out of Bali, before this whole thing blew up in both their faces. If anyone linked Matt Daley to Danny McGuire, Operation Azrael would be over and so would Danny’s career.
“Do you remember what you said to me the day we met, in my office in Lyon?” Danny asked.
“‘What kept you so long, you time-wasting bastard’?” quipped Matt.
“After that. You said: ‘It’s the wives. They’re the key to all this.’ Do you remember that?”
“Not Lisa.”
“Why not Lisa?” Danny challenged him. “Because you’re in love with her?”
Yes! “No. Of course not.”
“How long have you known this woman, Matt? A month? Two? Has it occurred to you she might be using you?”
“Hmm, let me see,” said Matt. “She’s a drop-dead gorgeous millionairess; and I’m an out-of-shape, bankrupt, soon-to-be-divorced ex–comedy writer. Yeah, I can see where you’re coming from. She’s definitely using me.”
Danny smiled. Daley was infuriating, but his deadpan humor still hit home.
“I meant, using you for information. You know as much about these murders as the police, if not more. If Lisa’s boyfriend was behind them…”
“He wasn’t.”
“How do you know?”
“Because she doesn’t have a boyfriend! Haven’t you been listening to a word I said?”
Danny’s exasperation got the better of him. “Let me break it down for you. If you don’t get out of that villa—assuming you aren’t hacked to death in your bed by your girlfriend’s lover in the meantime—Liu’s men will arrest you and they will throw you into some stinking Chinese jail, and I will not, repeat not, come riding to your rescue.”
“Fine,” said Matt
petulantly. He hung up the phone.
“Hey. Is everything all right? I heard you shouting.”
Lisa walked out to the pool. She wore a long midnight-blue kimono robe belted at the waist and her long hair loose, brushed, clearly ready for bed. Matt lit up at the sight of her. She’s an angel. My angel. I mustn’t worry her with this nonsense.
“Everything’s fine.” Matt forced a smile. “Nothing to worry about. Just a misunderstanding with a friend.”
“Someone from home?”
Home. Wasn’t this home?
“Sort of.”
Lisa flicked a switch and the stone fire pit burst into life. The flames cast a warm orange glow over her skin. “May I sit with you?”
Matt’s smile broadened. “Of course.” He patted the seat beside him. The urge to reach out and touch her was so strong it was unbearable. “Have you been working?”
“Trying to.” A shy smile. “Being the executor of someone’s will is harder work than it sounds. The numbers make my eyes swim. I can’t seem to concentrate.”
They sat in silence for a moment, watching the dancing flames.
“They had a fire pit like this in Positano,” Lisa murmured vaguely. “Miles loved it so much he had the same one put in here.”
Matt said nothing. He didn’t want to talk about Miles or hear about his and Lisa’s past vacations. Not now.
Then suddenly Lisa blurted out, “I keep thinking about what happened to me. The rape.”
Matt held his breath. It was the first time she had spoken about the night of the attack in months, and the first time he’d ever heard her use the R-word.
“Do you want to talk about it? You don’t have to if you don’t want to.”
Pulling her knees up to her chest, Lisa leaned in against him, slipping a silk-robed arm around his waist. She’d never come this physically close to him before, not of her own accord. Matt closed his eyes, lost in her warmth, her scent—jasmine and patchouli oil—the gossamer caress of her hair. Had he ever felt like this with Raquel? This desperate with longing, this intoxicated with desire? If he had, he couldn’t remember. In fact, at this moment he could barely remember his wife at all.
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