“We will, of course, be doing all we can to find Miss Knight, but we’re here to ask about Dr. John Knight,” Luke said, watching both men. Merryweather’s brows arched, he noticed. Leslie’s did, too, but just a beat too slow. Or maybe Luke was looking for it because he didn’t like him?
“We’re with homicide, Mr. Merryweather,” Mann said.
That got the father’s brows up some more. Leslie’s look narrowed. And his cheeks flushed, as if he were excited.
“Homicide? Are you saying,” Leslie asked, “that Dr. Knight was murdered? I thought he died of a heart attack?”
“He ingested a lethal dose of digitalis,” Mann said. “Not the preferred method of the suicidal.”
“An accidental overdose—” Merryweather started to protest.
“Hard to accidentally take something that wasn’t prescribed to you,” Mann pointed out. “It was his personal physician that called us.”
“Can either of you think of anyone who would want Dr. Knight dead?” Luke asked.
Leslie straightened, a look of diffidence on his face. “I hate to be the one to point out the obvious, but doesn’t this put a new spin on Miss Knight’s disappearance? And Dad, shouldn’t we verify the…integrity of the project Dr. Knight was working on?”
His father frowned. “I hardly think Miss Knight—”
“She is his next of kin,” Leslie said.
For just a moment, Luke thought he saw amusement—or was it satisfaction?—in the son’s eyes, before he replaced it with one more suitably sober. He and Mann exchanged another quick look. “Do we ask what the project is?”
“It’s a highly classified project that Knight was working on. Miss Knight is his assistant.” Merryweather seemed like he wanted to say more, but didn’t.
“You’ll have to tell them, Dad. We need to be truthful or the police won’t be able to do their job,” Leslie said, earnestly cooperative. Merryweather didn’t say anything. He might have been thinking. It was hard to tell.
Leslie sighed. “Dad.” He looked at the two men. “Miss Knight was more than an assistant. She was Knight’s, well, filing cabinet.”
“Filing cabinet?” Luke frowned and Mann looked up from his notes with a puzzled look.
“She has a photographic memory. All his research, all his data is stored in her homely little head.”
Luke felt a strange sensation in his middle. A photographic memory. That would explain Amelia’s unusual ability to pull up facts at a whim. But the name—an icy chill slid straight down his back without passing “Go” or collecting money. Amelia was the one who’d produced the name and address. He’d never seen the information on the PDA. If she had killed her father and stolen classified material, then a loss of memory would be pretty handy, particularly if you happened to land in the lap of a cop.
Get a grip on yourself, he told himself. You don’t know Amelia and Prudence are the same person. This time he did finger the set of keys. There was the computer access card, but he was reluctant to pull it out. It would be hard to explain how he happened to have it. And he didn’t want Leslie to know he might know where their missing tech was. Something about the guy gave him a chill. He’d been quick to point the finger at her. Real quick. No, he wouldn’t pull out the card. Not now. Not until he’d had a chance to talk to her.
And there was another way. Merryweather said her car was still at the hospital. Even without the personal added incentive, they’d need to check it out.
“I’d say that gives her a rather obvious motive for murder,” Leslie continued, “particularly since they had a fight before she left the hospital and vanished.”
“Interesting that you’d feel the need to throw suspicion on Miss Knight, Leslie,” a voice said from the doorway.
“Donovan,” Merryweather seemed relieved to see him. “Gentlemen, this is my head of security, Donovan Kincaid. Detectives Kirby and Gage. Homicide detectives. It seems Dr. Knight was murdered.”
There was a palpable shift of power in the room at Kincaid’s entrance. Merryweather got paler and Leslie got…shiftier. And shorter. And annoyed, if the pulling together of his brows was any indication.
A big man with the air of a soldier, despite the businessman clothes, Kincaid exuded crisp and competent and had an air of mystery that Luke would bet women found irresistible. At the moment, his fists were clenched, like he’d like to pop Leslie, but he was willing to wait for later. And he didn’t look surprised to hear Knight had been murdered. Who had been talking to him?
Leslie stepped behind daddy. Luke wasn’t sure he was aware of the movement. Leslie hadn’t taken his eyes off Kincaid, though that look of secret amusement was back. Did he like trouble or did he have a particular interest in this trouble?
“I’m not trying to throw suspicion on anyone,” Leslie protested. “They asked who might want Knight dead. The relationship between John and Prudence has always been…kind of ‘daddy-dearest.’ It would be dishonest to pretend otherwise.”
“It’s my job to assess the character of the employees. Miss Knight is a person of impeccable character.” Kincaid pinned Leslie with his gaze.
He was out-gunned, but he held his ground long enough to be interesting then turned with a shrug and poured himself a drink. All kinds of undercurrents. Luke hated undercurrents. Made an investigation about as much fun as swimming in quicksand. And about as safe. Just because he didn’t like him, Luke put Leslie at the top of the suspect list.
Kincaid cut across the room to Merryweather, bent and whispered something in his ear. Merryweather’s perfect gentleman façade cracked momentarily. He recovered, but when he lifted his drink to his mouth, his hand shook a little. He looked at the two detectives then turned a looked at his son.
“Could you fetch the personal files on Dr. Knight and Miss Prudence, Leslie?” He turned back to them. “Is there anything else you’ll need from us?”
“We’ll need a list of everyone who worked with Dr. Knight. Addresses and phone numbers,” Mann said. “Also, who was working with him yesterday when he collapsed? A picture of the missing daughter. For starters.”
“Leslie?” Merryweather didn’t look at his son this time.
Luke did. Leslie stood irresolute, obviously annoyed, his air one of a small boy who knows he’s being gotten rid of while the grown-ups talk.
“Fine.” He stalked out, closing the door with a snap behind him.
Luke was careful not to look at Mann. Not polite to chuckle under the circumstances.
Merryweather jumped to his feet. He didn’t creak, but Luke wondered if he’d moved that fast in years. It wasn’t natural for him. He nodded to Kincaid then went and poured himself another drink. Luke looked in Kincaid’s direction and lifted a brow.
“I’ve just informed Mr. Merryweather that the prototype of Project Shield, which Knight was working on, is missing from the vault. Whoever did this had to be a damn Houdini. I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“Really.” If Pathphinder and Hyatt weren’t in retirement, Luke thought, he’d be talking to them next. “You’re sure it wasn’t an inside job?”
“An insider,” Merryweather said, turning to look at them, “would know that the research wasn’t complete. Shield isn’t ready. I don’t understand why they took it—unless it was to stop our research.”
“And I,” Donovan said, “have been contacted by the person who grabbed Miss Knight.”
Both Luke and Mann sat up straighter. “Did he make any demands?”
“Not yet. I think he just wanted me to know he had her.” Kincaid turned away from them, striding over to glare out the window.
If Prudence Knight had been kidnapped, that meant Amelia was Amelia. He should feel better, but why had the kidnappers contacted Kincaid? If they were after Shield, then they had it, didn’t they? He was very curious to see Prudence Knight’s picture. Very. And he needed time to think. And to talk to Dewey. Right now was not the time to lose track of Amelia. Now he wished he’d gone with Bryn as careta
ker for Amelia.
“Could I use your restroom?” he asked. Merryweather indicated a door off to the right. Once inside, Luke pulled out his cell phone and dialed Dewey.
TEN
Grady’s photographer had emailed him the pictures he’d taken at the bus station. Thanks to high speed access, they’d downloaded fast, but the process of studying the pictures and comparing them to the two pictures he had of Prudence Knight took more time. Some of the pictures had to be cleared up before he could even begin to compare them. As picture after picture was examined and rejected, he began to wonder if they were chasing a phantom. Larry’s premise that Prudence Knight was with Luke Kirby was based on a bloody tee shirt and a lot of hope. Maybe too much hope?
Grady had rallied his private army to track the pair and turned up nothing to indicate that Prudence Knight hadn’t died from her fall from the chopper and been buried under some snow drift on the mountainside.
To further trouble him, Leslie hadn’t phoned in. It wasn’t like him. Had he somehow picked up on Grady’s plan to shaft him and made a counter play? Leslie prided himself on his chess playing and Grady had let him hold onto that pride, though he could have kicked his butt a million times over in every game they’d played over the years. Ego stroking was hard work, a work he’d grown weary of.
Only three pictures left. Three little files on which his hope was pinned. If they’d lost the trail, he had no clue how to find it again. The first was clearly not her. But he frowned at the second one. It didn’t look at all like her, except for something in the jaw? A feeling in his gut? Wishful thinking?
He pulled up the picture he’d scanned and put them side by side. In the shot from the bus, the woman was wearing a hat that hid her hair. Larry had said the woman with Kirby had short, blond hair and was too much of a looker to be Knight.
He took the picture of Prudence Knight and removed the heavy, dark glasses. Almost immediately the severity of her looks softened. Okay, let’s pretend she cut her hair. He took off the severely pulled-back hair and replaced it with short and blond.
“Much better. Moving into the babe zone.” But how had she hidden the scratches and bruises she had to have acquired during the dive from the chopper? “Maybe the same place she got the hair cut?” He’d seen stuff on TV infomercials that was used to cover up massive disfigurement. Why not a few scratches?
He took the altered Prudence and put her next to the woman from the bus.
“Gotcha.”
* * * *
Amelia learned two more facts about herself in Wal-Mart. She loved to shop, and there was no way she was going to Dewey’s apartment to wait for Luke to sort out her life. She needed to be proactive. She needed to be…spunky? Yeah, she needed to be spunky. Women who waited for life to happen to them never found true love. Or self-fulfillment, which was more important than true love, though not as fun, if that kiss was anything to go by. She didn’t know how she knew this, so she could be wrong, but she didn’t feel wrong. She felt right.
The shopping and the need to be spunky were connected in some way, though how wasn’t clear at the moment. Maybe it was a female imperative, a way of accessing her inner power through shopping. Oh, it had felt good to have Luke’s big, strong shoulders to dump her burdens on. She’d felt safe around him and it felt good to feel safe, but she was stronger now. She’d rested, the aches were healing. Mostly.
She didn’t want Luke to find out she was a bad person. Better to find out the truth about herself and then decide what to do about it.
She could persuade Dewey to take her to her apartment, but that was still relying on Luke by proxy. It wasn’t spunky. She hated to ditch him when he’d been so nice, but it had to be done—for the good of all womankind.
Luke had her keys, but she could ask the super, couldn’t she? Surely he’d let her in. He must know her. Or maybe she was one of those people who left a key under the mat or in a flowerpot. Luke had told her she needed to face her past. What she really needed was to face it by herself. Because if it were ugly, she didn’t want to face him again.
Dewey wasn’t hard to lose. He kept getting distracted by things on the shelves and then stopped by some sort of computer game. She waited until he was deep in a game that seemed to involve blowing up aliens before they blew up him, abandoned her cart of stuff, and slipped away. Leaving her stuff was the hard part, but she must have things at her apartment? Outside, a cab was dropping off an old lady. Amelia hopped in.
The drive through the streets was as peculiar as anything she’d felt. She could see the streets, but like a map, not like real places. She watched the driver take the turns, but had no sense of belonging to any of it. Did she even live in Denver? Or did the lack of personal connection mean she did live here? It seemed to be the personal that had been wiped out.
She asked the driver to drive past the apartment building first, but didn’t see anything untoward. No hunters or even anyone lurking in or out of a car. Instead of feeling better about it, it made her more uneasy. They’d seemed to have all the bases covered. Why not this one?
Amelia paid the man with the last of her money and got out. It was quiet. Still no sign of lurkers or watchers. No feeling of danger. No sense of coming home. Just a knot in her chest about what she would find in Amelia E. Hart’s apartment.
Someone was going out as she reached the door, so she didn’t have to worry about being buzzed inside. The stairs were straight ahead. She climbed them, taking her time, the wood of the banister cooling her sweaty palm. She wasn’t feeling nearly as spunky now that she was here, but there was no going back. She didn’t know how to get a hold of Dewey now, even if she wanted to. Which she didn’t. Not really.
Her door was the third one down. Still no feeling of familiarity, no sense of recognition. Without stopping to think, hoping her subconscious would lead her past this hurdle too, she approached the door. She thought it wasn’t going to work, but then she reached up, as if by habit, and snagged a key above the door.
“Not very original,” she muttered, fitting it into the lock, turning it and pushing the door open. She started to return the key, but stopped and tucked it in her pocket instead. The dogs may have lost her scent, but that didn’t mean they wouldn’t find it again.
It was dark inside, with patches of light slipping past dark window coverings hinting at a larger room past the minuscule hall. The light from the hall semi-illuminated a switch. She flipped it, leaving a dim circle of light in the hall, enough so she could step in and close the door. She looked up. Not much wattage there. Did that make her cheap? Or poor?
It was a weird feeling, so disconnected and not quite real to be here, wondering who and what she was. Maybe it was some wacky dream. She’d soon wake up and resume her real life. She leaned against the cheap door, her eyes drifting closed as she reached out with all her senses and felt…nothing. And yet in these walls she should kind the keys to her past. A few steps in the dark, but a huge leap into the void for her. If only there weren’t so much to fear from finding out.
As if her own subconscious was eager for her to get on with it, some words of someone called Krishnamurti—how the heck could she remember that name and not her own?—floated out of the fog: Without freedom from the past, there is no freedom at all.
Freedom from the past would only come with facing it, not ignoring it. Okay. Amelia took a deep breath and opened her eyes. To her left a door stood open. A bathroom. She flicked on the light. Saw a toothbrush and toothpaste. Well, she already knew she had teeth, but not that she preferred Colgate. Kept her hair brush relatively free of long, blonde hairs. Shampoo waiting by the tub. Strawberry. Conditioner, too. Suave. Some body wash from The Gap called Dream and a white loofah. The matching Dream lotion rested on the toilet tank. The towel hanging over the bar was rust colored, thick and soft. Matching hand towel and washcloth. Cheap shampoo and expensive towel? It appeared she had priorities.
And what wasn’t here? This was almost as interesting as what was. There
wasn’t the clutter of makeup and other odds and ends she’d noted in the bathroom of Luke’s cabin. No bottle of Tylenol. No mascara. No lipstick. Not even a tub of lip gloss. Just the bare hygiene necessities.
Amelia flicked off the light and turned her attention to the main room. A small room with wooden floors partially covered by a fake, Persian print rug. Against the outside wall sat a big, comfy couch. To its left an unfinished wood desk and a small lamp. She turned on the lamp and immediately the room looked warmer, friendlier in its gentle glow. Most wattage here, she noted. There was a boom box on the floor next to the desk. Nice, but not a Bose. She turned it on and country music softly filled the empty spaces. The little stack of CDs stacked next to it didn’t reflect a single preference. Some jazz, some blues and blue grass. Something called Zydeco and a couple of rock collections. Aaron Neville and Linda Rondstadt. Hmmm. No classical, though she could pull up a list of classical pieces in her head without even straining.
She straightened and looked around, trying to sort through the feelings welling up inside her. Despite the paucity of the furniture, she liked this place. There were pictures on the wall of places that must mean something to her if she’d put them up. Some mountain shots, a couple of cliff shots and someone standing by an airplane. She stepped closer and realized she was the person standing by the plane.
She wore a gimme cap and some bits of hair had escaped their severe confinement. She was smiling with delight, but she still looked buttoned down.
“Way past time for that hair cut,” she muttered, fingering the strands of her shortened hair with a sigh of relief. No other people in any of the shots. Did that mean she was friendless? Alone in the world? She had no answer, so she continued her survey of her odd little domain.
The Lonesome Lawmen Trilogy Page 73