The First Cut (Terrence Reid Mystery Series Book 2)

by Mary Birk

  “I just want to . . . I don’t know. Do something, I guess.”

  “I know.”

  There was a silence, then he spoke, his voice so hopeless, it broke her heart.

  “I miss you, Anne. Losing Lenore, then you. Sometimes it’s more than I can stand.”

  She swallowed, the heavy weight of guilt on her for leaving him after he’d lost his daughter, and for her part in having left Lenore vulnerable to be kidnapped from what should have been a safe home. “Are you working?”

  “Yes. I finished the painting. It’s comforting to me to paint her. I’m doing another one of Lenore using that photo you took of her dancing.”

  “Good. That’s good.” She’d taken the photograph of Andrew and his daughter just hours before Lenore disappeared. “I want to see it when it’s finished.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  She could hear him swallow.

  “Do you want me to come, Anne? I can be there in a day.”

  “No, please don’t. That would only make things worse.”

  “He’s such a fool. If I had a chance for you, any chance for you, I’d never leave you.”

  “It’s just a mess, isn’t it?” She started to cry.

  “Don’t cry, babe. God, don’t cry.”

  “Andrew, don’t be so nice to me. This isn’t fair to you.”

  “I just want you to know that whatever happens, I’m here for you. I want your child so much. I want it to be mine, but if it’s his, that’s fine, too. I want you, no matter what.”

  “Please don’t. I know it hurts you for me to say it, but I love him so much.”

  “I can live with that. I don’t need to be the one you love the most. If he chooses not to be in the picture, that’s his loss. I’m telling you I’ll be there no matter what—if you want me—or even if you just need me. That’s enough for me.”

  “You need to get to sleep—it’s so late there. What time is it?”

  “Two-three? I’ll go to bed. I just wanted to hear your voice. I worry about you—and about the baby.”

  “I’m fine, and the baby’s fine, but it’s better if you don’t call. I’ll let you know if anything happens. I promise.”

  “Are you getting a doctor over there?”

  “Not yet. I’m waiting to see if I’ll be staying.”

  “Do you need money? I can have some put in your account here for you, babe. No strings.”

  “No, please, I’m fine.”

  “I love you.”

  “Oh, Andrew.” This was so hard. “Take care of yourself, okay? Go to bed now.”

  After they hung up, she felt like the biggest jerk in the world. Not only had she hurt Terrence, she had hurt this lovely man unbearably.

  As if in punishment, the rolling nausea of morning sickness rushed up her chest, and she ran to the bathroom.

  Chapter 35

  THE MEDIEVAL CATHEDRAL was full to the proverbial rafters with mourners. How many were there out of true sympathy, and how many were there from a morbid curiosity about the circumstances surrounding Richard Ramsey’s death, Reid couldn’t tell.

  He hated funerals. The last one he’d attended was for Andrew Grainger’s murdered child. The mourners there had been cloaked with a deep, devastating sadness. The mood here was different. More formal, less personal. Richard Ramsey had been respected, but Reid did not get the feeling that there were many here who would actually mourn his death.

  The Ramseys were Church of Scotland, and were apparently members in good standing of the Glasgow Cathedral, where the services were being held. The family was all there, dressed in appropriately somber clothing. Even Moira was in mourning, her black dress reaching halfway down her calves, and suitably subdued. Glynnis Taylor sat with her sister and her niece and nephew. Glynnis’s own black dress was a more sophisticated version of what Moira wore. Terrence needed to talk to Glynnis again, now that he knew her relationship with Henry, though he doubted he’d get much information out of her.

  The minister’s voice filled the church with his recitation of the services, the congregation participating when required. Although heads were bowed in respect and sympathy, there was the usual furtive glancing around to see who else was there. Reid could almost feel the speculation of the putative mourners about the cause of the wealthy man’s death.

  He spotted the Von Zandt family and, taking the opportunity, studied them. Elisa Von Zandt may have been attractive when she was younger, but now what had probably been a generous figure when she was young, had spread. She was squeezed into a dress that was at least two sizes too small for her girth. He saw her pull surreptitiously at her waistband. Her hair was a yellow blonde, her dark lipstick harsh against her almost white skin.

  Elisa spent most of her time living in Germany, apart from her husband. A marriage of convenience at this point, Reid suspected, considering Von Zandt’s relationship with Moira Ramsey. Awkward for the wife, he mused, to be at the mistress’s father’s funeral. No wonder she looked detached. Von Zandt had to have more than a streak of cruelty in him to take his wife here, forcing her to pretend either not to know, or not to care.

  On Elisa’s right was the youngest son, Frederick, while to her husband’s left stood the elder son, Henry. Coincidental, Reid wondered, or was this alignment significant? He stored the observation away for possible later use. When the congregation sat down at the minister’s instruction, Reid slipped out the back.

  At the obligatory reception held afterwards at the Ramsey home, Reid spotted Elisa Von Zandt standing alone by a long window and worked his way over to her. Her face was turned to watch whatever was outside. Reid glanced quickly in the direction she was looking, but saw nothing. To get her attention, Reid cleared his throat.

  “Mrs. Von Zandt?”

  When she turned, he saw she had a plate of food from the buffet in her hand and was shoving a cracker heavily frosted with pink salmon spread into her mouth. She sputtered in surprise and bits of cracker fell from her mouth. She covered her mouth with her hand, embarrassed. “Lord Reid, I’m so sorry.”

  “My fault, Mrs. Von Zandt, I startled you.” Realizing she appeared to recognize him, he asked, “Have we met?”

  She gave a rueful smile, brushing crumbs from her chest. “No, but I’ve seen your photograph in the news.” The woman’s German accent was thick, but her English was good, if a bit stilted.

  “Ah, yes.” Who hadn’t? Damned tabloids.

  “It was so sad about that little girl. The one in California, I mean.”

  “Yes, it was terribly sad.” He motioned to the window seat and they both sat down. “Did you know Mr. Ramsey well?”

  She shook her head. “He was a business colleague of my husband’s.”

  “Are you friends with Mrs. Ramsey?”

  “No.” Elisa put her plate in her lap. “I live in Germany most of the time.” She took a drink of her wine. “Besides, her daughter, Moira Ramsey, is my husband’s mistress. I don’t think it would be comfortable for either of us.”

  He wasn’t sure what to say, so just nodded.

  “Walter always has someone. I’m used to it.” She shrugged as if she didn’t care. “You know how it is. You go on. I have my own life. I have my sons, and my grandchildren.” She picked up a cracker loaded thickly with brown liver paste. “I don’t have my own lover, of course. Walter would never tolerate that.” She blushed, stricken with sudden embarrassment. “I’m sorry.”

  Reid realized she must be thinking of his own wife and Andrew Grainger. If Grainger had slept with Von Zandt’s wife, Reid had no doubt the man would have killed him, and probably her as well. And definitely if she’d gotten pregnant.

  He forced a small smile. “No need to apologize. I’m sure he wouldn’t. You’re not in Scotland often, I understand?”

  Elisa washed her cracker down with a drink of wine, then wiped her mouth with the back of her hand self-consciously before speaking. “I haven’t been, but I think with our new house I will be here more. The garden is
extraordinary, as I’m sure you’ve heard.” She looked at him and he thought she was going to say something else, but they were interrupted by a large bald man Reid recognized as one of Von Zandt’s bodyguards.

  “Mrs. Von Zandt, your husband says it’s time to leave.”

  “Yes, of course, Simon.” She stood up and put her plate down. “It was nice talking to you, Lord Reid. Good luck.”

  He stood up. “You as well.”

  After she left, he sat down on the window seat, gazing absently toward the garden beyond. How had his father managed, he wondered? How long did it take before people forgot? He felt a hand on his arm, and looked up.

  Glynnis Taylor sat next down next to him. “I had a feeling you’d want to talk to me, but I thought I’d wait until Elisa was gone.”

  “Aye.” Reid felt fatigue overtake him, a product of his sleepless night, and wished he could just go back to his flat and sleep until next year. But he knew he needed to keep going. One day at a time. That was the only way to get through this hell on earth. “You didn’t mention you worked for Henry Von Zandt when we talked the other day.”

  She smiled. “Or that I was sleeping with him?”

  “That, either.” He debated whether to ask her if she’d been the woman Richard Ramsey had been seeing, remembering Harry’s report of the meeting with Patty Cady, and Patty’s remark that if Ramsey had been interested in any woman, it would have been Glynnis. But if she’d been with Ramsey that night, she’d doubtless been involved in his murder, and she wasn’t likely to admit it.

  “You should have asked where I worked.”

  “Apparently.”

  “If you had, I would’ve told you.”

  “My fault, then.” His heart wasn’t in the exchange, but he forced himself to go through the motions.

  “Actually, though, it wouldn’t have changed anything I said.”

  “Does Henry’s wife know about you?”

  She shrugged. “You’d have to ask her. Why does it matter?”

  “In general, or in specific?” Breaking marriage bonds almost always caused someone pain, and not always just the betrayed spouse. As a child, he’d endured the ribald jibes about his mother, and although he’d not quite understood them, he’d known enough to know she’d done something very bad, something dirty. Now, of course, with his mother as well as with Anne, he knew things were more complicated than that, but that didn’t stop the pain.

  Glynnis frowned, clearly confused at his answer, but apparently decided to ignore it. “You look tired, Superintendent. Is it the investigation about Richard’s death? I told you he wasn’t worth it.”

  He tried to assess what she knew and what she would take back to her lover or her sister, then decided it did not matter; he would be making a press statement on this soon.

  “Richard Ramsey had just agreed to turn informant to help us find the people responsible for the Heidelberg University bombing.”

  She jerked her head back and stared at him. “You think Richard was involved with that? He was many things, but I’m sure he wasn’t a terrorist.”

  “Not directly. But he had information on a money laundering scheme that funded the terrorists for that attack, and for additional attacks the terrorists are planning for this spring.” Reid considered, then asked, “Were you involved with Richard Ramsey?”

  Glynnis gaped. “Absolutely not. He was my sister’s husband.”

  “Right.” He didn’t know whether to believe her or not. Undoubtedly she was a good liar.

  Glynnis’s mouth formed a tight line. “You think Walter’s involved in this terrorist thing, don’t you?”

  Reid splayed his hands out and studied them as he considered his response. He should tell her no, in keeping with his plan to try to get Von Zandt to lower his guard, but he couldn’t bring himself to lose the possible chance of getting another informant on his side.

  Before he could decide what to say, Glynnis went on, “So Richard was going to help you, and he was killed. You think Walter’s behind that, as well, I suppose?”

  Still Reid didn’t speak.

  Glynnis leaned forward, and spoke in almost a whisper. “Why would Walter get involved in that?”

  Reid raised his eyebrows, but still didn’t speak. She’d figure it out on her own, he knew.

  And she did. “For money, that’s what you’re saying, isn’t it? That they get the money from the people supporting these terrorist groups and funnel through channels so it can’t be traced back to them, and get it to the terrorists to help them do these awful things.”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “You didn’t have to. And now you’ve lost your informant, and you need someone else.”

  He looked at her, but didn’t speak, feeling remote from her but interested in where she’d go with this.

  “I can’t.” Her voice was a hiss, but her eyes were floating in unshed tears.

  “I didn’t ask you.”

  “Because you don’t think you can trust me.”

  Reid thought about Glynnis’s situation, Barbara Ramsey’s ruin of a marriage, and Moira’s situation with Von Zandt. These three women were alike in more than looks. But in his mind, Glynnis Taylor had had more of a choice. Moira had been a teenager when she’d gotten sucked into Von Zandt’s world, and Barbara Ramsey’s life had driven her into living in an alcoholic haze, but Glynnis was where she was by choice.

  No, he couldn’t trust her.

  She touched his arm. “I feel like you’re disappointed in me and I don’t even know you.”

  He stood up. “Nor I you, Glynnis. Nor I you.”

  “We could change that.” Her voice was wistful.

  “No, we couldn’t. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some other people I need to speak to.”

  Chapter 36

  STRONG MEN either raise sons who become men as strong as they themselves are, or sons who, growing up in the shadow of a larger-than-life father, collapse into weakness. Von Zandt seemed to have fathered one of each kind of son. The oldest son was much like Walter, strong both physically and in personality, whereas the younger son, Frederick, was not only a weak personality, but also physically weak. Reid had tried to set up the meetings with Von Zandt’s sons separately, but had not been surprised when he learned that both of the brothers would be appearing at one meeting.

  Briefly, Reid gave thanks for his own father, a strong man who had no problem allowing—even encouraging—his sons to be strong people in their own right. The Earl of Wynstrathe had no need or desire to overshadow his offspring, although his very presence was both quietly powerful and demanding of respect. Reid and his father had forged a strong bond early on, a bond that had gotten even stronger when his mother left them, taking his little brother and sister with her. His father had tried to explain that she hadn’t taken her oldest son because she did not want to pull him out of his school and away from his friends. Reid had pretended to believe him, to understand, but even after she came back, although he loved his mother, he couldn’t forget he’d been expendable to her.

  As he’d been expendable to Anne.

  Reid pushed his dismal thoughts away as he pushed open the door to the offices of Von Zandt’s firm, VZ Capital. Reid preferred to interview witnesses in their own surroundings whenever possible. In a witness’s own environment, one often got the added bonus of having other players wander in and out of the picture, and could observe interactions between the witness and others around him. Those observations were often surprisingly useful.

  Although the receptionist—Amanda, Reid remembered—seemed pleased to see him again, she was thwarted in her efforts at hospitality when he was taken back to Henry’s offices almost immediately by a businesslike and taciturn Glynnis Taylor. Reid followed her neatly dressed figure down the hall, registering with detachment the expensive navy blue suit, five-inch heels, and the trail of sultry perfume wafting behind her.

  Henry Von Zandt was taller than his father, but his face held the same stone cold eye
s. His prematurely thinning hair was combed back tight against his head. His gray suit was expensive and well-tailored; the French cuffs on his starched white shirt were studded with platinum cufflinks, each holding a ruby the size of a raspberry.

  Reid took the coffee Glynnis offered, nodding his head in thanks. Henry motioned for her to leave, then sat back and focused his attention on Reid.

  “So, Superintendent, what can I help you with?”

  Henry was thirty-two years old, a few years younger than Reid. According to the background file Frank had put together, Henry, until he was of age, had been raised chiefly in Germany. He, like his father, was married to a German woman. He had a house in the suburbs outside of Glasgow, where his wife stayed home to take care of their two young children.

  “I wanted to talk to you about Richard Ramsey. I understand you dealt with him on behalf of your father’s company.”

  “Our companies formed an alliance that was, I believe, mutually beneficial.”

  “How so?” Reid put down the coffee, having had no intention of drinking it. The day he actually drank anything a Von Zandt gave him would be the day he needed to resign.

  “Richard had become overextended. His businesses were solid, but strained temporarily for cash. We had the cash.” Henry’s voice held just the hint of a German accent.

  “You and your father were each given a position on the board of directors of Ramsey International as a condition for the loan?”

  Henry inclined his head in an abbreviated nod, a mannerism reminiscent of his father’s. “One of the conditions. There were others. With the investment of money, come conditions. As they say, there is no free lunch.”

  “Did Ramsey repay the loan when his situation improved?”

  “Not quite. The terms were extremely favorable and I doubt he felt there was any hurry.”

  “Good investment for VZ Capital?”

  “And for Ramsey. His situation wouldn’t have been able to improve without the loan—or investment—of our money. Sometimes having an abundance of assets isn’t enough if those assets aren’t in the form of cash. Supplying cash for healthy businesses that need cash is a big part of our business.”