Mona Lisa Eyes (Danny Logan Mystery #4)

by Grayson, M. D.

  I held on as he swerved, then I turned to Toni. “You get a chance to read the file?”

  She shook her head. “Hell no. I was too busy driving, following the ambulance to the hospital, then racing back up here. I’m lucky I didn’t get in an accident.” She handed the folder to me, her eyes wide. “Here, you look. I gotta hold on.”

  I opened the folder and started flipping through the pages as I wedged myself back against the corner that the seat made with the door. About four pages in, I suddenly froze, shocked by what I’d seen. I scanned the document quickly and flipped the page. Then I read it again. “Holy shit,” I said slowly, a cold chill running through me.

  Ron looked at me. “What?”

  I turned to him. “Better hurry, dude.”

  Chapter 27

  WE CROSSED THE BRIDGE HEADING SOUTH, and a minute later we reached the intersection just before Interlaken Park. Ron slowed down. “What do you think?” he asked. “Lake Washington to Hillside?”

  I nodded. “Definitely.” I was very familiar with this area—we were actually driving a segment of my racecourse, only backward.

  He peeled off to the left. “Okay, tell me,” he said when he hit a straight section, “what’s in the files? What’d you see?”

  I explained what I’d seen. I’m no accountant or lawyer, but I was familiar with the basic documents, and those I’d seen in the file were clear and unambiguous. There was no mistaking the implication. Toni and Ron hit me with a dozen questions as we drove, answers to which I was able to readily find in Linda’s file, which held a very thorough record of the Southern Star Relief Fund. When they were satisfied, neither Ron nor Toni said a word while they both considered what this meant. Then Ron shook his head once and said, “Son of a bitch.” A moment later, he shrugged and said, “Alright—that’s fine. Here’s our game plan.” He finished laying out our assignments just as we pulled up to the curb in front of Oliver and Cecilia’s home just before nine. He turned to us and smiled. “It’s showtime, boys and girls.”

  The home’s circular drive was completely full of cars—more Porsches, Jaguars, and Mercedes than I’d seen in one place at the same time, not counting a car lot.

  We got out and Ron looked at the driveway, then at the cars that had spilled over onto the street. “Geez. Quite a shindig.”

  I nodded. “Oliver must appreciate his Monday night football.”

  “Yeah, he must,” Ron said. He turned and waved for the officers in the patrol car. “You two with us,” he said to them as they approached.

  We walked up as a group, and Ron rapped on the front door using the brass knocker. I could hear cheering and moaning at the same time from inside, apparently in reaction to something happening in the football game. We waited and a few seconds later, the door opened. Cecilia stood there, a glass of white wine in her hand. She looked at each of us in turn, a look of surprise on her face. She turned to me. “Danny, I had no idea you were coming tonight.” She paused, then, apparently remembering the fact that I’d briefed her earlier about our meetings this evening, she said, “Is it because of your meetings? Has something happened?”

  Ron nodded. “Yes, it has. May we come inside?”

  She stepped back, making way for us. “Do you have information about Sophie?”

  “We do,” Ron said, nodding as he stepped inside.

  Cecilia stared at him intently. “We have guests over. Will that be a problem?”

  Ron shook his head. “Not for us.” Ron reached over and held the door open for the uniformed officers while Cecilia stared, wide-eyed. The men walked inside, keys and equipment jangling lightly. For once, Cecilia didn’t say anything—I think she was struggling to catch up. Instead, once everyone was inside, she simply turned and led us back to the family room at the rear of the home where we could hear the football party under way.

  I guessed that there were about twenty people there, about half of whom I recognized. Eric Gaston stood at the bar with Oliver and two other men I didn’t know. They were staring intently at the big television, watching the 49ers kick the hell out of the Bears in the closing minutes of the Monday night football game. I was surprised to see Nicki Thoms there, sitting on a sofa beside a young guy with long blond hair whom I’d never seen before. Maybe her stay in London had made Nicki appreciate her extended family a little more, and she’d decided to join in. She smiled when she saw me looking at her.

  “Everyone!” Cecilia called out when we entered, clapping her hands together. Heads turned our way, but still it took a second for the room to begin to quiet down.

  “Hey, Danny!” Gaston called out. “Miss Blair.”

  Cecilia found the remote and muted the television. “Everyone, please.” The people in the room turned to face her. “Everyone, this is Lieutenant Bergstrom with the Seattle Police Department.” She turned to Toni and me. “And this is Toni Blair and Danny Logan from the Logan Private Investigation Agency. I think they have news.” She turned to us, her eyes full of anticipation.

  Everyone else turned to us as well. The room, which had been noisy, almost raucous a few seconds ago, was suddenly very quiet.

  Ron looked around at the group, his eyes coming to rest on Gaston and the men standing beside him. He turned and whispered something to one of the officers, who nodded in reply. Ron looked up and walked over to the group.

  Gaston set his drink on the bar as Ron walked up, but Ron walked past him.

  “Oliver Ward,” he said, standing face-to-face with Oliver, “you’re under arrest for the murders of Sophie Thoms and Leonard McKenzie. Turn around and put your hands up against the bar.”

  Oliver stared at him for a second, frozen.

  “Do it now!” Ron commanded, sharply.

  Cecilia stepped forward. “What? Oliver? What’s happening?”

  I put my hand on her shoulder. “Wait,” I said, quietly.

  “Excuse us,” the officers said, stepping forward past us. Gaston and the other man he’d been talking with moved aside for the officers. One of the officers used his foot to kick Oliver’s legs apart before he patted him down and cuffed him. The rest of the people in the room were silent, shocked into a state of complete immobility. Mouths were half-open, drinks half-raised, gestures frozen in place. The other officer read Oliver his Miranda rights. When he asked if he understood the rights, Oliver nodded without speaking.

  “Okay,” the officer said. “Turn around, then.”

  Oliver turned and faced us. His eyes locked on to Cecilia, but he said nothing.

  “Oliver?” she said.

  Oliver looked at her, then he grimaced and shook his head.

  Cecilia stared back, her eyes wide, shock written all over her face.

  “Take him outside,” Ron said. “I’ll be there in a minute.”

  The officers took him by the arms, one on either side. “Let’s go.” They led Oliver back down the hall and outside.

  “What the hell . . . ?” Eric Gaston had a stunned look on his face. “What just . . . ? Oliver?”

  I nodded.

  “Well,” Cecilia said defiantly, “There’s obviously been a mistake, hasn’t there? This needs to be set straight immediately. I have some phone calls to make.” She turned to leave.

  “Cecilia,” Ron called out. She turned back to face me. “Wait a minute. Please. Allow us to walk you through what’s happened, what we’ve discovered.”

  She stared at me for a moment—a hard, mean stare.

  “You don’t want to make any mistakes with your brother, right?” I asked.

  After a moment, she nodded. “Alright.”

  I turned to the others in the room. “Ladies and gentlemen, I’m afraid that unless you’re part of the immediate family,” I looked at Gaston, “or part of the Foundation, we need you to collect your things and leave now.”

  Three minutes later, the room was cleared except for ourselves and Cecilia, Gaston, and Nicki. Ron nodded to me.

  “Eric, I know you did, but Cecilia, Nicki, I think you a
lso knew Robert Brownell.”

  “Knew?” Gaston said, jumping in. “What do you mean, knew?”

  “Brownell was killed tonight in Bellevue.”

  “What?” he cried. “Oh, dear God. Another one? Another one murdered?”

  I shook my head. “Brownell wasn’t murdered. He was killed in self-defense.”

  Gaston froze. Cecilia opened her mouth to speak, the shock in her eyes obvious. “Self-defense? What does that . . .”

  Ron stepped in. “Just about two hours ago, Robert Brownell shot Linda Ramos and Kenny Hale, one of Danny’s associates, outside a restaurant in Bellevue.”

  “Linda?” Gaston said, now completely stunned. “Linda’s dead too?”

  “She’s not dead,” Ron said. “We just got word. She’s in surgery at Harborview right now.”

  “Why? Why would Robert Brownell shoot Linda Ramos?” Cecilia asked.

  “He was trying to keep her from giving Danny this,” Ron said, holding up the file. “It’s a secret file she kept. It detailed all the activity of a group called the Southern Star Relief Fund.”

  “I know Southern Star,” Gaston said. “They’re one of our biggest partners. They do work in east Africa.”

  I smiled. “You’ll be surprised to find out, then, that they’re a sham,” I said.

  “What?”

  I nodded. “A bogus operation. They don’t really exist. I mean, they exist as a shell, but they don’t actually do anything except take your Foundation’s money and send back pretty pictures. False pictures. I’ve seen documentary photographs, and now I’ve seen the records—it’s all in the file. Linda has a report that chronicles how the Beatrice Thoms Memorial Fund donated more than thirty million dollars to projects over the past four years that were to have been implemented by Southern Star.”

  Gaston nodded. “Yeah, that sounds about right. But—”

  “But only about five million ever made it into actual projects,” I said. “They must have hired someone to do that. The other twenty-five million was distributed directly to the owner of Southern Star.”

  “Twenty-five million dollars?” Cecilia said. “To the owner?” She paused for a moment, then said, “And who might that be . . . ?”

  The tentative way she left the question dangling made me think she had a pretty good idea of the answer before I gave it to her. “It was Oliver, Cecilia. He was behind the whole operation. He directed Linda and Brownell. He set up the Southern Star Relief Fund and ran it. And when Sophie turned the heat up after hearing from Leonard McKenzie, he orchestrated the cover-up, including all the murders. He paid Brownell and Linda for their help, but Oliver was running the show. Linda documented everything.”

  Cecilia gave me a hard look. “Are you quite certain?” she asked.

  I nodded. “I’m sorry to say that I am. Like I said, we have photographs. We have a confession from Robert Brownell. And now we have Linda’s files. She kept detailed records of all the paperwork—formation documents, distribution records, everything. It’s all there. She was a compliance person. Apparently, it’s in her nature to document things. If she pulls out of surgery, I imagine she’ll testify to this, now that the other guys tried to kill her.”

  The room was silent for several seconds before Cecilia finally said, “My God. Sophie. Oh my God.” Her face was white, the shock of the revelation clear to see. Then, she did something I would have expected from most people, but not from Cecilia. She broke. The tough facade she wore just sort of fell away. Her face became red as she slumped back on the sofa and quietly started crying.

  I answered questions from Gaston for several minutes while Cecilia composed herself. Finally, she turned to Ron. “May I ask him a question?”

  Ron nodded. “Sure. He’s outside in a patrol car. Let’s go.”

  When we stepped out, I saw that now there were three more patrol cars, flashing emergency lights bouncing off the house and the cars. “He’s over there,” Ron said. He led Cecilia over to the car while the rest of the group hung back, wanting to give Cecilia a little privacy. Oliver had been sitting with his head down, but he turned when Ron opened the door. For a long moment, he and Cecilia just looked at each other.

  Finally, Cecilia said, “Oliver? Is this true? Sophie?”

  Oliver just looked up at her. He had nothing to say.

  “I’m sorry,” he said quietly.

  Suddenly, a piercing scream came from behind me.

  “No!” I turned to my right just as Nicki jumped forward. “Oliver, you killed Sophie?” she screamed. “Your own niece? You murdered her?” I thought she was just going to get hysterical—I was about to move toward her to comfort her when she reached into her purse. “How could you?” she cried. She lifted her arms in front of her. Her stainless Sig Sauer, which had seemed little and cute before, now seemed pretty damn big and ugly. It was pointed right between Ron and Cecilia, directly at Oliver.

  No one around us moved, but the uniformed officers who’d been standing at the next car saw and immediately drew their weapons and pointed them at Nicki. Ron saw them and held up a hand. “Wait!” he commanded.

  Nicki was about ten feet from where I stood, her weapon held tightly in her outstretched hands.

  “How could you?” she screamed again.

  I started inching toward her. “Nicki?” I said slowly. “What are you doing?” I tried to use the most soothing voice I could manage.

  “Stay out of this, Danny!” She surprised me and let out a quick sob before she regained control. “He killed Sophie. My own fucking uncle killed my sister!”

  I nodded. “And for that, he will pay.”

  Tears ran down her face. She kept the gun pointed more or less in Oliver’s direction, but as she cried, her arms started moving around, first just a little; then, a few seconds later, more and more. I wasn’t sure she’d have been able to hit Oliver now even if she did fire. Then again, it was pretty tight quarters, and she’d probably hit Cecilia or Ron if she missed Oliver.

  “Nicki,” I said, trying to sound calm, “it’s all over. There’s no more threat. You can’t shoot your uncle.”

  “He needs to pay for what he’s done.”

  I nodded. “I told you he will. But if you shoot him, Nicki? So will you. You don’t want that. Put your gun down.”

  She stepped to her left and gave her head a shake, trying to flip back the hair that had fallen into her face. I stepped forward to her left, keeping far enough away so that she wouldn’t think I was too close, but still close enough so that she had to look to the left to see me. This made it so that she didn’t notice Toni silently creeping up on her from behind, on her right.

  “C’mon, Nicki. You know this doesn’t make any sense.”

  “None of this makes any sense, Danny.”

  Toni was almost right behind Nicki now.

  Ron still hadn’t moved, still stood with his hand raised, commanding the officers not to do anything. “Nicki,” Ron said. “I’ll make you a deal. I understand you’re upset. If you stop this right now, we’ll chalk it up to the emotions of the moment. Is that okay? Think about it now ’cause if it’s not okay, if you don’t drop that gun right now, those officers over there are going to shoot you. Think about that.”

  Before Nicki had a chance to answer, Toni stepped up close behind her, crouched down and with a strong, explosive motion, swept her right arm up straight beneath Nicki’s arms. When she made contact with Nicki’s wrist, her momentum forced Nicki’s arms straight up. Before she even knew what hit her, Nicki’s Sig was pointed at the sky.

  Good enough for me. I jumped across the distance between us in a split second and grabbed the weapon right out of Nicki’s hand while Toni held her arm up. Toni released her then. Nicki slumped to the driveway and started sobbing again, but I wasn’t in the mood to indulge her.

  “Damn, Nicki,” I said, my heart pounding. “That was a stupid thing to do.” The officers ran up to us.

  “Jesus Christ!” Ron said, looking at Nicki. He shook his
head and slammed the car door shut. “I’m shakin’ over here. Never been so fuckin’ scared in my whole life, way she was wavin’ that thing around.” He looked at Nicki, then he turned to the first officer to reach us. “Cuff her dumb ass, then take her in the house and sit her down. Stay with her until I get inside.”

  Chapter 28

  “HELLUVA FOOTBALL PARTY,” ONE OF THE uniformed officers said, kicking at a pine cone that had fallen onto the driveway. Toni had taken Cecilia back in the house, and I was still standing in the driveway, waiting for Ron to finish up with the other officers. He was giving final instructions to two task force detectives and two uniformed officers near Oliver’s car. He handed over Linda’s files and my cell phone, which he’d confiscated as evidence because of the Brownell recording. That fit, I suppose. The Bellevue PD had already confiscated my 1911 earlier. Now my phone was gone too.

  I took a deep breath and blew it out slowly. “You got that right.”

  “Yeah. And on top of everything, the fuckin’ Bears lost. Again.”

  “Danny Logan!”

  Now what? I turned and saw Eric Gaston calling me as he walked purposefully my way. When things calmed down after the confrontation with Nicki, I’d told Eric to go call his mom and tell her everything was okay, then come and find me. I wanted to talk to him for a minute when he was done.

  “Jesus, Logan, what a night,” he said as he walked up. “You guys scared the shit out of my mom. First she thought I was dead, and then she thought I was calling her from jail.”

  “Say,” Ron said, “you guys excuse me, would ya? I got to talk to someone inside.” I watched as he turned and walked back inside, leaving me to talk to Eric alone, to explain why I screwed up and thought he was a murderer.

  I turned to Eric. “Eric, I’m afraid I owe you an apology.”

  “Apology? To me? Why?”

  I took a deep breath. “Yeah. I fucked up. I thought it was you, the one behind all this. I never dreamed it was Oliver.”