by Jan Neuharth
“Fine with me,” Thompson said, though his tight-lipped look implied otherwise.
“Good.” Margaret glanced at her watch. “I’d like to wrap this up. I left Duchess locked up at home. Do either of you have anything further to discuss?”
Manning had plenty more to ask, but first he wanted to see the race account. “How do I get authorized to access the race account?” he asked.
“I would think a simple call to the bank is all it should take,” Margaret said.
Thompson shook his head. “I’m not sure. It may take a board resolution.”
“Will you find out?” Margaret asked Thompson.
“Sure. No problem.”
“When?” Manning asked.
“Christ, you’re really champing at the bit, aren’t you?” Thompson said. “I’m snowed under at the office, but I’ll try to drop by the bank before the end of the week. Beginning of next week at the latest.”
“In the meantime, why don’t you print out the financials for Manning and give him bank records for the race account,” Margaret said.
Thompson’s shoulders sagged as he blew out a loud breath. “I guess I could do that. But I’ve got to tell you, I’m feeling double-teamed here.”
“Nonsense,” Margaret said. “The sooner you help Manning get up to speed on things, the sooner he’ll be able to help shoulder some of the bookkeeping burden.” She nodded at the built-in filing drawers beneath the bookcase. “Are the bank records in these files?”
“No. They’re at my house.”
“Then why don’t you run down and collect them. You can print off the financials at the same time. Manning and I will swing by for them on our way out. There are a few other files I want to gather for Manning before we lock up here.”
Thompson shot a look at his watch. “I have a business dinner to attend.”
“That’s all right,” Margaret said. “We won’t be long here.”
Thompson snatched his jacket from the back of his chair. “Give me ten minutes.”
Neither Manning nor Margaret spoke until the front door banged closed.
“Thanks for backing me up,” Manning said.
Margaret pressed her lips together and eyed him thoughtfully. “I don’t know if your suspicions are correct—I hope to God they’re not—but I think you’ve raised some legitimate questions.”
“I just can’t believe Richard let Thompson have free rein with the finances,” Manning said. “Thompson paid the bills, kept the books, and reconciled the bank accounts. With no checks and balances. And apparently no oversight from Richard.”
“Now don’t go blaming it all on Richard. The board knew Thompson was handling everything. In fact, Doug raised a concern about it at one board meeting and we all just brushed it off.” Margaret shook her head. “Now that I think about it, we really just turned the finances over to Thompson with blind faith. When Dottie Weymouth quit hunting and retired from the board, we were thrilled that Thompson volunteered to fill her shoes as treasurer. We knew Thompson was an accountant. We just assumed the books would be in good hands. Stupid of us, I guess, considering he’d only been a member of the hunt for a couple of years.”
“See, the fact that Thompson’s an accountant just adds to my doubts about the numbers,” Manning said. “He specializes in auditing companies to see if they’re cooking the books, for God’s sake. Generally, auditors have no mercy. They’re usually the type who’d go around a battlefield shooting the wounded. Yet Thompson’s all loosey-goosey about the two accounts, moving money back and forth to suit the needs of the moment.”
“I hear you.” Margaret pushed herself up off the love seat. “I think I’ll place a call to Doug now and ask him to have Jay Barnsby take a look at those two accounts.”
“Sorry, Margaret, I can’t allow you to do that.”
Thompson’s voice came from behind them. His tone hard, confident. Chilled with an air of authority.
The hair pricked on the back of Manning’s neck as he spun toward the hall.
Thompson stood in the doorway, a pistol gripped in both hands. Aimed squarely at Margaret.
“Don’t even think about it, Manning. I can see you’re trying to figure out a way to play hero. You make a move, and I’ll blow Margaret’s brains out. Then turn the gun on you. You think I won’t do it?” Thompson’s lips twisted into a sneer. “Ask Richard.”
CHAPTER
81
Neither Miguel nor the other man had spoken a word since they’d left the parking lot at Big Lots. They’d been driving for about twenty minutes, and had turned off Sterling Boulevard into a residential area about five minutes ago. Miguel made a series of turns that seemed to be taking them in a circle. Abigale figured the indirect route was to ensure they weren’t being followed. And to make sure she wouldn’t be able to lead the cops back to Dario.
The truck splashed through standing water so deep Abigale felt the floorboards vibrate beneath her feet. Water sprayed up over the hood and the truck fishtailed to the left as the wheels fought for traction, then righted again.
“Mierda!” Miguel swore.
The truck slowed, then pulled up to the curb in front of a four-story apartment complex. Warped orange shutters hung like faded beacons against tired brown siding. Rivulets of mud meandered past cast-off toys in a dismal yard of crabgrass and mud.
“We meet Dario here,” Miguel said. “Inside.”
Abigale eyed the bleak building. She had managed to rein in her initial rush of fear by reminding herself that she was the one who had requested the meeting with Dario, that the fact Miguel had brought someone with him probably just meant he was being cautious, making sure he had protection in case she double-crossed him.
She was sandwiched between Miguel and the other man as they dashed up the cracked sidewalk and squeezed down an alleyway between two apartment buildings. Her jacket offered no protection against the icy rain that pelted her face. They skirted a Dumpster that looked as if it hadn’t seen a garbage truck in weeks, where rodents scoured brazenly among rotting food and garbage bags, indifferent to the rain or the threat of humankind. A single caged bulb hung crookedly above a graffiti-covered metal door midway down the alley. By the time they halted in front of the door, Abigale’s frozen legs shivered uncontrollably beneath her drenched jeans. Miguel banged once. The door swung toward them.
A young Hispanic woman with a mop of curly black hair and skinny-legged jeans held the door open, then clanged it closed behind them. She tossed her head in the direction of a staircase that ascended behind her. Her feet slapped the cement as she danced up the stairs ahead of them. Rap music blasted down from the second floor, the volume cranked so loud Abigale could feel the bass vibrate in her chest.
She stole a sideways glance at Miguel’s companion. His ball cap still covered half his face, but even so, she could tell he was young. Maybe in his early twenties. His expression said don’t mess with me. He shoved his right hand in the pocket of his hoodie, exposing the grip handle of a pistol. Abigale shot a glance at Miguel.
“Is okay,” Miguel said hurriedly. “Jaime, he protect us.”
Angry fists hammered a wall above them. A gruff voice bellowed, “Shut that fucking crap off!” The music instead got louder.
Miguel kicked a beer bottle out of the way and grabbed her arm. “Come on.”
CHAPTER
82
Margaret’s jawed ached. She’d worked her lips so sore she could taste the metallic bite of blood in her saliva, yet the duct tape still clung to her mouth like a tick on a dog. She’d rubbed her wrists raw, too, having stretched and twisted the duct tape so much it now clamped around her like sticky ribbons of steel. And, damn it, she knew better than that. Every horseman who’d ever duct-taped a hoof knew that the tape only got stronger, tougher, the more you stretched it. Yet she hadn’t been able to resist the urge to pull against the leg of the utility sink to which her wrists were bound, hoping she could use the metal as leverage to loosen the tape and slip a
hand free.
She could tell by the muffled grunts whispering through the dark that Manning was struggling against his restraints, too. Thompson had bound Manning with his legs straddling the support beam in the center of the room, his ankles duct-taped together, his hands behind his back. Manning’s face had blanched pale as a corpse when Thompson had grabbed his broken arm and wound the tape around his wrists. God help him, the amount of pain he must be feeling with it twisted behind him like that!
They were in the basement of Dartmoor Glebe, in the darkroom Richard had built for Abigale when she’d won her Pulitzer. Richard had loved the fact that in this digital age Abigale had a collection of old cameras, still liked to piddle around and shoot rolls of black-and-white, even develop her own film. He had planned to surprise her with the darkroom when—if—she ever came back to Virginia. As far as Margaret knew, Abigale had no idea the darkroom even existed.
Not only was the room windowless, but Richard had designed the space to be virtually soundproof as well. The darkroom shared a wall with Richard’s workshop, and he had said he wanted Abigale to be able to lose herself in her work, not be disturbed by him hammering or drilling on the other side of the wall. Quiet as a tomb was how he’d described it. Painfully prophetic.
Margaret found it hard to judge how long they’d been locked in the darkroom. Her inability to see—or hear beyond the four walls—had robbed her of her sense of timing. She guessed it had been less than an hour. She had no idea whether Thompson was still in the house, but if he’d left, she expected he’d be back soon.
There was no way he could keep them hidden in the darkroom for long. Too many people knew about their meeting. Smitty. Abigale. When she and Manning didn’t come home, Dartmoor Glebe was the first place they’d look, and Thompson the first person they’d contact. Besides, Manning’s car was parked out front. And her truck was down at the barn.
But what the hell would Thompson do with them? Kill them, no doubt. Thompson had probably decided that as soon as he realized Manning had caught on to his financial shenanigans. She wondered if Richard had figured it out as well—that Thompson was cooking the books—and confronted Thompson, and that’s why Thompson had shot him.
Fear, anger, and dread all swirled in Margaret’s heart. But mostly anger. Thompson had killed Richard. Betrayed them all. And he might kill her and Manning in the end, too. But she wasn’t going without a fight. If nothing else, she’d find a way to leave some kind of clue so Thompson didn’t get away with this.
CHAPTER
83
The girl waited for them at the top of the stairs. They caught up to her, then followed her into a long hallway of ugly beige walls. The stench of garlic and onions saturated the air. Miguel walked in front of Abigale, Jaime half a pace behind. They’d gone maybe twenty yards when the music abruptly cut off. Half a minute later, the door to one of the apartments flew open and three men strolled into the hall. Abigale’s first impression was of testosterone and tattoos, low-slung jeans and close-cropped dark hair. One of them wore a white wife-beater undershirt. He folded his arms across his chest and tucked his hands under his armpits to pump up his muscles. The other two fell into place, flanking him on either side.
Abigale felt Jaime’s hand on her back, pushing her forward. No one spoke. Miguel and the girl kept walking. Jaime slid around to Abigale’s left, positioning himself between her and the men. The gaze of the one in the wife-beater undershirt focused on Jaime, and Abigale saw fear in his eyes. Jaime uttered something in Spanish, and the three men backed against the wall to allow them to pass.
The girl walked past two more apartments, then stopped and rapped lightly on an apartment door. “It’s me.”
The door instantly opened inward, revealing a tiny one-room apartment. The threadbare carpet was littered with dust bunnies, scraps of paper, and a couple of bags from fast-food restaurants. Battered aluminum blinds hung in a tangled mess from the lone window and a stained mattress was shoved against the wall. A closet-sized kitchenette was tucked into the corner next to a closed door that Abigale assumed led to a bathroom or closet. Light from a fluorescent bulb in the kitchenette flickered across the room, casting long shadows into the corners.
Dario Reyes stepped out from behind the door as it swung closed behind them. He draped his arm around the girl’s shoulders. Jaime leaned his back against the door.
Abigale’s heart pounded in her throat. She eased out a breath. “Hello, Dario. Thanks for meeting with me.”
Suspicion and hope clashed in his dark eyes. “You his niece, the guy who get murdered?”
She nodded.
“I did no kill him.”
“But you were there, in your car?”
“Sí. I run out of gas. I wait for my friend to come get me.”
“Tell me what you saw,” Abigale said.
Dario glanced at the girl, who gave him an encouraging nod. “I don’t see who do it. I just hear the shot.”
“Did you see a vehicle?”
Dario nodded. “Sí. Dos. The sports car and the SUV.”
The chill that ran through Abigale had nothing to do with her wet clothes. “Tell me about the sports car.”
“It was BMW.”
“Was the sports car heading into Longmeadow when you saw it?”
“No. Back down St. Louis Road. To Middleburg.” He shrugged. “I was no feeling well, so I close my eyes. Just chill and wait for my ride. The guy gunned the engine. It make me look and I see him drive off.”
Abigale held her next question for a moment, not sure she wanted to hear the answer. “Did you see the sports car leave before or after you heard the shot?”
“Before,” Dario answered without hesitation.
“Are you sure?”
He nodded. “An hour maybe.”
“You saw the BMW leave Longmeadow an hour before you heard the shot?”
“Sí.”
Relief gushed through Abigale. Dario could prove Manning was innocent. “Tell me what you saw after the sports car drove away.”
“I fall asleep; when I wake up it almost dark. My friend he should be there by then, so I think maybe he get lost. I take out my cell to call him. That’s when I hear the shot.”
“Just one shot?”
“Sí. From a rifle. I figure some guy shoot a deer.”
“What happened next?”
“Nada. I try to call my friend, but my phone battery dead. So I just chill.”
“You mentioned earlier that you saw an SUV. When was that?”
“Maybe ten minute.”
“Ten minutes after you heard the shot?” Abigale asked.
“Sí.”
“Was the vehicle driving into or out of Longmeadow?”
“Out.”
That had to be the killer. “Can you describe the SUV?”
Dario shrugged. “No really. It was dark.”
“Do you remember anything? The shape of the headlights?”
“The guy don’t have his lights on when he drive out.”
“But you could tell it was an SUV?”
“Sí. He stop and close the gate after he drive out. Even in the dark, I can tell it is SUV.”
Abigale thought of Larry’s car. “You’re sure it couldn’t have been a Ford Focus?”
“No, it was SUV.”
So it wasn’t Larry. “Can you describe the driver?”
Dario shook his head.
“Nothing at all?”
“No.”
“But you’re sure it was a man?”
Dario thought about it. “No.”
Damn it. He had to have seen something. Even if the headlights were turned off, the interior light would have gone on when he opened the door. Abigale asked, “When the driver opened the door to get out and close the gate, did you see the inside of the vehicle?”
He shook his head.
“Didn’t the interior light come on?”
“No.”
Abigale wondered fleetingly whether Dario was
fabricating the story about the SUV to draw suspicion away from himself. “If it was too dark to see the car or the driver, how were you able to see him—or her—close the gate?”
Dario said, “I don’t see him do it. But my friend pull over by the gate when he pick me up and I see it closed. So I figure the guy in the SUV must have close it when he get out of his car.”
“And then he drove off down the road without his headlights?”
“Sí. He turn them on before he get to the curve.”
“You couldn’t see the vehicle then? The color, anything?”
“I think it was dark color.”
Abigale thought of Tiffanie Jenner’s black Mercedes SUV. “Could it have been a Mercedes?”
He shook his head. “It no have Xenon headlights.”
“I thought you said the headlights were turned off.”
“Sí, when he first drive out. But then he turn them on.”
“Right, but the vehicle was driving away from you then. So how do you know what kind of headlights it had?”
“Xenon headlights, they light up the whole road blue.” Frustration danced in Dario’s eyes. “Look, I can no describe it any better. That’s all I see. Just basic SUV. No fancy headlights, no roof lights, no jacked-up wheels.”
Abigale figured she’d pushed the SUV questions as far as she could, even though she hadn’t learned much. A basic SUV. That narrowed it down as much as describing a house in the Swiss Alps as a chalet. “Did you see or hear anything else?”
Dario shook his head.
“And you didn’t see the SUV drive into Longmeadow. Just out.”
“Sí.”
So, had it been at Longmeadow all along? Even when Manning was there? Or had it driven in when Dario was asleep? Abigale regarded him for a moment. Or, was Dario making the whole thing up? “Why didn’t you go to work the next day?” she asked.