Secret Combinations

by Gordon Cope

  Kenyon didn’t stick around to watch the rest of the fight. He continued on his way, taking several doglegs and detours until he was fairly certain he wasn’t being followed by any of Dahg’s henchmen.

  It was almost midnight by the time he reached O’Neill’s building. The street was deserted, the only movement came from the wind swaying the sycamore trees that lined one sidewalk. Kenyon stood staring up at O’Neill’s apartment. The windows were open to let in a late night breeze, and there was a light burning inside, but he couldn’t see anyone on the patio. He climbed the steps to the front door and pushed the buzzer.

  A few seconds later, O’Neill answered. “Yes?”

  “It’s Jack.”

  There was a brief pause, then the door unlocked.

  O’Neill was waiting at the front door when Kenyon reached the top of the stairwell. She was wearing a short cotton nightdress that ended at mid-thigh. She stared at Kenyon for a moment, noting his haggard look. The chill of their last encounter hung in the air.

  “It’s late, Jack,” she finally said.

  “I know. I need to talk to you.”

  O’Neill hesitated a moment, then let him through the door.

  Kenyon walked into the living room and glanced around. O’Neill appeared to be alone, preparing for bed. There was soft jazz on the stereo and a cup of tea sat on the coffee table. He stared at the couch and thought about her warm skin under his hands.

  O’Neill approached Kenyon, her arms folded across her breasts. “What did you want to talk about?”

  Kenyon turned to face the lawyer. “You haven’t been telling me the truth.”

  O’Neill pushed her hair back over one ear. “What do you mean?”

  “You know Ricci is dead.” He stated it as a fact.

  O’Neill nodded. “I read about it in the papers. He killed himself.”

  Kenyon shook his head. “He didn’t commit suicide. He was murdered.”

  O’Neill’s hand flew to her mouth. “How do you know?”

  “The police told me. They think I did it.”

  O’Neill, unsteady, sat down on the couch. “But why? You had no reason to kill him.”

  “It seems I had several.” He stared at the picture of Lydia over the fireplace, then turned to O’Neill. “I found out that Ricci was using Lydia’s gallery to forge paintings.”

  Kenyon didn’t have to ask if she knew; the solicitor blanched and turned her face away.

  “I went to Ricci’s apartment to confront him,” Kenyon continued, “but he had already slit his wrists in the bathtub. I thought he killed himself because I had discovered his scheme. I told the police about it when they came to take the body away.”

  O’Neill said nothing; she continued to stare away from Kenyon.

  “When they found out Ricci’s murder had been faked to look like a suicide, they came back and did a more thorough search. Know what they found?”

  O’Neill shook her head.

  “They found a laser pen. Just like the one that must have been used to blind Lydia and force her to crash.”

  “It couldn’t be Ricci,” said O’Neill. “He’s too much of a coward to kill anyone.”

  “But not coward enough to blackmail someone,” countered Kenyon. “You know what else they found in Ricci’s apartment? A DVD.”

  O’Neill turned toward the painting of Lydia.

  “You know what was on it,” said Kenyon. “You and Lydia. Making love.”

  O’Neill sat staring at Lydia’s portrait, tears flowing down her cheeks.

  “Bruno was blackmailing you and Lydia, wasn’t he?” asked Kenyon.

  “No.”

  Kenyon bent forward over the couch and gripped O’Neill by the arms, lifting her to her feet. “Godammit, you think this is some kind of game? Somebody killed Ricci in cold blood. Quit lying to me!”

  “We didn’t know who it was!” shouted O’Neill. “You have to believe me!” She began to cry in earnest.

  Kenyon resisted the temptation to hold her close. He released her arms, and she sank back onto the couch, sniffing several times and wiping her nose on the sleeve of the nightdress. “A copy of the DVD came in the post several months ago,” she began. “There was a note. They wanted one hundred thousand pounds.”

  “And Lydia paid ?”

  O’Neill nodded. “She put it in a plain brown bag under a bench in Kensington Park.”

  Kenyon cursed at their stupidity. “I take it the blackmailer wasn’t through.”

  “That was the last I heard about it until you came and told me Lydia had taken out another one hundred thousand pounds for Archie Lump,” said O’Neill. “I thought he must be the blackmailer.”

  “And that’s why you tried to stop me from finding her killer? To hide your dirty little secret?”

  Kenyon instantly regretted his choice of words.

  “Is that how you see us?” asked O’Neill, suddenly defiant. “Two filthy dykes slutting in the closet?”

  “No, I . . .”

  O’Neill stood up and faced Kenyon. “She was the best thing that ever happened to me. She believed in me.” O’Neill turned toward the portrait. “I loved her so much, I would have done anything for her.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Kenyon. “I didn’t know.”

  O’Neill turned back to the agent, her face knitted in anger. “That’s bloody right, you didn’t know. And it’s something you’ll never know.” She turned back to stare at the painting. “Get out of my home.”

  Kenyon, his heart torn, turned to go. He was almost at the door, when he stopped. “I won’t leave until you answer me one last question.”

  O’Neill didn’t turn around. “What is it?” she asked.

  “Did the blackmailer threaten to hand the DVD over to the media?”

  “No.”

  “Did he threaten to show it to your boss at the law office?”

  “No. I don’t care about them.”

  “Then what did he threaten to do that was worth one hundred thousand pounds?”

  O’Neill finally turned to face Kenyon. “To show it to Raymond Legrand.”

  Kenyon was thunderstruck. He suddenly recalled seeing Legrand outside Ricci’s apartment the night he was killed. “Did the blackmailer carry through with his threat?” he asked.

  O’Neill shrugged. “I don’t think so. It wouldn’t make sense—he’d never get another shilling out of her.”

  Kenyon nodded. “Did Lydia confess to Legrand?”

  O’Neill cocked her head to one side. “Maybe. Lydia and Legrand had a big fight the night of the auction. When Lydia left, she was very angry.”

  Kenyon stared at O’Neill, her arms wrapped around her chest, tears streaming down her cheeks. He wanted badly to go over and hold her in his arms, to comfort her in her grief. Instead, he turned and walked out the door.

  By the time Kenyon got back to Lydia’s house, it was late. He poured himself a scotch on the rocks and sank into the living room couch. A few pale beams from the streetlights pierced the darkness.

  Kenyon thought about Lydia. For some reason, her relationship with O’Neill made him strangely proud. It had been foolish of Lydia to have given in to the blackmailer, but he was glad that Tanya meant so much to her.

  Kenyon also thought about Legrand. He never realized how deep Lydia’s love for him must have run, to pay up that much money to keep her relationship with O’Neill a secret.

  Kenyon glanced at his watch. It was nearing three in the morning, which meant it was almost seven at night in San Francisco. Thursday evening. He dialed Gonelli’s home number, but her voice mail answered. “I ain’t here,” said the recorded voice. “Leave a message.”

  “Marge, it’s Jack calling. Ricci didn’t commit suicide; he was murdered. The cops think I did it, but I saw Legrand there that night. I think he was out to revenge a blackmail plot. I need to know how to handle this. Call me as soon as you can.”

  Kenyon hung up, then dialed the main switchboard at the office and got hold o
f Sue, the receptionist. “This is Jack, in London,” he said. “Where’s Marge tonight?”

  “Marge is gone,” said Sue.

  “She’s not at home yet,” said Kenyon.

  “No, I mean she’s gone out of town,” said Sue.

  Kenyon cursed under his breath. “Okay. Put me through to Leroi.”

  Kenyon’s partner was still at her desk. “Man, what you doing over there?”

  “What do you mean, Jazz?” asked Kenyon.

  “Shit, Marge was spittin’ bullets all over the office this afternoon.”

  “Over what?” asked Kenyon, suddenly wary.

  “Over you, cowboy. She got some message from Deaver, then she grabbed the first flight to London she could book.”

  Kenyon cringed at the mention of the assistant US attorney. “Give me a call as soon as you know what’s up.”

  “Don’t you worry,” said his partner. “I got a hunch you are gonna find out soon enough.”

  Kenyon hung up the phone and trudged up to bed. God, he thought, what else can go wrong?

  Twenty-six

  Friday, July 15

  Kenyon slept until eleven in the morning when he was awakened by the sound of Señora Santucci puttering around in the bathroom off the main bedroom.

  “Don’t you ever knock?” he asked, reaching for his shorts on the floor.

  The housekeeper came in to admire Kenyon’s butt as he pulled on his boxers. “Get up, lazy bone. I know you say not to come early in the morning, but today is big cleaning day. You go get some coffee in the kitchen.”

  “In a bit,” Kenyon replied. “I’m going for a run first.” He grabbed some sweat socks and a 49er’s T-shirt, and headed out the door.

  The morning was hot and hazy. Kenyon headed north on Gloucester Road to Kensington Park.

  As he picked his way up the sidewalk past pedestrians and garbage cans, Kenyon’s mind went over the past two weeks. First, Simon is killed, then Lydia, then Ricci. A computer virus that could destroy the world’s economy was floating around in the hands of terrorists, and, to top it all off, the police thought he was a murderer. The whole world is fucked, Kenyon thought.

  He considered Legrand. He had no doubt the Frenchman had murdered Ricci. He wondered how Legrand found out Ricci was blackmailing Lydia. He didn’t think the gallery manager made good on his threat to tell Legrand; it made no sense for a blackmailer to lose the opportunity for further paydays.

  No, Lydia must have revealed the blackmail to Legrand on the night of the auction. The private investigator had then found out who was doing it by his own means. He simply had to look at the tape to know it had to be someone inside the gallery. It wouldn’t take long to zero in on Ricci.

  Kenyon stopped on a corner to let a cab screech by. However Legrand had found out, he concluded, the result had been the same: he killed Ricci in revenge, then tried to make his death look like a suicide.

  Kenyon thought about the one piece of the puzzle that didn’t fit: the laser pen found in Ricci’s apartment. If the gallery owner was successfully blackmailing Lydia, what sense did it make to kill her? Maybe Legrand knew. He’d call Arundel when he got back, and have the police pick up the Frenchman.

  When he reached Kensington Park, Kenyon cut across the flower walk and joined the other joggers on the outer perimeter path. His wound had healed to the point where he was almost back to full gait. For the first time in two weeks, Kenyon pushed himself hard, running at full speed until the sweat rolled down his back and his lungs ached. It felt great.

  After thirty minutes, Kenyon eased up to a slower pace, angling for a line of shady trees. An older Philippina maid was out walking a herd of long-haired dogs, and a young Swedish nanny pushed a blue stroller along the path. Both gave Kenyon the eye as he passed.

  For the first time in days, Kenyon smiled. The hard run had helped clear his head and improve his mood. There were still quite a few unanswered questions regarding Lydia’s murder and the Cyberworm case, but the agent had a feeling deep in his gut that something was about to break. He turned south and cruised home at a leisurely pace.

  As Kenyon walked up to his house, he noticed a police van parked out front. The front door was wide open. A constable came out the front door carrying a box.

  “Hey, what are you doing?” demanded Kenyon

  “Talk to the guv inside,” was all the constable said.

  Kenyon stormed up the steps and into the foyer. “Can someone tell me what the hell is going on?”

  “We’re seizing evidence,” said Will Deaver, standing in the living room with Detective Inspector Arundel. Both men looked grim.

  “You’d better have a good explanation for this,” said Kenyon, advancing into the room.

  “No, it’s you who better have the good explanation,” Deaver replied. “Maybe I’ll waive the death penalty.”

  Kenyon stopped short. “What are you talking about?”

  “I’ve been conferring with Mr. Deaver for the last few days,” said Arundel. “I’m afraid that he has a compelling case not only for murder, but for treason, as well.” He pointed to a chair. “Sit down.”

  Kenyon complied, staring at them, wide-eyed. “You guys think I’m a spy?”

  “Don’t play stupid with me,” Deaver snapped. “I’ve had my eye on you from the very first day.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Kenyon.

  “That hot tip you got about the stolen software stank like shit,” Deaver said. “You sent the e-mail to yourself.”

  “Why the hell would I do that?” asked Kenyon.

  “Actually, it’s not half clever,” said Arundel. “It allows you to set up and control your own alibi. Right under the nose of the FBI, you kill Simon, steal the software, then run off in pursuit of some imaginary felon in order to hand it off to a confederate. And the best part of all, you leave a hapless former CIA agent to take the fall.”

  Kenyon pointed to his stitched rear-end. “Aren’t you guys forgetting something? This imaginary felon shot me in the ass.”

  Arundel turned and raised an eyebrow to Deaver.

  “It was a slug from his own gun,” said Deaver. “The FBI was too stupid to check his hands for gunpowder.”

  Kenyon shook his head in disbelief. “Deaver, you are so full of shit. If I’m the guy who stole the Cyberworm software, then who got the code? My evil twin Skippy?”

  “No, the rest of your slimy spy ring,” said Deaver.

  “Oh, now I’ve got a gang,” said Kenyon. “Deaver, are you on drugs?”

  The other man ignored the taunt. “We’ve been down to the gallery, Kenyon. We spoke to a Miss Zoë Tigger.”

  Arundel pulled out a notepad and consulted it. “Miss Tigger tells us you have been searching for a copy of a painting entitled Techno 69.”

  Kenyon shrugged. “So?”

  “We went through the records in Lydia’s office, Kenyon,” said Deaver. “The original was purchased by TEQ, the company working on the encryption code.”

  “Lots of people bought paintings from Lydia.”

  “Yes, but this one was subsequently sold at auction to Abdul Garbajian, a man with connections to known terrorists,” said Arundel. “And it appears that you have been spending an inordinate amount of energy pursuing the copy. That’s what you were really doing at Ricci’s flat, weren’t you?”

  Kenyon stared at the floor. “No.”

  Arundel closed the notebook and stared at Kenyon. “You went to his apartment and demanded the copy, and when he handed it over, you killed him and made it look like a suicide.”

  “We got you lock, stock, and smoking barrel, Kenyon,” said Deaver.

  Kenyon bent over and rested his forehead against his knees. This was all so crazy, he thought. It had to be some kind of bad dream.

  “If you turn over the copy of Techno 69 now, we may be able to arrange for leniency,” offered Arundel.

  “I don’t have it!” said Kenyon.

  “Who screwed up?” asked Deaver, leaning forwar
d. “Was it Bruno Ricci? I’ll bet he was holding out for more money. Is that why you murdered him?”

  “I could never kill anyone in cold blood,” said Kenyon.

  Deaver stood up and hooked his thumbs in his belt. “A man who would kill his own mother is capable of anything,” he said.

  “I’m an orphan.”

  Deaver smiled. He was clearly enjoying himself. “You didn’t think we’d find out?” He reached into his suit jacket and pulled out a yellow, aged document and handed it to Kenyon.

  The document crinkled as Kenyon unfolded it. It was a Montana birth certificate for Jack Kenyon, dated July 5, 1978. He glanced to the bottom of the page. There was no name for the father. But in the line for the mother’s name was typed Lydia Kenyon.

  Tears welled in Kenyon’s eyes.

  Deaver leaned closer. “Who killed her Jack? Was it Bruno?”

  Kenyon sat silently, the tears striking the birth certificate like drops of rain.

  “Why did you have her killed, Jack?” Deaver pressed. “Because she screwed up? Or was it her taste in women?”

  Deaver didn’t even have time to scream. In one smooth motion, Kenyon came out of the chair and smacked the palm of his hand under Deaver’s chin, hurling him backwards onto the couch.

  Before Arundel could react, Kenyon grabbed the pole axe from the suit of armor and brandished it at him. “Don’t make a sound,” he ordered.

  Arundel, eyes wide, mutely stuck his hands skywards.

  Kenyon glanced toward the hallway. The constable was down in the basement, still rummaging around. Deaver was laying on the couch, moaning softly. Kenyon stepped toward the seated Arundel. “You carrying?”

  Arundel, his hands held elegantly in the air, remained strangely calm. “No.”

  “Shh,” warned Kenyon. He could hear the constable coming up the stairs.

  Kenyon waved the battle axe as he passed the doorway. “You. Drop the boxes and come in here.”

  Perplexed, the cop did as he was told.

  Kenyon pointed to Deaver. “Haul him downstairs.”

  Arundel nodded, indicating he should obey. The constable grabbed Deaver by the shoulders and headed for the basement steps. Kenyon ordered Arundel to follow.