The Sinister Touch

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The Sinister Touch Page 13

by Jayne Ann Krentz


  “Sorry. Got held up at the office.” He sat down beside her, nodding at Carla and Mason.

  Guinevere waited impatiently while he ordered his tequila from the busy waiter, and then she leaned forward. “Okay, Zac. What’s up? Have you made some major breakthroughs?”

  He gave her a disparaging glance. “I called this little meeting to give us all a chance to hash over everything we’ve learned. No major breakthroughs. At least not from my end.” He regarded the others with mild interest. “Has anyone else had any brilliant thoughts on the matter?”

  Mason and Carla shook their heads unhappily. Guinevere smiled with smug expectancy. Zac eyed her warily. “Okay, Gwen. Why the cat-with-the-canary look?”

  “Just a minor detail I picked up a little while ago from Henry Thorpe,” she said easily.

  “Who’s Henry Thorpe?”

  Quickly Guinevere explained.

  “Thank you,” Zac said gravely. “Always nice to be kept informed.”

  “You’re welcome. Now to get on with this. He said that someone posing as an art dealer was hanging around the galleries a few months ago. He was asking questions about Mason Adair.”

  Zac was silent for a long moment while the others stared at Guinevere. “A few months ago,” he finally repeated. “Would that have been at about the same time someone was posing as a real estate investor’s representative and asking questions about the neighborhood where the Sandwick house is located?”

  “You got it.” Guinevere waited for praise and admiring comments on her brilliant detective work.

  “Well, shit,” Zac said.

  Guinevere glared at him. “That wasn’t quite what I expected.”

  Mason sighed. “I don’t think that’s such a big deal, Gwen. We know my cousin Dane has been trying to locate me for months. He must have hired private detectives, and they were probably the ones asking the questions.”

  Guinevere did a quick staccato drumroll of impatience with her crimson nails. “I suppose you’re right.”

  Zac took over control of the discussion. “All right, we’ll file that info for now. Mason, I’ve got a couple of questions. When you and your friends were sharing the good times at the Sandwick house, did you install a big stone table and a wall of black velvet drapes in the basement?”

  Mason looked startled. “Hell, no. Have you any idea what that would cost? Besides, we were into partying, not redecorating the basement. Did you say black velvet drapes?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “And a stone table?”

  Zac nodded. “Looks something like an altar. A black altar.”

  Carla shivered. “It sounds gross.”

  Mason grimaced. “Actually, it sounds like something Baldric and Valonia might have installed. But where would they have gotten the cash? Real stone tables are incredibly expensive. Just ask in any good furniture store.”

  “They probably got the money for the table from the same place they got the cash to buy the house,” Guinevere offered.

  “I don’t know,” Mason said slowly. “They just didn’t have that kind of cash. Not when I knew them.”

  “Perhaps they’re into more profitable things these days,” Zac suggested. “Drug dealing, maybe.”

  Mason thought about it. “I suppose it’s a possibility. It would explain the sudden infusion of money. But you said there’s no sign of them living in the house?”

  “No,” Zac admitted.

  “Why would they buy a place and not live in it?” Carla wondered.

  Guinevere shrugged. “They might have bought more than one house. Maybe they use one for their weird occult ceremonies and live elsewhere.”

  “The point is,” Carla injected, “why are they hounding Mason?”

  “Excellent point,” Mason growled, taking a swallow of beer. “And what the hell are they doing with Glare stashed in the basement of that house?”

  “You’re sure neither one of them has any reason to hate you personally or to be professionally jealous?” Zac asked Mason.

  The younger man shook his head dolefully. “Well, the group of us who were using the house originally refused to take their stupid ceremonies seriously. I suppose they could be resentful on that score. But why take it out on me?”

  Guinevere frowned thoughtfully. “Because you’re the only one they can find? Most of the others seem to have split for parts unknown.”

  “But there are a couple left in the area, and I haven’t heard any gossip about them having the kind of trouble I’m having,” Mason pointed out.

  “Personally,” declared Carla, “I still like the jealousy motive.”

  Zac shook his head. “It doesn’t make any sense in this case, Carla. But your instincts are good.”

  “How’s that?” she asked.

  “You’re looking for a rational motive. So am I. I would prefer one I could understand.”

  Guinevere said calmly, “I think the witchcraft is a potentially genuine motive. There have been occasional newspaper articles about occult groups living in the Northwest. This wouldn’t be a first. There are some strange people in this world, Zac.”

  “I know,” he agreed. “But, like Carla, I guess I would prefer a more rational motive.”

  “If someone were after money, why haven’t they tried to blackmail me or tell me the vandalism will stop if I pay them off?” Mason asked, wrinkling his brow.

  “How could you pay them off?” Guinevere asked bluntly. “You’ve been living at borderline poverty level for over two years. A couple of sales at the gallery show the other night aren’t enough to put you on easy street.”

  The question hung in the air. In silence the four people sitting around the table finished their drinks as the after-work crowd began to thin. Finally Zac got to his feet with an abrupt movement.

  “Let’s go home, Gwen. I’ve got some thinking to do.” He turned around and started making his way between tables.

  Guinevere threw the other two an apologetic look as she got hurriedly to her feet. “Sorry. He gets this way sometimes when he goes into Deep Think.”

  “Deep Think?” Mason stared after the departing Zac. “He’s thinking?”

  “Uh-huh. See you later, both of you. I’ll let you know if he comes up with any brilliant ideas this evening.”

  Guinevere trotted after Zac, catching up with him as he started down the sidewalk toward her apartment. He had his hands shoved into his jacket pockets, his shoulders slightly hunched, and the remote, miles-away look in his eyes that Guinevere had come to associate with times such as this. She didn’t bother trying to ask any questions. Zac would talk when he was ready. Silently she walked beside him until they reached her apartment building.

  Upstairs she poured him another shot of tequila and sat beside him on the sofa while he cradled the drink in both hands and stared unseeingly out of one of her vaulted windows.

  This mood could last for hours, Guinevere reminded herself. She might as well fix something to eat. Rising to her feet again, she traipsed back into the kitchen to make a sandwich. No sense wasting gourmet cooking on Zac when he was in Deep Think.

  Three more hours passed before Zac finally spoke. Guinevere, deep into a mystery at the time, was startled. She had gotten accustomed to the silence.

  “Those private investigators were asking their questions several months ago,” he began slowly, just as if there had been no break in the conversation.

  “About six or seven months ago,” Guinevere agreed.

  “Yet cousin Dane didn’t contact Adair until this week.”

  Guinevere closed her book. “That’s true.”

  “Why the delay?” Zac asked softly. “Those investigators must have gotten their answers six months ago. They must have located Adair then. He wasn’t trying to hide. He hadn’t even changed his nam
e. Once someone had realized he was in Seattle and was part of the local art scene, the rest would have been easy. Cousin Dane and the rest of the family must have known where he was six months ago.”

  “Zac, what has Dane Fitzpatrick’s search for Mason got to do with the Sandwick house and the vandalism?”

  Zac picked up one of the sandwiches that had been sitting on a plate in front of him for the past three hours. “I told you earlier that given a choice, I prefer a rational motive. Money is the most rational of all motives. There’s money in this mess, Gwen. It’s all over the place. Fifty-five thousand in cash to buy a run-down house on Capitol Hill with virtually no negotiation. Real estate wheeler-dealers always negotiate, and they don’t use their own cash if they can avoid it.”

  Guinevere eyed him curiously. “You’re an authority on the subject?”

  “No, but I talked to an authority this afternoon.”

  “Who?”

  “Elizabeth Gallinger. She was on the phone to the guy who handles her real estate investments when I walked into her office.”

  “I see.” Guinevere decided this wasn’t the time to discuss Queen Elizabeth in greater detail. “Okay, so there’s money in this mess. It could be drug money, as you suggested earlier, Zac. Drug dealers with a lot of excess cash on their hands might not quibble over the price of a house they want to buy.”

  Zac nodded. “True. But that isn’t the only money involved here. There’s East Coast preppy money, too.”

  “Adair family money? But that doesn’t make any sense. Mason’s out of his father’s will. And how would Baldric and Valonia know about his family connections, anyway?”

  “An interesting question.”

  “Zac, what’s going on? What are you thinking?”

  “Nothing solid yet. But there are some things I’m going to have to check on tomorrow. Things I probably should have checked out much earlier.” He munched his sandwich and then looked at Guinevere. “Let’s go to bed, honey. I’ve got a lot to do in the morning.”

  On the way into the bedroom Zac yawned hugely and said, “This isn’t so bad, is it?”

  “What isn’t so bad?”

  “Living together.”

  She slid him a speculative glance. “We haven’t exactly given it a long run,” she reminded him cautiously. “This was just a short-term arrangement until you solve Mason’s problem.”

  “I know.” Complacently he walked into the bedroom and started unbuttoning his shirt. “But the concept has potential, don’t you think? Of course, if we did this on a full-time basis, you’d have to get rid of that lousy coffee machine.”

  Guinevere, not knowing how to respond to the hint that Zac might actually want to move in with her, sought refuge in humor. “I hope you won’t force me to choose between that beautiful machine and you, Zac. It would be a tough choice. The coffee machine is color-coordinated with my apartment, don’t forget.”

  “And I’m not?” He finished undressing and crawled into bed beside her.

  She touched his broad shoulder as he turned out the light beside the bed. Then she smiled. “Not exactly. But you do have your uses.”

  His feet tangled with hers as Zac pulled her close. “I’m damn well more useful than that imported coffeemaker. Come here and use me.”

  Guinevere went into his arms the way she always did, with a sensual abandon that forever surprised her and which Zac inevitably accepted with deep hunger.

  ***

  It wasn’t just the money and the motive that raised questions, Zac told himself the next morning as he sat in his office and went over his notes on the Mason Adair situation. There was also the curious matter of timing. The Sandwick house had been sold at about the same time that an unknown investigator or investigators were asking for information on Adair. At least one of those phantom private detectives had said he was representing an East Coast real estate investor and had specifically asked about the Sandwick house.

  Money and timing. In the security business those two issues often went together. One was usually related to the other. Zac stared at his notepad a while longer, and then he reached out and picked up the phone.

  “Camelot Services.” The professionally cheerful voice on the other end of the line was not Guinevere’s.

  “Hi, Carla, it’s Zac. Is your sister there?”

  “Nope. She’s out drumming up business with a new client. What can I do for you?”

  “Since when does she have to leave the office to drum up business?” He glanced at his watch. “I was going to take her to lunch.”

  “Well, you’ll have to get in line. The new client is taking her to lunch. I think he intends to set up a contract with Camelot Services to provide his firm with all the temps he needs. He’ll get priority service that way.”

  “I don’t see why Gwen has to have lunch with him in order to settle the deal.” Zac was aware of the fact that he was growling.

  “You know how it is with these executives,” Carla said vaguely. “They do everything over lunch.”

  Zac had a sudden jolting image of what “everything” might include and immediately shoved it out of his mind. Guinevere had a business to run, after all. He couldn’t afford to get nervous every time she had lunch with a client. “All right, Carla. Tell her I called. In the meantime can you do me a favor?”

  “You want another typist?”

  “At the prices Camelot Services charges? Not on your life. It will take me six months to pay the bill on the last one I got from your sister.”

  “Gwen believes in turning a profit whenever possible,” Carla admitted blandly.

  “And after all I’ve done for that woman,” Zac intoned.

  “I’ll let you two settle the matter of the bill for the typist we sent over. What was the favor?”

  “I need Mason’s father’s phone number back East.”

  Carla sucked in her breath. “His father’s phone number? But, Zac, why?”

  “I don’t know why. Not yet. I’m just trying to tie some loose ends together. Can you get it from him for me?”

  “Possibly. But he’ll ask a hundred questions, and I can’t blame him. What shall I tell him?”

  “Tell him I need it to pursue his case,” Zac said, irritated at the delay. “If he wants me to stay on it, he’d better cooperate.”

  “Okay, okay, don’t get huffy. I’ll contact him now.” Carla hung up the phone.

  Zac sat with his feet propped on his desk, leaned back in his swivel chair, and waited. While he waited, he stared into the office across the hall. The sales rep who was using the other cubicle as a base for his operations finally sensed the steady gaze and glanced up questioningly. Zac looked away, wishing he had a real window. One of these days he was going to have to move up in the world. He needed a bigger and better office. A few more accounts like the Gallinger account and maybe he’d be able to afford one.

  The phone rang five minutes later. It was Carla. “All right, Zac, I’ve got it for you.” She rattled it off while he copied it down. “Mason wanted to know what you were going to do. I told him not to worry, that you would be discreet and not become involved in what was obviously a private family matter.”

  “You told him all that?”

  “I certainly did. Mason’s very touchy on the subject of his family. It’s a very unhappy situation, you know. I reassured him that you would be very careful about what you said to his father. Don’t make a liar out of me, Zac.”

  Carla hung up the phone before he could ask if Guinevere had returned yet from her client lunch. He looked down at the phone number he had written in his notebook and wondered if he could wait until after five o’clock to make the call. He hated to pay daytime long-distance rates when there wasn’t a client footing the expense tab. With a resigned sigh he picked up the phone and dialed.

 
It took a great deal of talking to get Julius Edward Adair on the telephone. Apparently Mr. Adair was not the sort of man who took phone calls from strangers, especially strangers on the West Coast. But after Zac mentioned Mason’s name a few times, the senior Adair came on the line. The rich, deep voice was full of East Coast prep-school breeding. Zac ignored his own annoyed reaction. It wasn’t Adair’s fault that he came from a family that could trace its lineage and its money back a couple of centuries. Everyone had a cross to bear.

  “Mr. Adair? This is Zachariah Justis. I’m president of a firm called Free Enterprise Security, Inc. We have been asked to make some inquiries on behalf of your son, Mason.”

  There was a moment of shocked silence. “Mason? What do you know about my son? Where is he? Where did you say you were calling from? Oregon?”

  “Washington, sir.”

  “My son is in Washington, D.C.?”

  “No, sir, State of.”

  “The State of Washington? Good Lord. Whatever made him go there?”

  “This may come as a jolt, Mr. Adair, but out here we really don’t think of Washington as being just the last stop for the wagon trains any longer. We’ve even got flush toilets in a few of the more progressive homes now.”

  “There is no need for sarcasm, Mr. . . . What did you say your name was?”

  Zac took a deep breath. “Justis. Zachariah Justis.”

  “And you say you’re working for my son?”

  “I’m making a few inquiries on his behalf, yes, sir.”

  “May I talk to him?” Adair asked carefully.

  “I’m sorry, he’s not here at the moment.”

  “Will you give me his phone number, please,” Adair said imperiously.

  “I can’t do that,” Zac said with sudden gentleness. “He hasn’t authorized me to do so. But I would have thought you had that information already. Or at least his address.”

  “How on earth would I have that? We haven’t been able to locate Mason for quite some time. I’ve had men working on the problem for almost a year.”

  Zac cleared his throat, hunching a little over the phone while he reached for his notepad. “Have you, sir? You, personally, commissioned a firm of private investigators to find him?”

 

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