“I don’t. It’s usually easy enough to find something I can use as an explanation, once I know what to look for.”
“I’m really glad Mary Kate and Mike are back together.”
“Told you. All it took was a little murder and mayhem.” He pretended to flinch as she glared at him. “Hey. They’d have worked it out pretty soon, anyway.”
“They really love each other.”
Brady buried his lips in her hair and took a deep breath, as if he were drawing her scent into his very being, imprinting her on his soul. “I love you, Gemma. I know this isn’t the most romantic time, but I wanted to be sure you know.”
“Why?” She looked into his eyes, searching. “You sound as if there’s more to that sentence. Like, ‘in case of something-or-other’.”
“Shit’s coming, Gemma. And I need you to remember I love you, whatever happens.”
She reached for him. “I love you, Brady. I never thought I could feel like this again—”
He cut her off with a hard kiss. “Olsen and Abernathy and some Seattle detective are on their way over.”
“Lyons?”
“Yeah, that was it. You know him?”
“He was in the interview with Mike and me.”
“Groovy.”
* * *
“Just what is your interest in this, McGrath?”
Abernathy sounded tired. That could be good or bad, Brady decided, since Olsen and the Seattle detective seemed to be letting him take point. “I do a lot of work for Mike Cavanagh.”
“Does that include banging the sister?”
So, it was going to be that kind of interview. Brady reached deep inside himself for his best impassive professional expression. “Mike hired me to investigate some tampering with her computer.”
“When was this?”
“As I told you before. The day the two of you first came to the house.”
“Had the computer been tampered with?”
“Yes. And it had been done while she was at the Cavanaghs’ the night before. Someone got in through the home security, into Ned Carrow’s computer files.”
“Past the dog.”
“Dog wasn’t there. It was with her at her brother’s.”
“And it didn’t occur to you that it just might have been the lady herself, staging all this?”
“It occurred to me. Didn’t check out.”
“I’d like to hear about that.”
“Instinct, mostly, to start with.” No way was he going to launch into a discussion of his touch with these guys. Or anyone else. “Mike Cavanagh confirmed her alibi for the whole weekend. So did the guy who ran the retreat, a Colin Denny. Teaches at the University, no reason to lie about who was where. So she’s covered for the murder and the break-in. So’s the brother, by the way.”
“Let me tell you what my instinct tells me,” Abernathy said. “She kills her estranged husband, comes home, starts packing up the house. Stages a computer thing, calls for help—I’m assuming she called her brother?”
Brady didn’t answer.
“You come running. We show up. He comes running. Two days later the house is vandalized.”
Brady looked up at him with dark amusement. “Sorta breaks down there. When Sam Dawkins was killed, we were both at her brother’s in Green Lake. And the fire at her place in Wallingford started on the lower floor. She was asleep upstairs.”
“Where were you?”
“Downstairs, on the couch. I barely made it up the staircase ahead of the fire.”
“Where were you last night?”
“My place. From about two yesterday afternoon on.”
“Didn’t go out?”
“No. Not until we left for the hospital.”
“Yeah. I’ll get to that. Anyone see you?”
“Mike was there from about five to seven or so. Guy from the noodle shop delivered food about seven-thirty. Ms. Cavanagh was there the whole time.”
“What time did she leave?”
“We left together about two a.m.”
“For the hospital.”
“Yes.”
“How did Gemma Cavanagh get the information about her brother being shot?”
Brady took a deep breath. Over the years he’d worked out dozens of plausible answers to this kind of question, but he’d never dreamed it would involve someone else. When in doubt, he thought, go with the truth. Or as much of it as they can handle. “She woke up, frantic, saying Mike had been shot and we had to go. Dragged me out of bed.”
“She woke up? You’re sure of that?”
Brady forced down a flash of Gemma curled in his arms. “I’m sure.” He was glad he knew what Gemma had already told them. “Gemma and Mike Cavanagh have had a special kind of connection all their lives. You both saw it work the day you came to inform and condole.”
“That could have been coincidence.”
“It wasn’t. And it’s not that unusual for people who are close to have strong intuition about each other being in trouble or in danger. Theirs is a little stronger than most, but I’ve seen it before. We all have.”
“What else have you seen?” Abernathy asked with an edge to his voice.
“If I told you...” he let that trail off with a half-smile.
“You’d have to kill us,” Olsen finished for him. “Yeah, we know.”
Brady made a decision. “I installed a private security system in Mike Cavanagh’s office a year or so ago. The security setup sucked there, to start with. It’s an old building, and the owners tried to save money skating by with the minimum. I had some new components I wanted to try out, anyway.”
“A match made in heaven.”
“A lucky one, it turns out. I haven’t had a chance to access the feeds of last night. It’s a direct feed to my secure storage downtown, so the fire wouldn’t have interfered with the picture until the cameras melted.”
“We’ll need that record,” Lyons said.
“I figured. I can make you a copy.” When they started to protest, Brady said, “It’s in a secure server. A copy’s the only way you can get the data off. You can send someone with me.” He’d known they wouldn’t like that. “Look. I’ve got data in that system from a half-dozen law firms, a couple of major corporations. I can guarantee you won’t get a court order to blunder in there yourselves.” Which was one reason he’d targeted legal firms as his first clients. “And I’ll be glad to take one of your techs along. He can keep an eye on me, and I’ll have someone I can talk to.”
“And a detective or two.”
“Done.”
“Well, not quite yet,” Olsen said. He drew the “Eyes Only” folder out of his briefcase and skidded it across the table toward Brady. “You want to tell us about this?”
Chapter Seventeen
Gemma slipped the small white rock into her pocket with a discouraged sigh. She was making exactly no progress with her filing, even practicing twice a day. No matter how hard she concentrated, or didn’t, the wretched rock just sat there, like a rock. Rats!
She had just gotten up for a glass of water when she heard Brady’s steps coming up from the office into the living area. “You’re back,” she said, and reached out to touch his face. He looked haggard, his skin dull and his eyes turned down more than ever. She swallowed the urge to storm out and confront the police and give them hell for abusing him, knowing how silly it was.
The coat he’d been carrying on one finger brushed against her back as his arms came around
her. He pulled her close and held her without speaking for a few seconds. He pressed her tight enough against him that she could clearly feel how much he’d missed her. He casually flung the coat onto a chair, and his hands slipped low on her hips. Then he leaned backward from the waist, leaving their centers pressed tightly together, and kissed her nose. It was one of the most erotic things she’d ever experienced. “How bad was it?”
“Bad enough. Worse than I’d expected, but then it usually is.”
“Usually? You do this a lot?”
He kissed her again, this time on the lips. Then he pulled away. “I’ve got the video from the security cameras in Mike’s office from last night. I already gave the cops their copy. Want to look? Maybe you’ll notice something. I have to warn you, though, it’s pretty rough to watch.”
“Does it show everything?”
“Pretty much. Like I said, it’s hard.”
She closed her eyes briefly and took a deep, breath. “Let’s do it,” she said, forcing herself through the wall of her own reluctance.
He slipped the disc into the DVD player.
She was surprised at the quality of the picture. “It’s in color.”
“Live feed to the server.”
“Oh, Cinda.” Her eyes filled as she watched Cinda studying, taking notes, completely unaware she had only minutes to live.
Brady fast-forwarded a second, and they watched Mike come in, have a brief exchange with Cinda, and go into his inner office. “Mike wouldn’t let me bug his inner sanctum,” Brady said with chagrin. “Something about confidentiality.”
“Yeah, the Constitution’s a bitch.”
He sent her a startled glance and laughed shortly. “You sound just like him.”
“I’ve heard him say that a million times. Wait a minute—”
“Yeah. There he is.”
The camera picked up the intruder as he neared Mike’s office, and projected the image in a split-screen.
“How does it do that?” she asked.
“The camera in the hall is motion-activated. Watch, now.” The murderer was wearing a camo over shirt, a watch cap with a face mask and latex gloves, and kept flattening himself against the corridor wall, moving quickly a few steps, and back against the wall again.
“Look at the way he moves,” she said, “like a secret agent in a movie. Why is he doing that?”
“He’s playing spy. Pretending he’s some kind of commando.”
“So, that’s not something he’s supposed to do to stay hard to see?”
Brady shook his head. “No. For all intents and purposes, the building’s empty. He’s role-playing. That’s as scary as anything he’s done so far.”
The feed shifted as the intruder came through the office door, pistol drawn.
Brady hit a button on the remote and the image froze. “How tall would you say he is?” he asked.
“Those are standard doors, so, six foot, or so.”
“Yeah.”
“You know,” Gemma said, “he looks like—that could almost be Doug.” Her breath had stopped in her throat. “Something about the way he moves—no, really,” she said as Brady swiveled his head to stare at her from under lowered eyebrows.
He paused the picture again. “Yeah?”
Gemma rolled her eyes. Brady actually sounded jealous. “Oh, please!” Men!
“I’m going to speed it up. You really don’t need to see this next part up close and personal.” He pressed a button, and the video skipped to Cinda lying on the floor, blood spreading from beneath her body.
“Holy Mary!” Gemma said and swallowed convulsively.
Brady slipped his arm around her and hugged her close. “You okay?”
She blinked back tears, not quite quickly enough. One escaped down her cheek and Brady gently brushed it away with his thumb. “No, but it doesn’t matter,” she said. “Let’s go on.”
“You sure?”
She nodded.
“Okay. Here’s where Mike comes out—sees something’s wrong.”
She watched, fascinated, horrified, as her brother staggered back through the door into his darkened inner office. The killer followed him, paused at the door, as if the darkness inside confused him, then flinched violently. He staggered, grabbed a corner of Cinda’s desk, and pulled himself almost erect.
“Okay,” Brady said. “He drops the backpack, takes out the Molotov. Lights it. Tosses it.”
“Mike said he shot the guy,” she said. “You can see there, as he’s leaving, he’s carrying his left arm funny.”
“Yeah, I saw that. It looks like an upper arm shot. Maybe collarbone, but I don’t think so.”
“Mike’s a better shot than that.”
“Not with a concussion and a hole in his chest. It’s a wonder he could hit the guy at all.” He turned off the TV. “Think it’s Doug?”
“I said it could be. I don’t want it to be, though. I hope it’s not. I hate to think I know someone who could do all this.”
“Well, I’m sure as hell not going to vote for him.”
“You couldn’t, anyway.”
“Sure I can. I always register as soon as I get to a new city.”
“I thought you were Canadian”
“Mom was Canadian. Dad was from Chicago—that’s where I was born.”
“I’d like to hear more about them sometime.”
He smiled back at her. “When do you go back to the hospital?”
Gemma glanced at the clock. “A couple of hours. What’s wrong?” Brady’s expression worried her. There was a new, haunted look in his eyes, and she wished he could confide in her, even though she knew better. Damn spooks and their damn secrets, she thought. It was like some sort of ethnic weakness.
“I just feel there’s something I should remember,” he said, staring at the whiteboard. “It’s right there, but I don’t see it.”
She sighed and stood up. “We’re going to need coffee. I’ll get it.”
He followed her into the kitchen and stole a cookie from a bag beside the fridge. “I’ll get something low-tech to write on.”
* * *
Brady went upstairs, grateful Gemma was too exhausted to notice his preoccupation. Having his past thrown at him twice in one day was a little more than he’d been ready for.
Being forced to remember always knocked him back, and it took time for the images to fade. The little girl, big eyes and teeth, big smile, walking toward them. He was on point as the Team climbed a narrow path between a sheer rock wall on one side and a sheer drop on the other, edgy as they all were because the terrain forced them to cluster together. He should have known better, but when he got the child in his sights, he froze. She couldn’t have been more than nine, but had a child’s pitiless dedication and no hesitation setting off the explosives she wore hidden under her long, loose shirt. Brady yelled and dove for cover when he saw her eyes change. A rock protected him from the shrapnel that killed half his Team. But he was deaf and blind for days, concussed and scorched and puking blood—pissing blood, shitting blood—but alive. Four of his men were dead, along with nine civilians and the little girl. All of his surviving Team were wounded.
And he was through. There was no excuse for what he’d done, no justification. Any one of his men would have given his life without a second’s thought to protect a child, but none of them deserved to be destroyed because of his inability to kill one. Worse, he knew he’d make the same choice again, if it faced him. The Navy might have forgiven his lapse, but he would never forgive himself.
He shook his head and took a couple of yellow legal pads from a milk crate beside his desk, plucked a clutch of pencils out of a marmalade jar and checked their points, reached over to sharpen two of them. As he bent to the automatic pencil sharpener, he saw the backup driv
e he’d used to copy the data from Gemma’s computer. Something nagged at him, and he put the thumb drive on the pile of supplies.
When Gemma came back into the living room, an oversized coffee cup in each hand, Brady was standing at the table, staring at a list of files scrolling down the screen of his laptop.
“This is the last of the coffee. Did you find something?” she asked him.
He looked up only long enough to grab a cup. “Thanks. I’m not sure. I keep feeling there’s something here I missed.” The word seemed to echo in his head, but he couldn’t get his mind around it. “Everything looks perfectly normal. Shit.” He snapped the cover closed.
“Okay,” he said, as she settled on the floor beside him. “Here we go again.” He took a gulp of coffee, set the cup down carefully. Stress and caffeine were making him jumpy.
“We can definitely rule out some wild-assed Asian revenge plot. Tran can’t find any trace of anyone coming after you. The women in the photos were prostitutes. Ned was a sex addict.”
Gemma shook her head, eyebrows drawn together. “No, he wasn’t.”
“That’s not what the cops are saying.”
“They’re wrong about that. Ned—I don’t know the right words for it. He didn’t really like sex, that much.” She thought for a minute. “He liked to be bad. He liked to take pictures. He’d print them over and over and over on that stupid whizbang color laser digital whatzis of his. That’s how I finally found out what was going on—I found a bunch of them one day when I was looking for something else.
“It was like this huge punch in the gut. But then everything fell into place, all the little things, odd pieces of conversation, looks, stuff that had puzzled me over the years. But it wasn’t about the sex for him. It wasn’t even the pictures. His, I don’t know, his fetish, I guess, was for feeling sophisticated and wicked. For doing something just over the line. He liked to think he was some kind of twenty-first century Henry Miller, pioneering new sexual frontiers.”
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