by Karen Rose
And sighed. Both her grandmother’s house and her hotel were top of the news on every website she checked, including the national outlets. Accompanying both stories were the same photos – aerial shots of the house, photos of the shattered glass at her hotel, and a close-up of the missing window pane in the hotel the shooter had fired from.
She had no doubt that if she turned on the television, she’d see the same images on the CNN loop. The press had connected the house to Arianna’s assault, listing the homeowner as Faith Frye of Miami, who could not be reached for comment. Well, at least there’s that.
She was extremely surprised that no one had given the press her new name – neither the cops nor the staff at her hotel. But someone would. It was inevitable.
She opened one of the articles and sighed again. Novak’s photo was included among the pictures of the hotel devastation. They’d latched on to him like piranhas, making him part of their story, capturing his bigger-than-life persona. But not one of the stories included a photo of her – and Faith suddenly understood something that had puzzled her the night before.
She’d wondered why Novak would want to draw attention to himself. Why he’d make himself so noticeable when all she’d ever wanted was to become invisible. Now she understood that Deacon Novak drew media attention to himself so that victims like her might be spared.
God. She blinked back the moisture that stung her eyes. Although he still liked the attention, she thought, clicking on a video clip with a teary laugh. He strode through the crowd of reporters like he owned them, his white hair bright in the lights, his leather coat flapping in the night. Even his ‘no comment’ seemed to create a stir.
She scanned the next story, noting that his name was linked to another article. Curious, she clicked it and let out a long, harsh breath.
Feds Find Two Dozen Unmarked Graves. A shiver ran down her spine. It was dated almost a year ago, the photo of a grim Novak standing in a West Virginia field, surrounded by freshly dug graves as a team wearing protective gear dug a few feet away. It was a candid shot, a little fuzzy, as if taken from far away. Novak wore his black leather coat, yet possessed no swagger. His shoulders were hunched, his face lined with grief.
Faith felt like she was violating Novak’s privacy in a way she hadn’t while looking at the photos on his desk, even though the story was publicly posted. The news photographer had captured his face unguarded, his weariness palpable.
The text recounted how the team led by FBI Special Agent Joseph Carter had come to find the bodies. Joseph Carter, Faith thought. He’s the JC from the picture on Novak’s desk. The story went on to describe how Special Agent Deacon Novak had been working with archeologist Dr Sophie Johannsen for weeks to unearth the bodies, identify the remains and notify the victims’ families.
Two dozen victims. Two dozen graves. And now he has ten more. So far.
Oh Deacon. She wished she were with him, if only to hold him, but she’d promised to stay put. She had to wait until he came home to give him comfort as he’d given her.
His first kiss had been so soft. Sweet. But all the kisses that followed . . . That’s how I’ll kiss him when he comes back. Hard and hot enough to help him forget for a little while.
But he might not be home for hours, and during that time he’d be dealing with victims. And their families. The despair he’d felt a year ago was what he’d be feeling today. Knowing that hurt Faith’s heart. She needed to ease him, not at the end of the day when he was hollowed out and weary, but now. She knew she wouldn’t be able to rest until she’d at least tried.
She couldn’t text him until she got another cell, so she opened a new email, using the fact that she’d given her boss his number as an excuse for something to say. Take care, Deacon, she added at the end. I’ll be waiting. Then she hit send and closed her laptop.
She got into bed, tucking her gun under her pillow where she could get to it quickly. Then she pulled the rumpled covers over her body, snuggled her head into Novak’s pillow and drew his scent into her lungs. And let exhaustion take her under.
Cincinnati, Ohio, Tuesday 4 November, 10.00 A.M.
‘A pink gymnast genie?’ Bishop snickered as they walked from the parking lot at the back of the O’Bannion family attorney’s building. ‘You’re kidding.’
‘A half-naked one,’ Deacon said dryly. ‘Hearing about Faith’s uncles almost makes me glad that Adam’s father is my uncle. Almost.’
‘That bad, huh?’
‘More like just not that good. Jim Kimble is very rough around the edges. Serrated, even. What did you find at King’s College?’
‘A bullet in a tree trunk and a lot of blood,’ Bishop said. ‘The bullet was the same caliber you found at the old house and in the body in the hotel room the shooter used. I left the slug with Agent Taylor, the Fed forensics guy who processed the hotels last night.’
‘Yeah,’ Deacon grumbled. ‘The one who took my coat.’
‘Poor baby,’ Bishop said, sounding just like Faith, though telling her so would only confirm in her mind that Deacon had lost his. ‘What do you know about the attorney?’ she asked.
‘Herbert Henson Senior was Faith’s grandmother’s attorney for decades, but Faith never met him until he read the will. I asked Crandall to run a check on him and the firm. Established in 1953 by Herbert Senior.’
‘Wait. The one we’re going to see? He’s still alive?’
‘And practicing. He’s eighty-six. It’s been Henson and Henson since Herbert Junior got his law degree and joined the practice back in 1978. Junior retired, but it’s still Henson and Henson because Herbert’s grandson, Herbert the Third, got his law degree and joined in 2010. They do primarily estate planning, but occasionally handle drunk and disorderly charges against their elite clientele.’
‘Did Crandall dig up any dirt on the lawyers?’
‘Nothing,’ Deacon said. ‘Not even a parking ticket. For father, son or grandson.’
‘Three generations of squeaky-clean lawyers. What’s this world coming to?’
They cut the conversation off when they entered the attorney’s office, stopping at a receptionist’s desk. ‘Special Agent Novak and Detective Bishop here to see Mr Henson Senior about the O’Bannion estate,’ Deacon said, both of them presenting their badges.
The receptionist typed their badge numbers into her computer. For a non-litigating attorney, Deacon thought, Henson kept careful records. ‘If you’d like to sit down,’ she said, ‘I’ll tell Mr Henson that you are here.’
Deacon eyed the waiting room chairs, padded and soft. Only the best for Henson’s clientele. ‘They look too comfortable,’ he muttered to Bishop. ‘If I sit down, I’ll fall asleep.’
‘I know.’ Bishop swallowed a yawn. ‘Me too.’ But she sat anyway, groaning softly. ‘They’re even more comfortable than they look. Don’t sit down, Novak. It’s a trap.’
The woman behind the desk chuckled. ‘Would you detectives like some coffee?’
‘That would be really nice, thank you,’ Bishop said.
The receptionist disappeared for a few minutes, returning with their coffee. ‘Mr Henson’s finished his call. He’ll see you now.’
Herbert Henson Senior was seated behind a massive oak desk. He was a tall, spare man with a few curling wisps of gray hair remaining on his otherwise bald head. He wore old-fashioned spectacles and by every outward appearance was a simple country lawyer. But Deacon knew that a man could never hold on to his caliber of clientele without being a shark.
Henson looked them up and down, especially Deacon, who’d removed his shades. The lawyer looked him right in the eye but didn’t flinch. He didn’t react at all.
He’s either color blind or one hell of a bluffer.
‘Sit down,’ Henson said. ‘Please.’ When they had, he steepled his arthritic fingers on his desk. ‘My office administrator tells me you have questions about the O’Bannion estate. Surely you understand that I’m bound by attorney–client privilege.’
; ‘Even when your client is deceased?’ Bishop asked.
Sadness flitted across his face. ‘Barbara O’Bannion may be deceased, but her heirs are still my clients. Ask your questions. I’ll answer as best I can.’
‘Have you seen the news, Mr Henson?’ Deacon asked.
‘I did. That house of Barbara’s was on the front page, paraded through every news outlet on the television, and the Internet too. I saw the photographs of that hotel, as well. I expected you, Agent Novak.’ He looked at Bishop. ‘Not you, ma’am, because you haven’t attracted the media’s attention like Agent Novak has.’
‘I never do,’ Bishop said pleasantly. ‘If you saw the pictures of the hotel, you also know that a man was shot there last night.’
‘The bellman, yes. Terrible.’
‘Did you know that Barbara’s granddaughter was the sniper’s target?’ Deacon asked.
Henson went completely still. ‘Faith? Or Audrey?’
‘Who’s Audrey?’ Bishop asked.
Henson’s jaw clenched, then relaxed. ‘Faith, then. Why? How do you know?’
‘I know because I pushed her out of the way,’ Deacon said. They’d come back to Audrey later. ‘She would have been dead.’
‘But . . . I assumed the shooting was part of a manhunt to find the person who abducted that young girl from King’s College.’ Folded tightly on the desk, Henson’s hands trembled.
‘No. Faith was the target. The why revolves around her inheritance.’
‘That house,’ Henson said flatly. ‘Because her name is on the deed.’
‘Her old name,’ Bishop told him. ‘She changed it before leaving Miami.’
‘Back to Sullivan,’ Henson said. ‘It’s about time. Barbara did not like Faith’s ex-husband.’
‘No, sir,’ Bishop said. ‘She changed it to Corcoran. And she didn’t change it because she was divorced. She was being stalked.’
Henson straightened in his chair. ‘Faith? Stalked? By whom?’
‘By the man who cut her throat four years ago,’ Deacon said. ‘She decided to come to Cincinnati after five attempts were made on her life.’ That he could not say for sure that the same man who’d stalked her was responsible for the latest attempts really pissed him off. ‘The first attempt was three days after she returned from the reading of her grandmother’s will.’
Henson paled. ‘Five times in one month?’
‘Plus last night’s shooting makes six,’ Deacon said. Then he waited.
Henson’s jaw tensed. ‘What is in that house?’ he demanded, enunciating every word.
‘We haven’t released that information yet,’ Deacon said. ‘But as bad as you’re thinking? It’s a whole lot worse.’
‘Someone is trying to kill her over that damn house,’ Henson spat. ‘Someone who knew she’d inherited it before I had the deed changed over. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?’
‘Tell us about the will, sir,’ Bishop said. ‘Who knew the contents, and when?’
‘We know Jordan got the townhouse, if that helps you deal with attorney–client privilege,’ Deacon said when Henson hesitated. ‘Faith got the house in Mount Carmel plus the land. Jeremy didn’t get anything.’
‘Who’s Audrey?’ Bishop asked again.
‘Audrey is Jeremy’s daughter,’ Henson said. ‘His biological daughter. He has two stepsons from his ex-wife’s previous marriage. He adopted them. Barbara met them only a few times. She never met Audrey.’
‘Yet you thought we’d come to you about her,’ Deacon said.
Henson lifted a shoulder. ‘She’s Barbara’s granddaughter too. And if you Google her, you’ll find that Audrey gets herself arrested frequently. She’s something of a serial protester. There are a lot of people in the world who’d like to take a shot at her. Faith is a model of good manners in comparison.’
‘Have you known Dr Corcoran long?’ Deacon asked.
Henson blinked for a moment. ‘I’m so used to knowing her as Faith Frye or Sullivan. I knew of her through Barbara. I only met her a month ago when I read Barbara’s will. I don’t suppose it would hurt to tell you that none of Jeremy’s children inherited.’
‘Did they know about Faith getting the house?’
‘I didn’t tell them. I don’t suppose Jordan did either. The only other person who knew the contents of the will was my secretary, Mrs Lowell, and she’s been with me for nearly forty years. Her integrity is unimpeachable.’
‘What about couriers, copy room attendants?’ Bishop pressed.
‘No, Detective Bishop. No one.’
Bishop pushed on. ‘Cleaning people, plumbers, locksmiths, the cable company, computer techs, temps when your secretary goes on vacation? You do give her vacation, don’t you, sir?’
‘Of course I do, but my wife and I take vacation at the same time. I close the office. We’ve done so for forty years. No one has had access to our files,’ he insisted, but then faltered. ‘Computer techs maybe. We had a new system installed three years ago. Until then Mrs Lowell stored everything on external hard drives that we kept locked up. It’s conceivable that the consultant we brought in saw a file or two while training us on the system.’
‘It’s conceivable that he burned entire copies of your external hard drives,’ Deacon said and watched Henson frown. ‘Who was the consultant?’
‘Tierney Phillips. He’s my grandson’s best friend. I’ve known Tierney since he was born.’ Henson exhaled, seeming to have remembered something. ‘But even if he did steal files – which I do not believe he did – it doesn’t matter. Barbara’s will pre-dated our first office computer. It had been typed on a typewriter with carbon paper. After we got our new system, we scanned a number of the old documents in. Tierney wouldn’t have had access to it.’
‘Where were the old files kept?’ Deacon asked.
‘In our basement. We have a vault. I have the combination. Only me.’
A man careful enough to record the badge numbers of visiting detectives had a failsafe, Deacon thought. Someone else had access to that combination. ‘Okay, so Jordan knew what was in the will, as did Faith. Jeremy and his children knew they weren’t in the will. If Faith were to die, what happens to the house?’
‘That I’m not at liberty to tell you. I’m sorry.’
‘Then Jordan gets it,’ Bishop said reasonably. ‘He’s your only other client who’s an heir.’
‘Don’t put words in my mouth, Detective,’ Henson snapped. ‘And don’t guess. I do not have authority to give you that information.’
Deacon managed to keep his tone pleasant, even though he was frustrated as hell. Whoever was next in line for the house had motive. ‘Who’s had access to the house in recent years?’
‘Well, I suppose I have. When Barbara moved to the city to live with Jordan, she had the locks changed and gave me the key. I gave that key to Faith when I read her section of the will.’
‘The lock had been changed,’ Deacon said quietly.
Henson’s jaw tightened. ‘Which is why Faith called to tell me the key didn’t fit. Dammit. Well, at least you have a time frame of reference. The lock was intact three months ago.’
Deacon hid his surprise. It couldn’t have been. The killer they sought had been in that basement far longer than three months. ‘Why three months ago?’
‘Because that’s the last time the house was inspected by Maguire and Sons. They make sure the roof isn’t leaking, that the foundation is secure. Things like that.’
‘Do they check inside the house as well?’ Deacon asked, and Henson nodded.
‘Twice a year, top to bottom. Additionally, after heavy flooding they check the basement. The house is on high ground, but Barbara was taking no chances with it.’
No way in hell had that been happening. Unless Maguire and/or his sons were rapists and murderers. ‘Twice a year, every year, since when?’
‘Maguire’s had the contract for ten years. But I’ve had contractors doing semi-annual maintenance ever since Tobias died and Barbara m
oved to the city.’ Henson frowned. ‘Why?’
Ten years ago was when Tanaka thought the windows and the door in the basement had been covered and hidden. ‘Who schedules Maguire’s visits?’ Deacon asked.
‘We do. Why?’
‘And the key?’ Bishop asked. ‘Do they have their own key?’
‘Of course not.’ Henson’s lips thinned. ‘My grandson meets them out there, then waits for them to finish. He’s not here at the moment. I’ll have him contact you the moment he arrives. Why?’ he demanded.
‘We can’t wait that long, however long that is,’ Deacon said. ‘Where is he now?’
Henson’s cheeks darkened to a blotchy red. ‘He is with a client, Special Agent Novak. My grandson’s integrity is also unimpeachable.’
Deacon leaned back in his chair, a subtle cue for Bishop to grab the baton. She did so smoothly, just one of the things he appreciated about working with her.
‘I’m sure it is, Mr Henson,’ she said. ‘But we have a serious problem here. That thing that Agent Novak said was far worse than your worst imagining? It’s going on in the basement and has been for a lot longer than three months. We need to talk to your grandson. If he or Maguire noticed anything while in that basement, we need to know.’
Henson grew very still. ‘I said I would have him contact you when he returns. That’s the best I can do for you at the moment.’
‘Can we have his cell number?’ she asked. ‘We’d be happy to contact him ourselves.’
‘No. He is with a client and is not to be disturbed. You may reach him here, on his office line. He checks his messages frequently. Our cell phones are for our personal use, therefore we keep that information private.’
Deacon didn’t hide his irritation. ‘We have a missing young woman. Every moment we don’t talk to your son is another moment she comes closer to death. You don’t want that stain on your conscience. Or on your sterling reputation.’
Henson’s jaw clenched. ‘I will call him on his cell phone and ask him to call you back.’
Deacon leaned forward, far enough that Henson caught the movement. ‘Please make the call now. A young woman’s life could hang in the balance.’