She wanted to hang onto something. Anything.
‘Will I be able to reach you?’ she asked. ‘When you’re gone? To make sure—’
‘Hell, no, Harper,’ he snapped. ‘I’ll be in a drug gang in some trailer doing God knows what.’
In that moment he looked so trapped. A chill shook her spine.
‘Luke, please don’t go,’ she pleaded. ‘I have a bad feeling about this.’
‘Me, too,’ he said. ‘And I don’t have any choice.’
He strode to his car, his back straight and stiff.
Harper felt rooted to the sidewalk. But she tried one last thing.
‘In the morning, I’ll call Smith. I’ll try to explain.’
At this, he swung around so abruptly, she flinched.
‘Don’t talk to Smith. Don’t talk to anyone.’ He held up his hands. ‘Every time you move you break something. You’re so destructive, Harper, can’t you see that? You destroy everything you touch.’
Climbing into the car, he slammed the door hard. A second later, the engine roared into life. The car peeled away from the curb.
Harper stood still as the sound of the engine faded into the darkness, until the night seeped from the ground into her bones and she began to tremble.
Chapter Thirty-four
The next morning, Sterling Robinson replied to her email.
His message wasted no words:
I will be in the area Sunday night. If you complete the attached affidavit and return it to me by this evening, I will meet with you.
Harper, who had spent the morning in a state of despair, read it three times before her brain would accept what he’d said.
After that, she sat back in her chair and stared out the kitchen window, thinking it through.
Of course, it could be a trap. If Robinson was the killer, this could all be a set-up to get rid of her.
She knew she should be afraid, but she felt no fear at all.
She had to know the truth. And she would pay almost any price to have it.
The attached affidavit was as straightforward as the email – a basic promise from her not to write about him in any way for any publication. It was one paragraph long.
Harper signed and dated it, and dropped it off at his Savannah office that afternoon herself.
A polished and manicured receptionist plucked the envelope from her hand without raising an eyebrow.
‘This is very important,’ Harper told her. ‘He must see it.’
‘I’ll get it to him,’ the woman said crisply, dropping it in a tray and turning back to her work.
There wasn’t anything else Harper could do. She went home and waited.
The next day was Saturday, and Robinson did not contact her.
By Sunday afternoon, she’d given up hope. But then, at 5 o’clock, her phone buzzed.
It was a text from an unrecognized number.
All it said was 27 Officer’s Row, Tybee Island. 9pm. SR.
Harper’s stomach tightened.
Tybee Island was twenty minutes’ drive outside Savannah, on the coast.
She’d expected him to want to meet at his offices, or perhaps an anonymous hotel bar. But this was a residential address.
He wanted her to meet him late at night in a house miles outside of town.
Harper wasn’t afraid of much, but the idea of going to meet a strange millionaire, who might or might not be a murderer, set off all her warning signals.
But it was too late to get scared now.
She thought about it for a long minute. And then she replied.
I’ll be there.
If you haven’t got a boat, there’s only one way to get to Tybee Island – down a long, gently winding two-lane highway through dense Georgia marshes, heading due east. It’s an isolated road – all you can see in any direction is smooth, high marsh grass and sky. At night, it feels endless and empty.
Harper had always thought it looked like a great place to dump a body.
As she headed out to meet Robinson, the Camaro’s headlights seemed to sink into opaque darkness.
There were few cars on the road – all the day trippers had gone home long ago. There was no reason to go to the coast at this hour.
Her hands were tight on the wheel as the Tybee town limits sign flashed by.
She’d been out there many times, of course, to go to the beach with Bonnie. Still, the island’s tangle of streets was confusing – she hit two dead-ends before she found the road she wanted – a narrow, smooth track that hugged the northern coastline.
The road was lined with beach houses. She kept getting brief glances of dark ocean before another tall structure would veer up, blocking the view.
She was nearly to the end when, with little warning, a white wooden gate appeared in front of her.
Harper stopped the car, straining to read the sign on the high stone wall near the gatehouse.
Officer’s Row, it said, in elegant font.
This was the place.
The gatehouse door swung open, and a man in a dark uniform walked out, talking into a walkie-talkie.
He motioned for her to roll down her window.
‘Who are you here to see, ma’am?’ he asked politely.
‘Sterling Robinson,’ Harper said.
‘Your name?’
‘Harper McClain.’
‘One moment, please.’
He stepped away, talking quietly into the device.
A moment passed.
Without another word, he strolled back to the gatehouse. A second later, the gate rose with smooth silence.
The guard motioned for her to drive on.
The houses behind the gate were enormous, sprawling, faux-Victorian mansions, with perfect, manicured lawns.
The only car Harper passed as she made her way down the lane was a security van, driving slowly in the opposite direction.
The people who lived on Officer’s Row cared a lot about safety.
Number 27 was at the end of the lane – a turreted white house with wraparound balconies on the first and second floors. It had a gorgeous view of the Atlantic Ocean, which stretched out behind it, glistening bluish black in the moonlight.
Harper parked in the empty driveway and killed the engine. All the houses were set far back from the street, separated by tall hedges and enormous, landscaped yards. It wasn’t completely isolated, but it sure wasn’t cosy.
For the first time in her life, she wished she had a gun.
Shoving her phone into her pocket, she got out of the car and closed the door.
A stone path, illuminated by ankle-high lights, cut through the lush, tropical garden to the front stairs.
The air was much cooler out here than in the city; a steady breeze blew off the sea carrying with it a heady scent of sea salt and sweet, night-blooming jasmine.
She climbed ten steps to the ostentatious front door and, bracing her shoulders, rang the doorbell.
Long seconds passed and nothing happened, then she heard locks being turned. The door opened.
In person, Sterling Robinson was taller and thinner than he appeared in pictures. He wore chinos and a blue pullover. His dark hair was wavy. His wire-framed glasses gave him a professorial look, but behind the lenses his eyes were alert – predatory.
‘Harper McClain.’ His tone was weary resignation. ‘I suppose you better come in.’
Inside, the house seemed even larger than outside, like some sort of fairytale castle. Fans spun dizzyingly from soaring ceilings, the floors were marble. There were few pieces of furniture. It was cool but not cold.
It felt empty. Harper had the distinct impression they were alone in the house.
‘Follow me.’ Robinson led her across the vast, airy entrance to a wide hallway, and then on to a spacious living room with soft white sofas and matching chairs clustered around beige rugs.
Motioning for her to sit, he said, ‘Would you like a drink?’
‘I’ll have whatever you’re having,
’ she said.
He arched one eyebrow.
‘I’m having club soda,’ he said.
‘That’s fine.’
He disappeared for a second. Harper gazed around her – there was no art on the walls. Nothing personal.
When he returned, he handed her a chilled glass and sat across from her.
‘Now,’ he said, ‘would you kindly tell me what this is all about? I’m not used to getting calls about dead women.’
‘I’m looking into the murder of Marie Whitney …’ she began.
‘Why? You’re not the police.’
The way he cut her off was brusque but not outright rude. It seemed more as if he was in a hurry to know everything. Harper decided to respond in kind.
‘No,’ she said. ‘I’m not the police. But I think the police are doing a bad job.’
‘So do I.’
He leaned back, watchful.
‘So you’ve decided to investigate the investigators,’ he guessed.
‘Yes.’ Before he could speak again, she added quickly, ‘Did you have me followed?’
‘I’m a careful man, Miss McClain,’ he said. ‘I got all your messages, and I wanted to know more about you before I decided how to proceed. I’m sorry if I scared you.’
‘Like I told you in my email,’ she said coolly, ‘I don’t scare easy. But I don’t like being watched.’
‘Me neither,’ he said. ‘And yet here you are.’
‘I take your point,’ she said. ‘But I am investigating a murder.’
‘And thus you are in my living room.’ Robinson crossed his legs, leaning back. ‘Crime is your beat, but you don’t usually do investigative pieces. Why now?’
Harper was impressed. He’d done his research.
‘This case is different,’ she said simply.
‘How?’
She hesitated, deciding how much to share. So far, he wasn’t at all what she’d expected. He was calm and cool, but also curious and interested.
He didn’t act like he was guilty of anything.
‘Why don’t you trust them to deal with this case?’
His questions were so rapid-fire, Harper didn’t have time to get ready, or even recover from the last one.
It was a great technique. It threw her off her game and kept her there. The only option was to tell the truth.
‘I think it’s possible Marie Whitney was dating a detective shortly before she died,’ she said. ‘And I’m trying to find out who killed her – him or you.’
Robinson paused for a fraction of a second.
‘Have you got proof of who she was dating?’ he said, ignoring the allegation about himself.
‘I’m looking for it.’ Buying time, Harper took a sip of the water. The bubbles tickled her throat. ‘At this time, all I have is the word of people who knew her.’
‘What makes you think I might have killed her?’
‘I’m told you dated her, too,’ Harper said. ‘I’ve been contacting everyone who had a relationship with her to try and find out who she really was. So far, the picture I’m getting is not a pretty one.’
His mouth twisted. ‘That doesn’t surprise me.’
‘I’ve had two incredibly powerful men threaten me already because they were so frightened to even talk about Whitney,’ Harper told him. ‘I need to know why they’re afraid. And why someone wanted her dead.’
‘I can answer that,’ Robinson said. ‘Because she was a monster.’
Harper tried not to betray her excitement.
‘What does that mean?’ she asked.
He paused, looking out at the ocean.
‘You’ve seen pictures of her, I assume?’
Harper nodded.
‘Then, you know she was beautiful. But the pictures don’t tell you everything. She was intelligent, witty, charming …’ He glanced at her. ‘I’ve never met anyone like her. She had this way of finding out what you wanted and giving it to you. In return, you gave her things. Money, confidences, information, access to your life. You didn’t even notice you were doing it. You simply did it. You wanted her to have it.’
He took a sip of his drink – the ice clattered against the glass.
‘And then she used all of that to blackmail you.’
Harper stared. ‘She blackmailed you?’
‘Oh yes.’ He sounded bitterly amused. ‘Me and many other people. Not only men, either – women, too. She was very good at it.’
‘But …’ Harper’s mind was racing, thinking of the lawyer’s anger, the senator’s fearfulness, the things Rosanna had said.
The puzzle pieces clicked into place.
‘Holy shit,’ she whispered.
Robinson tilted his glass at her. ‘My thoughts exactly.’
It took Harper a second to gather herself.
‘Do you mind if I ask how she blackmailed you?’
For the first time, Robinson hesitated. She could see him debating internally how to respond.
‘I suppose you did sign that affidavit,’ he said, after a moment. ‘You understand what would happen to your career if you printed any of this?’
‘Of course,’ she said. ‘You have my word.’
‘I have your signature,’ he corrected her. ‘I have your oath.’
Then he let out a breath, as if readying himself for something painful.
‘I met Marie at a fundraiser two years ago,’ he said. ‘I oversee a charitable foundation.’
‘I know,’ Harper said. ‘You do good work.’
‘You researched me.’
‘Of course.’
Another half-smile.
‘As I was saying,’ he said. ‘I worked with Marie on a project raising money for scientific research into malaria and other tropical diseases at the university. She was …’ he rolled his hand, ‘… all the things I said. Beautiful. Alluring. We began a relationship.’ He paused. ‘The only problem was, I was still married at the time.’
He stood abruptly. ‘Would you mind if we went outside? I could use the fresh air. Bring your glass.’
Without waiting for her response, he crossed the room to a glass door Harper hadn’t noticed before. When he opened it, a warm breeze blew through.
Grabbing her drink, she hurried after him out onto a spacious veranda, where a low, dark sofa set was arranged around a glass coffee table.
Once again, they sat across from each other. Ocean breezes ruffled her hair.
There was that scent of jasmine again. It must grow everywhere around here. She wished she could see it, but the moon had gone behind a cloud and the darkness hid even the sea. She wouldn’t have known it was there, had she not been able to hear its low, powerful rumble.
‘Where was I?’ Robinson asked.
But she knew he didn’t expect an answer. He was staring beyond her – through her.
‘Anyway, we started an affair, and I think you can see where this is going. She threatened to tell my wife. Demanded more than a million dollars. She had pictures taken of us.’ He waved his glass. ‘The usual tawdry thing.’
His voice was emotionless, and yet Harper could see how much this affected him. For someone so skilled at hiding his emotions, there was still a kind of transparency to him on this subject.
‘Around that time, my wife found out she was pregnant,’ he said.
Harper’s breath caught. She had an awful feeling she knew where this was going.
‘The problem Marie didn’t understand – couldn’t possibly have seen – was that I couldn’t be blackmailed,’ he explained. ‘If you’re blackmailed once, you’re blackmailed for life. They can drain you dry. So, I went on the offensive. I had Marie investigated. Every facet of her existence. That’s when I found out she’d done this before. Many times. To many people.
‘I got sworn affidavits from numerous people about her offenses. I threatened to expose her. To have her fired. She agreed to back off.’
He fell silent.
In the darkness overhead, something flew by, quic
k and deadly. A bat, perhaps.
‘Something happened,’ Harper prodded gently.
He nodded, and reached for his glass.
‘Everything seemed fine for a few weeks, and then someone sent my wife a series of pictures of Marie and I making love. Different locations. Different positions.’
He emptied his glass.
When he spoke his voice was steady, and somehow that made it worse.
‘My wife left me,’ he said. ‘And then she got rid of the baby.’
For a second, Harper searched for the right words to say to that. But there weren’t any.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said.
He didn’t seem to hear it.
‘As it turned out, Marie didn’t want money any more. She wanted blood,’ he said. ‘She got it.’
Harper let that sentence hang there.
Then, ever so gently, she said, ‘Mr Robinson. Did you kill Marie Whitney?’
To her surprise, he gave her a dry smile.
‘Call me Sterling, please. I insist everyone who accuses me of murder uses my first name. And no, I didn’t kill her. The day Marie Whitney died, I was in New York. I was photographed many times that afternoon at a function at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. I have plane tickets and proof of my travel. I can provide you with all of the evidence of my innocence you would like.’
‘Did you have her killed?’ Harper persisted.
‘Don’t you see, Miss McClain?’ He turned over his hands. His long, artistic fingers reminded her of her mother’s. ‘That’s not how I work. My wife broke my heart. But that wasn’t Marie Whitney’s fault. It was my fault. Because I broke my wife’s heart first.’
His eyes were steady; earnest.
‘Marie Whitney was like a brown recluse spider. You don’t blame the spider because it bites. It’s what it was born to do. Marie was born to destroy. I should have seen it. I pride myself on my ability to see through people to their core. Her, I misjudged. And it cost me.’
Harper thought she’d never met anyone quite like Sterling Robinson. He was smart. He was ruthless. And, to her own surprise, she believed him.
He stood up.
‘I’m going to get another drink. Something considerably stronger. Would you like one, Miss McClain?’
The Echo Killing Page 29