There was a lot of heat in the room, Abby thought, and it wasn’t all coming from the specimens. She was fairly certain that most, if not all, of the researchers and technicians were talents of one kind or another.
One of the techs looked up when Sam escorted Abby into the windowless room. He yanked his safety goggles away from his eyes and got to his feet.
“Mr. Coppersmith,” he said. “Sorry, sir, didn’t see you come in. It’s been a while since you dropped by.”
Several other members of the staff noticed Sam and greeted him with a mixture of surprise and friendly respect. They looked at Abby with veiled speculation.
“I know I haven’t been around as often as usual in the past few months,” Sam said to the technician. “But I’ve been keeping tabs on things from my private lab. Abby, this is David Estrada. David, Abby Radwell.”
David nodded at Abby. “Nice to meet you, Miss Radwell.”
“Abby, please,” she said. “A pleasure to meet you, too.” She looked around. “I’ve never seen anything like this place.”
“Not a lot of labs like this one around,” David said. He did not bother to conceal his pride. “Rumor has it that our competition, Helicon Stone, operates a decent version of their own Black Box, but I doubt if they’ve got anything we don’t have.”
“If you ever find out that the Helicon lab does have something we don’t have, let me know,” Sam said. “We’ll get it for you.”
David laughed. “That’s what I like about working here. I get every toy I want.”
“How are things going?” Sam asked.
“Humming along,” David said. “I’m working on a very interesting piece of amber today. Definitely charged. Would you like to see it?”
“I would, but I don’t have the time. We’re on the way to the library. I just stopped by to say hello. Where’s Dr. Frye?”
“I think you’ll find him in the library,” David said. He smiled, as if at some secret joke. “With Miss O’Connell.”
There were a few scattered snickers around the room.
Sam took Abby’s arm. “I’ll catch up with him there. See you all at the tech summit next week.”
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” David said. “My kids can’t wait to go kayaking again. They’re still talking about the experience last summer.”
Sam guided Abby back through the automatic steel doors and down a hall. She studied the stone-and steel-and glass-clad walls, floor and ceiling.
Sam guessed her thoughts. “Stone, steel and glass are the three materials that do the best job of stopping psi-radiation and ultralight.”
“Stone and steel I understand. But glass?”
“Glass is still something of a mystery, and it has a history of being unpredictable when it comes to paranormal energy, because it possesses the properties of both a solid and a crystal. But here in the Box we use a special type of glass that we designed ourselves. It doesn’t always block psi or ultralight, but it does disrupt the oscillating pattern of the currents in many of the specimens. That works just as well as a solid barrier, in most cases.”
He stopped in front of another set of steel doors and entered a code into the security system. The doors made almost no sound when they slid open, which, Abby decided, was why the two people at the far end of the room did not realize that they were no longer alone. The pair stood very close, their body language signaling an intimate relationship.
Abby looked around with a sense of spiraling excitement, her senses dancing to the beat of the hot energy in the room. Unlike the crystal-based heat in the lab, this was her kind of psi.
The Coppersmith Inc. technical library resembled the rare books and manuscripts room of a large academic library. The atmosphere was hushed and Old World. Leather-bound volumes graced the shelves. Some were quite ancient. Many of the hottest books were housed in glass cases. There were no windows, and the artificial lighting was kept to a minimum. Green glass shades covered the lamps on the reading tables. The difference was that many of the books in this library were hot.
Sam coughed discreetly. “Dr. Frye, Jenny. Sorry to interrupt.”
The two people at the other end of the room jumped apart and turned quickly. The woman was clearly mortified. She appeared to be in her early forties and endowed with the scholarly, academic look that went with the library. Her silvering hair was cut in a sleek bob. She wore a navy blue skirted business suit and gold-framed glasses.
“Mr. Coppersmith,” she said, flustered. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize you were here.”
“It’s okay, Jenny,” Sam said, moving forward with Abby. “Just stopped in to check on a few things and do a little research.”
The man next to Jenny smiled. “Mr. Coppersmith. Good to see you again here at the lab. It’s been a while.”
“Been busy,” Sam said. He sped through the introductions. “Dr. Gerald Frye, Jenny O’Connell, I’d like you to meet Abby Radwell.”
Gerald Frye was obviously close to Jenny’s age, but perhaps a couple of years younger, Abby thought. Thirty-nine or forty, although it was hard to be sure. It looked as if he had not bothered to run a brush through his shaggy mane of dark, graying hair that morning. His mustache and beard needed a trim. He wore heavily framed glasses and an unbuttoned lab coat that was liberally spotted with what appeared to be old coffee stains.
There was a polite round of Happy to meet you.
“Abby is an expert in hot books,” Sam said.
“Is that so?” Jenny smiled warmly. “Always a pleasure to meet a colleague. There aren’t that many of us who specialize in rare hot books. Do you work in one of the other Coppersmith labs?”
Here it comes, Abby thought. She braced herself for the inevitable reaction.
“No, I don’t work in one of the other labs,” she said. She gave Jenny her brightest professional smile. “I’m a freelancer.”
Jenny blinked. Comprehension dawned in her expression along with ill-concealed disapproval.
“I see,” Jenny said. “You work in the private market?”
“Right,” Abby said.
Private market was polite code in the hot-books world for the paranormal underground market, and they both knew it. Professional librarians and academics who valued their scholarly reputations did not dabble in the underground market, or at least did not admit to dabbling in it. They had their own reputations to consider, and, besides, it was dangerous.
“Right now, Abby is working for me,” Sam said.
Jenny’s smile was stiff, but she kept her demeanor coolly polite. “I see,” she said again.
Gerald Frye looked at Sam with a troubled expression. “I don’t understand. Is Miss Radwell trying to find a specific book for you?”
“Yes, she is,” Sam said. “It’s one I want for the family collection, not the company library. It disappeared several years ago, but it’s rumored to be coming up for auction. Abby has that covered. The reason we’re here today is because I want to do some research.”
“Yes, of course,” Frye said. “In that case, I’ll leave you to it. I need to get back to the lab.” He bobbed his head at Abby. “A pleasure, Miss Radwell.”
“Dr. Frye,” Abby murmured.
Frye disappeared through the steel doors. Jenny gave Sam her own version of a professional smile.
“How can I help you, Mr. Coppersmith?”
“I’m looking for anything and everything you’ve got written by or about Marcus Dalton.”
Jenny frowned slightly. “The nineteenth-century researcher who became obsessed with alchemy?”
“That’s the one,” Sam said.
“I’m afraid we don’t have much. He was never considered a serious scientist. There is very little written about him in the literature, and as I recall, most of his own writings were destroyed in a fire or an explosion. Can’t remember the details.”
“Let me see what you’ve got, Jenny,” Sam said.
“Certainly, sir.”
It did not take lon
g to exhaust the library’s holdings on the subject of Marcus Dalton. An hour after Jenny produced a short stack of books, all secondary sources, Abby and Sam left the lab and walked across the parking lot to the SUV.
“Well, that was a waste of time,” Sam said. “I had a feeling it would be, but I had to be sure.”
“Jenny O’Connell was right,” Abby said. “Marcus Dalton was not taken seriously in his own lifetime or by any of the historians of nineteenth-century science. Too bad so much of his own work was lost in that explosion.”
Newton was waiting right where they had left him, his nose pressed to the partially open window in the rear seat of the SUV. Abby knew that he had probably been sitting there, his whole attention riveted on the entrance of the Coppersmith Inc. lab, ever since she and Sam had disappeared inside. He greeted them with his usual enthusiasm.
Sam got behind the wheel and drove out of the parking lot. “Not that it’s any of our business, but did you get the impression that there was something personal going on between Frye and Jenny?”
Abby smiled. “Yep. We interrupted an office romance.”
Sam looked thoughtful. “I hope it works for both of them. Jenny has been alone since her husband died a few years ago.”
“What about Dr. Frye?”
“As far as I know, he’s never been married.” Sam took the interstate on-ramp, heading north toward Anacortes. “I saw Jenny’s expression when you explained that you were a freelancer in the private market. Do you get that a lot?”
“Only if I deal with people like her, who work the academic and scholarly end of the market.”
“How often does that happen?”
She smiled. “Not often. It’s almost impossible for any of them to get a proper referral. Thaddeus held a major grudge against the academic world in general, because it disdained his insistence that the paranormal should be taken seriously. As a result, he almost never referred anyone from that world to me. On the rare occasion when I do agree to take on a client from any of the established institutions in academia, we rarely reach an agreement on my fees.”
Sam grinned. “They can’t afford you?”
“I always jack up my fees when someone from academia comes calling. Petty, I know, but we all have to have our standards.”
“Guess I should be feeling lucky that you agreed to take me on as a client.”
“Got news for you, Sam Coppersmith. Like it or not, you’re from my world.”
“I’m okay with that.”
20
THE URGE TO CONFIDE THE FULL SCOPE OF THE DISASTER TO her special friend was almost overwhelming, but Orinda Strickland had resisted, at least until today. Some things simply could not be spoken of outside the family. Not that she didn’t trust Lander Knox. He was a very discreet young man. He was the only one who really understood her. She looked forward to these luncheons so much. Nevertheless, one had one’s pride. The loss of the family fortune and the possibility that Dawson might be facing bankruptcy, perhaps even prison, was simply too devastating to reveal. That sort of thing had to be kept secret.
“You look lovely today,” Lander said. He held her chair for her.
She managed a light, gracious chuckle and sat down at the table. “You always say that. But thank you, anyway.”
“I say it because it’s true.” Lander sat down across from her. “You radiate qualities that are increasingly rare in the modern world. Grace, style, dignity. And wonder of wonders, you can carry on an intelligent conversation. Do you realize how few women of any age can do that these days? That’s why I savor our luncheons together so much.”
It was shortly after noon, unfashionably early for lunch, but the advantage was that the downtown restaurant was only lightly crowded. That meant there was less of a chance that she would run into an acquaintance, Orinda thought. She would have preferred to lunch at her club on Lake Washington. The Stricklands had been members for several generations. But she knew that there would be raised eyebrows and a good deal of curiosity if she were to show up with a handsome, distinguished man who was young enough to be her grandson.
There was absolutely no reason for her to feel awkward about her relationship with Lander, of course. He was a friend, nothing more. They were intellectual companions with a wide range of mutual interests who, sadly, happened to be decades apart in age.
They had met quite by accident at the opera during intermission. Both of them had attended alone that evening. It had been obvious from the start that Lander was well-bred and well educated. He did not say much about his background, but it soon became clear that he was descended from an old, established East Coast family. The faint hint of a Boston accent was so charming.
The conversation that had followed had been the most stimulating one she had enjoyed in years. Her husband, George, had never enjoyed the opera or the symphony or high art. His greatest pleasure had been a string of yachts, each one larger than the last. She had never liked being out on the water. Their marriage had been conducted along parallel lines that had suited both of them. Losing him ten years ago had been a shock, but she had not truly mourned.
In spite of the sick dread that was eating her up inside, Orinda managed a smile. But the phone conversation with Dawson had left her thoroughly unnerved. The realization that Abby was the key to the family’s financial salvation had come as a terrible blow. She had been forced to take an antianxiety tablet to calm herself.
Dawson and Diana were right, Abby viewed the situation as a gol-den opportunity to take her revenge against the family. Dawson had reported that she wanted more than a simple cash payment for her services. She would no doubt demand to be named as a full-fledged beneficiary of the family trust. It was unthinkable. The woman was not a Strickland. There was no blood connection whatsoever. And she was mentally unbalanced.
As incomprehensible as it seemed, Orinda was starting to believe that Abby actually wanted to see the family lose everything. The ungrateful bitch. After all I’ve done for her. Brandon Radwell could never have afforded the tuition and fees at that special school on his own.
“I see your son–in–law is having a signing event for his new book on Friday night,” Lander said.
“Yes.” Orinda shook out her napkin. “It’s the start of his book tour. He’ll be gone for almost a month. I understand the publisher has scheduled a number of appearances.”
“Have you read Families by Choice?”
“I glanced through it.” Orinda sniffed. “I’m afraid it’s the usual psychobabble that passes for deep insight and wise advice these days. But my daughter tells me that there’s a very good chance it will sell quite well, and may even lead to a TV show.”
Lander’s smile held both sympathy and condescending amusement. “It’s all about marketing and packaging, isn’t it?”
“I’m afraid so. My son–in–law is very good at both.”
Orinda opened her menu and reminded herself to be careful what she said about Brandon. Not that Lander wasn’t aware of her feelings on the subject. He never pried into personal matters, but over the past few months it had become very easy to talk to him about so many things.
Their luncheons were supposed to be reserved for conversations about opera, literary works and other cultural matters. But all too often she found herself confiding certain matters that really should be kept in the family.
She gave thanks yet again that Lander could be trusted to be discreet. In spite of the difference in their ages, they were similar in so many ways. He had a charming, poetical way of describing their relationship. We are old souls who have found each other.
21
SAM GAZED INTO THE GLOWING COMPUTER WITH THE BROODING air of an alchemist pondering his fires.
“There was no indication that anything was stolen from Webber’s home,” he said. “The county officials have concluded that he died of natural causes.”
“Well, we knew that would be the official cause of death,” Abby said.
She sank down into the cor
ner of the massive leather couch and curled her legs mermaid-style. Newton bounded up and settled down beside her. She rubbed behind his ears, taking comfort from the physical contact with him.
The toxic mix of adrenaline and nerves following the discovery of Thaddeus’s body and the kidnapping attempt was starting to dissipate, leaving exhaustion in its wake. But she had a feeling that a restful sleep was going to be harder to come by than usual tonight.
“The local media mention that Webber appears to have been a hoarder who collected old books related to the occult, magic and the paranormal,” Sam said.
“That is absolutely wrong,” Abby said. “Webber had no interest in the occult or magic. But I don’t suppose it will matter. So many people don’t understand the distinction between the paranormal and the supernatural. Regardless, those reports will be enough to fire up the rumor mill in collectors’ circles. My competition will be looking very hard for Thaddeus’s house.”
Sam got up from the computer. “The police will have locked up the place.”
“I’m sure they did,” she said. “For all the good that will do. I think it’s safe to say the authorities have no idea of the value of some of those books. They’ll assume that Thaddeus was just another eccentric hoarder.”
“Did he have any family?”
“Not that I know of,” Abby said.
Sam crossed the room to where a bottle of white wine was chilling in a bucket of ice. A bottle of whiskey and two glasses sat nearby. “Did he make any contingency arrangements for his collection in the event that something happened to him? Is there a will?”
“I have no idea. He always dreamed of founding a library of paranormal literature for serious researchers, but he never had the money to start such an ambitious project, and no academic institution would accept his collection.”
“If he made a will, it will be on file somewhere. I’ll have someone in Coppersmith’s legal department check into it.” Sam took out his phone and keyed a number. “If we can locate a will and the lawyer who drew it up, we might be able to take action to protect Webber’s books, or at least those in the vault, before it’s too late.”
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